Blair Mallory Book 1: To Die For (Chapter Twenty-three)
"Well, if it isn't me, then it has to be you. I'm a nice person, and I don't have any enemies that I know of. However, when was the first attempt? Right after we came back from the beach. How many people know you followed me there? After the way you acted Thursday night when Nicole was killed-"
"The way I acted?" he echoed in outraged astonishment.
"You told your guys that we were involved, right? Even though we weren't. I saw the way they looked at me, and not one out of about fifty cops came to my rescue when you were manhandling me. So I figure you lied to them and said we were dating."
His teeth were set. "I wasn't manhandling you."
"Stop latching on to insignificant details. And you were, too. But am I right so far? You told them we were seeing each other?"
"Yeah. Because we are."
"We're living together. We're sleeping together. How in hell is it debatable whether or not we're seeing each other?"
"Because we haven't started dating yet and this is just temporary. Will you stop interrupting me? My point is, who were you seeing that you dropped like a hot potato to chase after me?"
He ground his teeth for a few seconds. I know because I could hear them. Then he said, "What makes you think I was seeing anyone?"
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. You know you're to die for. You probably have women lined up."
"I don't have women- You think I'm to die for, huh?"
Now he sounded pleased. I wanted to beat my head against the dash, only it would hurt and I had enough aches and pains at the moment. "Wyatt!" I yelled. "Who were you dating?"
"No one in particular."
"It doesn't have to be 'in particular'; it just has to be dating. Because some women have unrealistic expectations, you know. One date and they're picking out a wedding gown. So who was the last person you dated, and who maybe thought there was something serious going on, then went totally postal when you followed me to the beach? Had you been on a date last Thursday, the night Nicole was killed?" Notice how I slipped that in, because I'd been wondering.
By this time we had reached his house, and he slowed to turn in to the driveway. "No, that night I'd been teaching a women's self-defense class," he said absently, to my great satisfaction. "I don't think your theory holds water because it's been… God, almost two months since I've gone out with anyone. My social life hasn't been as hot as you evidently think."
"This last person you were with. Did you go out with her more than once?"
"A couple of times, yeah." He pulled into the garage.
"Did you sleep with her?"
He gave me an impatient look. "I see where this little interrogation is going now. No, I didn't sleep with her. And, trust me, we didn't click."
"You didn't, but maybe she did."
"No," he repeated. "She didn't. Instead of digging into my past, you should be thinking about your own. You're a flirt, and some man might have thought you were serious-"
"I'm not a flirt! Stop trying to throw this back on me."
He came around and opened the car door for me, leaning in to scoop me up in his arms so my stiff and sore muscles wouldn't have to go to the effort of climbing out of the car, then gently setting me on my feet. "You're a flirt," he said grimly. "You can't help it. It's in your genes."
He had a lot of "f" words to describe me, and I was getting tired of hearing them. Yes, I flirt occasionally, but that doesn't make me a flirt. Nor am I fluffy. I don't think of myself as a lightweight person, and Wyatt was making me sound like the most frivolous-another "f" word-nitwit walking.
"And now you're pouting," he said, rubbing his thumb over my lower lip, which might have started to stick out just the tiniest bit. Then he bent and kissed me, a slow, warm kiss that for some reason really melted me, maybe because I knew there was no way he was going anywhere with it, and he knew it, too, so that meant he was kissing me just to kiss me, not to get me into bed.
"What was that for?" I asked a tad peevishly, to hide the fact that I'd melted, when he lifted his mouth.
"Because you've had a bad day," he said, and did it again. I sighed and relaxed against him, because, yes, I'd had a very bad day. This time when the kiss was over, he held me close for a moment, his cheek resting on top of my head. "Leave the police work to us," he said. "Unless you all of a sudden remember a deadly enemy who's been threatening to kill you, in which case, I definitely want to hear about it."
I pulled back and scowled at him. "Meaning I'm such a dumb blond I wouldn't remember something like that right away?"
He sighed. "I didn't say that. I wouldn't say it, because you aren't dumb. You're a lot of things, but dumb isn't one of them."
"Oh, yeah? Just what 'things' am I?" I was feeling truculent, because I was hurt and scared and I had to take it out on someone, didn't I? Wyatt was a big boy; he could handle it.
