Chapter Fourteen

After the sun rose and headed to the west, to be the supportive sister I claimed to be, I shook my head and drove to Miss Yolanda’s studio. Only one student made an appearance beside me—Allan.

Tracey and Stuart didn’t cancel the tango lesson; yet, they didn’t show either. Probably due to Tracey’s hysteria over being questioned by the police, and quite possibly, she could still be sobbing in her bedroom over Stuart like a two-year-old told to eat her peas. Beginning to feel as if doomsday was plastered all over their wedding, I couldn’t blame her.

I squinted at the gorgeous specimen. Unbelievable. Didn’t he have other duties to fulfill? Like finding who killed Jonson, not hurling accusations at my sister, and almost arresting her. On the other side of the coin, I could try Mom’s “plan” of seducing and quizzing. He did look might-ee fine in his sport coat, navy slacks, and a red tie perfect for binding one’s wrists.

Binding wrists? I can’t believe I had BDSM notions. Lordy.

With his right palm on the glass, Allan gazed out the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot, which undoubtedly, flooded the room with blazing sunlight during daylight hours.

Now, nothing could be seen but inky darkness polka-dotted with stars and silhouettes of gaunt branches which occasionally scratched the glass in an eerie horror fashion.

Allan didn’t move toward me. Just stared with a look which almost dared me to say something.

He shifted back his khaki jacket with his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Message received and duly noted—not the perfect time to chat. Or seduce. Prick.

He checked the time on his watch, and he turned his gaze to the entry. “Where are the other tortured tango-ers? They’re late.”

The Funsisters’s grapevine plan to shun him worked fast. I raised my index finger. “One…Jenny has a sick headache.” False. “Two…Corrine’s in Bayston.” True. “Three…Tracey’s still crying.” True. “Four…Maybe Stuart’s on an out-of-town audit—”

Allan flashed his palm. “I get it. The gang’s mad. So, why are you here?”

“I didn’t want to come, but Mom persuaded me.” I twisted my lips. “For Tracey. I would do almost anything for my family.”

His lips firmed. “I know.”

Did he know? I lengthened my spine in a stretchy yoga pose. “You interrogated my sister.”

Slowly, he turned his head to look. Nothing said. Nothing more.

I locked gazes with Alan for a long while. Finally, my anger festered to boiling. “I’m guessing the rest of the party doesn’t want to be near you because, you know, you might arrest them, too.”

“I see fingers all over this.” He bit into his lower lip. “Mostly yours, telling them I’m a rat and to stay away.”

I shrugged. “Could be.”

“I know you. I’m not surprised.”

I trailed a finger along the wall as I paced six feet away, and when I turned around, changed to the other hand. “All of us hated Jonson, except for Stuart. I’m not sure if Stuart knows about Tracey’s first marriage. I suppose we could have conspired to plot the dastardly deed à la Murder on the Orient Express-style.”

“Funny,” the saintly detective said.

I wiggled my phone. “I know something you don’t know.”

“Oh, joy.”

“I bet you didn’t know Tracey has bruises from where Jonson hurt her arm.”

Allan squeezed his lips in a tight flat line. “I didn't know.”

“Guessing the police didn't do a thorough job.”

“You did.” Setting his hands on his hips, he tilted closer. “You took pictures?”

I rotated my phone. “I did. Wanna see?”

He curled his fingers. “Show me.”

After scrolling to the photos I took the previous night, I passed my cell. “Go ahead. Look. They are disgusting.”

As he examined the images, his mouth drooped in a frown. “What's this?” He pushed the device in front of my eyes.

“Oh. Tracey’s fist—the one she socked him with.”

“Now, we're getting somewhere.”

“Not so fast, geek-boy—”

Allan raised one brow. “You’re calling me geek-boy?”

“Sorry, a holdover from your high school days of pocket protector and trombone.”

“The trombone you make fun of paid my way through college.”

While I considered, I pushed my bottom lip forward. Hadn’t his parents ponied up his tuition? “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t know how you forgot me being in the marching band.”

“Ooh. Ooh. I remember, and oh my eyes.” I blocked my eyes.

“So, I've always been geeky?”

I uncovered one eye.

Allan squinted. “You know the saying—”

I uncovered my face and sketched an imaginary arc. “The entire universe knows the saying: Geeks rule.”

“And don’t forget it, sweetheart.”

“If I need a reminder, I’ll check your senior photo. Stop calling me sweetheart.”

“The picture captured my…manly essence.” He stroked his forefinger along his chin. “Some women think I’m…studly.”