"Frustrating," he said, and I almost kicked him, because he'd come up with another "f" word. "Annoying. Stubborn. Slick, because you use the dumb-blond routine when you think it'll get you what you want, and I figure it usually does. Your thought processes scare the hell out of me. Reckless. Funny. Sexy. Adorable." He touched my cheek, his hand gentle. "Definitely adorable. And this is not temporary."
Man, I wasn't the only slick one around, was I? I'd been on the verge of a major snit; then he'd undercut me with the last three items. So he found me adorable, huh? That's a good thing to know, so I decided to ignore that part about this not being temporary. He leaned down and kissed me again, then added, "To die for."
I blinked at him. "That's a girl thing to say. Guys shouldn't say it."
He straightened. "Why not?"
"It's too girlie. You should say something macho, like 'I'd take a bullet for you.' See the difference?"
He was fighting a grin. "Got it. C'mon, let's go inside."
I sighed. I had two bread puddings to make, and I didn't really feel like it, but a promise is a promise. No, the people at the police department didn't know I was making it, but I had mentally promised it to them, so there you go.
Wyatt got the doughnuts and condensed milk from the backseat, then unlocked his trunk and took out a burlap bag with green strings hanging from it. He closed the trunk, frowning at the burlap bag.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I told you I'd get you a bush. Here it is."
I stared at the poor bedraggled plant. The green strings had to be its limp little limbs. "What will I do with a bush?"
"You said the house didn't have a single plant in it, like that somehow made it unlivable or something. So here's your plant."
"That isn't a houseplant! That's shrubbery. You bought shrubbery for me?"
"A plant's a plant. Put it in the house and it's a houseplant."
"You are so clueless," I snapped, reaching to take the poor thing from him. "You've had it in your trunk all day in this heat? You've cooked it. It may not live. Maybe I can revive it, though, with some TLC. Open the door, will you? You bought some food for it, didn't you?"
He unlocked the door before he answered with a cautious, "Plants eat?"
I gave him an incredulous look. "Of course plants eat. If anything's alive, it eats." Then I looked at the plant I held and shook my head. "This poor thing may never eat again, though."
My injured arm was protesting holding the weight of the plant, even though I was using my right arm to do most of the work and was mostly balancing the thing with my left hand. I could have given it to Wyatt, but I didn't trust him with it. He'd already proven himself capable of major plant brutality.
While he was bringing in my bags, I had the plant in the sink, gently spraying it with cool water in an attempt to revive it. "I need a bucket," I told him. "Something you won't miss, because I'm going to poke holes in the bottom."
He was in the process of fetching a blue plastic mop bucket from the laundry, but he paused at my last words. "Why are you going to ruin a perfectly good bucket?"
"Because you have abused this plant to the point that it may not live. It needs water, but the roots don't need to stand in water. So-it needs to drain. Unless you have a nice planter with drain holes in it, which I doubt because you don't have any houseplants, then I'll have to poke holes in a container."
"See, this is why men don't have houseplants. They're too much trouble, and too damn complicated."
"They make a house look nice, feel nice, and they keep the air fresh. I don't think I could ever live in a house without plants."
He sighed. "All right, all right. I'll punch holes in the bucket."
He used a long screwdriver to stab through the plastic, and in short order the bedraggled plant was sitting in the bucket in the laundry room sink, the root-ball soaked and draining. I hoped by morning it would have perked up some. Then I turned on his double ovens and started assembling what I would need to make the bread puddings.
He clasped my shoulders and gently forced me down onto a chair. "Sit," he said, which was totally unnecessary, since he'd already made certain I was. "I'll make the bread pudding. Just tell me what to do."
"Why? You never listen." Now, is there any way I could have resisted saying that?
"I'll make an effort," he said drily. "This one time."
Big of him, wasn't it? The least he could have done, considering the day I'd had, was solemnly promise that from then on he'd pay attention to what I was saying.
So I supervised the making of the bread pudding, which is really simple, and while he was tearing the doughnuts into chunks, he said, "Explain something to me. Those people your mother was talking about: the man tried to do something nice for his wife, and she tried to kill him, so why were y'all on her side?"
"Something nice?" I echoed, staring at him in horror.
"He had their bedroom professionally decorated as a present for her. Even if she didn't like the style, why didn't she thank him for the thought?"
"You think it's nice that, even though they've been married thirty-five years, he paid so little attention to her that he didn't know how long and hard she worked to get their bedroom just right, and how much she loved it just the way it was? Some of the antique pieces she had, and which were sold before she could retrieve them, were heirloom quality and can't be replaced."
"Regardless of how much she loved it, it was just furniture. He's her husband; don't you think he deserved better than her trying to hit him with her car?"
"She's his wife," I returned. "Don't you think she deserved better than to have something she loved destroyed, and replaced with something she absolutely hates? After thirty-five years, don't you think he should at least have been able to tell the decorator that Sally didn't like metal and glass?"
The look on his face said he didn't care for the ultramodern look himself, though he wouldn't have phrased it that way. "So she's mad because he hadn't noticed what style she likes?"
"No, she's hurt because she's realized he doesn't pay any real attention to her. She's mad because he sold her things."
"Weren't they his things, too?"
"Did he spend months searching for each piece? Did he refinish each one by hand? I'd say they were hers."
"Okay. That still doesn't justify trying to kill him."
"Well, you see, she wasn't trying to kill him. She just wanted him to hurt a fraction as much as she's hurting."
"Then, like you said, she should have used a riding lawn mower instead of a car. Regardless of how hurt she is, if she'd killed him I'd have arrested her for murder."
I thought about it, then said, "Some things are worth being arrested for." Personally, I wouldn't have gone as far as Sally, but no way would I tell Wyatt that. Women have to stick together, and I thought this would be a good object lesson for him: you don't mess with a woman's things. If he could just get past his tendency to categorize things according to what laws were broken, I was sure he'd see reason. "A woman's stuff is important to her, like a man's toys are important to him. Is there anything you really treasure, like something that belonged to your father, or maybe a car-" It struck me. I stared at him, aghast. "You don't have a car!" The only car in the garage was the Crown Vic, which was city-owned and practically yelled, Cop!
"Of course I have a car," he said mildly, looking down at the two big bowls in which he had divided the four-dozen doughnuts, pinched into bite-size chunks. "What do I do now?"
"Beat the eggs. I'm not talking about the city car," I said. "What happened to your Tahoe?" When I'd gone out with him two years ago, he'd been driving a big black Tahoe.
"Traded it in." He swiftly beat two eggs, then broke two more into a separate little bowl and beat them, too.
"For what? There's nothing in the garage."
"An Avalanche. I got it three months ago. It's black, too."
"But where is it?"
"My sister, Lisa, borrowed it two weeks ago while hers was in the shop." He frowned. "I expected to have it back before now." He picked up the cordless phone, dialed a number, and tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder. "Hey, Lise. I just remembered you have my truck. Is your car still in the shop? What's the holdup?" He listened for a moment. "Okay, no problem. Like I said, I just remembered." He paused, and I could hear a woman's voice, but I couldn't tell what she was saying. "She did, huh? Could be." Then he laughed. "Yeah, it's true. I'll give you the details when we get them ironed out. Okay. Yeah. See ya."
He punched the off button and put the phone back on the table, then surveyed what he'd done so far. "What comes next?"
"A can of condensed milk for each batch." I stared suspiciously at him. "What's 'true'?"
"Just a problem I'm working on."
I had a hunch I was the problem he was working on, but I needed to be at full speed to win an argument with him, so I let it go. "When will her car be ready?"
"She hopes by Friday. I suspect she likes driving my truck, though. It has all the bells and whistles." He winked at me. "Since you like driving pickups, too, you'll love my truck. You'll be cute as hell in it."
If I wasn't, then I seriously needed to work on my image. Because I was fading fast, I directed the addition of the remaining ingredients: salt, cinnamon, more milk, and a touch of vanilla flavoring. He mixed it all together, then poured each bowlful out into a baking pan. The ovens had already preheated, so he put both pans in to cook and set the timer for thirty minutes. "That's it?" he asked, looking surprised because it was so simple.
"That's it. If you don't mind, I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed. When the timer dings, take the pans out and cover them with foil and put them in the refrigerator. I'll do the butter sauce icing in the morning." Tiredly I got to my feet. I was almost at the end of my physical rope.
His expression softened and without a word he lifted me in his arms.
I laid my head on his shoulder. "You're doing this a lot," I said as he carried me upstairs. "Carrying me around, I mean."
"It's a pleasure. I just wish it wasn't under these circumstances." The soft expression faded from his face, leaving his expression grim. "It makes me sick that you're hurt. I want to kill the son of a bitch who did this to you."
"Ah-ha! Now you know how Sally feels," I said triumphantly. Anything to score a point, though I don't generally recommend getting shot and having a car accident to do it. On the other hand, since those things had happened, why not use them? It's silly to throw away a trump card, no matter how it got in your hand.
I brushed my teeth; then he helped me undress and actually tucked me into bed. I was asleep before he left the room.
I slept all night, not even waking when he came to bed. I woke when his alarm went off, and sleepily reached out to stroke his side as he stretched to shut off the clock. "How do you feel this morning?" he asked, rolling onto his back and turning his head toward me.
"Not as bad as I thought I would. Better than last night. Of course, I haven't tried to get out of bed yet. Are my eyes black?" I held my breath, waiting for the answer.
"Not really," he said, studying me. "The bruising isn't any worse than it was last night. All of that voodoo y'all were doing in the kitchen must have worked."
Thank God. I'd do the ice-pack thing again today, just to be on the safe side. I wasn't very fond of the raccoon look.
He didn't get out of bed right away, and neither did I. He stretched and yawned, then sleepily settled down again. There was an interesting tent thing going on just below his waist, and I wanted to check it out, but that seemed cruel considering my stated position of not wanting to have sex with him. No, that wasn't accurate; it wasn't that I didn't want to, but that I knew we shouldn't until we had a lot of things settled between us. I really, really wanted to, though.
Before I succumbed to temptation-again-I forced my attention away and gingerly sat up. Sitting up hurt. A lot. Biting my lip, I slid my legs off the side of the bed, stood up, and took a step. Another. Hunched over and hobbling like a very old person, I made it to the bathroom.
The bad news was, my muscles hurt worse today than they had the night before, but that was to be expected. The good news was, I knew how to deal with it. Tomorrow I would feel much better.
A warm soak in the tub while Wyatt was cooking breakfast helped. So did a couple of ibuprofen, some gentle stretching movements, and that first cup of coffee. The coffee helped my feelings more than it helped my muscles, but feelings are important, too, right?
After breakfast I made the butter sauce to pour over the bread puddings. It was fast and simple, just a stick of butter and a box of powdered sugar, with rum flavoring. The sugar content had to be off the charts, but my mouth watered just thinking about that first bite. Wyatt didn't resist temptation; the butter sauce wasn't cool before he'd dipped a large spoonful onto a saucer and dug in. He half closed his eyes and made an appreciative humming sound. "Man, this is good. I may keep both pans for myself."
"If you do, I'll tell."
He sighed. "All right, all right. But you can make this for me on my birthday every year, okay?"
"But you know how to make it for yourself," I said, wide-eyed, but my heart was doing a little happy dance at the thought of being with him for all of his birthdays, year after year. "When is your birthday, exactly?"
"November third. When's yours?"
"August fifteenth." Oh, dear. Not that I believe in astrology or anything, but a Scorpio and a Leo can be a pretty explosive combination. Both are stubborn and hot-tempered, though I'm out of the norm there because I'm not hot-tempered at all. I plead the Fifth on the stubbornness part, though.
"What's the frown for?" he asked, lightly rubbing between my eyebrows.
"You're a Scorpio."
"So? That's a scorpion, right?" He put his hand on my waist and pulled me close, leaning down to kiss under my right ear. "Wanna see my stinger?"
"Don't you want to know what's bad about being a Scorpio? Not that I believe in astrology."
"If you don't believe in it, why should I care what's bad about Scorpios?"
I hated when he was logical. "So you'll know what's wrong with you."
"I know what's wrong with me." He cupped my breast and nipped the side of my neck. "It's a five-four blond with an attitude, a smart mouth, and a round, bouncy ass that drives me crazy."
"My ass does not bounce," I said, instantly indignant. I worked hard to keep my butt tight. I also had to work hard to stay indignant, because of what he was doing to my neck.
"You haven't seen it from behind when you're walking."
I felt him smile against my neck. Somehow my head had tipped back and I was clinging to his shoulders, and I was forgetting how much it hurt to move. "It moves up and down like two balls bouncing. Haven't you ever turned around and noticed men wiping the drool off their chins?"
"Well, yeah, but I thought that was an evolutionary problem."
He chuckled. "Could be. Damn, I wish you weren't so bruised and sore."
"You'd be late to work." I didn't bother protesting that I wouldn't let him make love to me, because I'd proven to have truly pitiful self-control where he was concerned. I could try, but-
"Yeah, and everyone would know what I'd been doing, because I'd have a big grin on my face."
"Then it's a good thing I'm bruised and sore, because I really frown on being late to work." And if my self-control wouldn't work against him, maybe I could play this hurt-and-bruised thing for all it was worth. Yes, that's a tad manipulative, but this was war-and he was winning.
He nibbled on my neck again, just to show me what I was missing in case I needed reminding. I didn't. "What will you do today while I'm gone?"
"Sleep. Maybe do a little yoga, to stretch and loosen my muscles. Prowl through your house and snoop through everything. Then, if I have time, I may alphabetize your canned goods, rearrange your closet, and program your remote control so it turns the television to the Lifetime channel whenever it's turned on." I didn't know if that was possible, but the threat sounded good.
"Dear God." His tone was full of horror. "Get dressed. You're going to the station with me."
"You can't put it off forever. If you insist I stay here, you have to suffer the consequences."
"Now I see how this works." He lifted his head and looked down at me, narrow-eyed. "All right, do your worst. I'll get my revenge tonight."
"I'm hurt, remember?"
"If you can do all that, you're in better shape than you're letting on. Guess I'll find out tonight, won't I?" He lightly rubbed my butt. "I'll look forward to it." Oh, he was so sure of himself.
I followed him upstairs and watched him shower and shave, then sat on the bed while he dressed. Today's choice was a navy suit, white shirt, and a yellow tie with narrow navy and red stripes. He was a spiffy dresser, which I really like in a man; then when he topped the outfit off with the shoulder holster and the badge clipped to his belt, it was almost too much for my self-control. All of that authority and power turned me on, which is not very feminist of me, but what the hell. You take your turn-ons where you find them, and Wyatt was mine-no matter what he was wearing.
"I'm taking your bread pudding to the boys and girls-which will make them very happy-then I'm going to see your ex," he said as he shrugged into his jacket.
"It's a waste of time."
"Maybe, but I want to see for myself."
"Why aren't MacInnes and Forester talking to him? How do they feel about you horning in on their case?"
"I'm saving them some legwork, and besides, they know it's personal, so they're cutting me some slack."
"Were the others very resentful when you were promoted over them?"
"Of course they were. Hell, they wouldn't have been human if they weren't. I try not to tread on their toes, but at the same time, I'm their boss and they know it."
And he didn't worry if he had to tread on their toes. He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. Wyatt wouldn't take any crap from them.
I walked with him to the garage, and he kissed me good-bye at the door. "Don't throw away anything you find when you're snooping and prowling, got it?"
"Got it. Unless it's letters from an old girlfriend or something; then I might accidentally set them on fire. You know how things like that happen." He should; he was interrogating Jason for suspicion of attempted murder mainly because he'd heard the message Jason had left on my answering machine.
He grinned. "There aren't any letters," he said as he got into the car.
I looked, of course. The day stretched peacefully before me; I didn't have to go anywhere or do anything, didn't have to talk to anyone. With that much time on my hands, I had to look. I didn't organize his closet or arrange his canned goods, though, because that required moving and lifting.
Instead I pampered myself that day. I watched television; I napped. I put in a load of laundry, and moved the somewhat recovered bush near a window so it could get some sunshine. That also required lifting and moving, which hurt, but I did it anyway because the bush needed all the help it could get. I also called Wyatt on his cell phone and got his voice mail. I left him a message to pick up some plant food.
He called at lunch. "How're you feeling?"
"Still stiff, still sore, but otherwise okay."
"You were right about Jason."
"He has one hell of an alibi: Chief Gray. Your ex and the chief were in a foursome playing golf at the Little Creek Country Club on Sunday afternoon, so there was no way he could have taken a shot at you. I don't guess you've thought of anyone else who might like to kill you?"
"Not a clue." I'd been thinking about it, too, but hadn't been able to come up with anything. I'd come to the conclusion that someone was trying to kill me because of a reason I knew nothing about, and that's not a good thing at all.