Essence? Studly? Lordy. Crazy. I shimmied my shoulders. “Back to Jonson… He said some crude and rude things. Tracey was pissed, which resulted in a left hook to his face. I'm confident when the medical examiner inspects the creep’s body—”

“Hold on.” He flashed his palm.

“Yes?”

“You’re way too familiar with police procedures. Possibly bad. Very bad.”

“Funny.” I grinned. “You'll find the proof.”

Allan returned my phone. “Interfering in my case isn’t a good idea, Hattie—”

I stamped my foot. “I'm only protecting my family. You'd do the same—”

“’Fraid to say it?”

Who would argue over geekiness in anyone? Not me. But the twinkle in his eyes looked mighty compelling. “Geek-boy.”

Miss Yolanda, wearing a silky maroon caftan trimmed with a fringe of gold coins the size of dimes, sashayed in our direction. “Hello, dancers. Only the two of you tonight?”

I bobbed my head. “Yes, Ms. Yolanda.”

“I’m très désolée.”

She shrugged with a “whatever” frown, arranged us next to each other, and patted our limbs.

“Doesn't matter. Besides Stuart and his fiancée, you’re the best dancers. All eyes will be on you. Now, young man, take your partner in your arms.”

Neither of us made the first move.

The last thing I wanted at Stuart and Tracey’s wedding was to have “all eyes on me.” I should man-up for my sister’s big day. Through my lashes, I glared at Allan.

Hard steel in his black eyes fixed tight flashed back.

His jaw gritted.

My first move would be to kick him in the shins and launch a major assault, but Mother wouldn’t like the fighting part. Lifting my chin, I gave him my best you're-gonna-suffer expression.

Allan snorted. The tenseness in his shoulders subsided. He quirked the right corner of his mouth.

Taking my hand, he raised one in the “ready” position and set his other at my waist. I settled into the proper posture.

“Feel the music embody your spirits. Become one with your soul. Become one with your partner.” Miss Yolanda turned on the music and clapped. “Anda one. Anda two…”

Allan and I glided two steps, paused, whipped about, and then repeated in the opposite direction.

“Good. Do the sequence over.” Ms. Yolanda rolled her hand.

Clueless about what “sequence” she talked about, I followed Allan’s lead and let him have his way.

Ms. Yolanda stopped the music.

She handed me a red rose.

I took it gingerly and discovered she’d stripped off the thorns.

“Set the stem between your teeth,” she said. “Repeat the steps you just performed. Pause. And you, young man, will bend close, and with your teeth, you’ll take the rose from her lips.”

Ms. Yolanda swooped her hands. “Go on.”

Oh Lord, Allan would be within kissing range. This is too-too much. Even though he excelled at kissing, I couldn’t do any smooching after the grilling he gave Tracey. I pinched the stem between my fingers and glared.

His eyes held a challenge-you glint.

My insides screamed “retreat.” But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Obtaining more intel so I could find something to exonerate my sister hit the top of my mental to-do list. Permanently.

I clenched the stem between my teeth. A green sap oozed on my tongue. The taste? Beyond icky.

“Class. Ready?” Ms. Yolanda looked at each of us, her brows lifted. She pointed her remote at the sound system. The music resumed. “Anda one. Anda two.”

Allan and I glided and turned. Glided and turned. Paused.

“So, Jonson is dead.” Thanks to self-taught ventriloquist lessons, I mumbled barely coherent words around the stem.

“Yup.”

Pausing, I spat out the blasted flower, smacking my tongue. The residue in my mouth made me sound stupid and silly. I fought the urge to spit. “The Sommerville Live at Five news ran a story.” The program broadcasted a story about the murder as I dressed for work. “Good ol’ press shares the scandalous stuff every time.”

“I’ve said nothing.” Allan shifted and brushed his hand through his hair. “You know how it is in Sommerville. News travels fast in a small town.”

I shot him a hard look. “Is the Sommerville Police Department giving Tracey’s case special treatment because the whole town thought Jonson a—quote—a pillar of society—unquote?” I couldn’t help coating my words with scorn. “A man amongst men. Known and loved by all—”

Miss Yolanda returned.

At the lift of her hand, I again put the flower in my mouth.

She stepped away and motioned for the dancing to continue. She retreated to prop her shoulders against a wall and check her phone for messages.

Before Allan and I resumed dancing, he bent closer.

So close, his breath fanned over my cheek.

“And as you stated, the deceased was hated by your family.”

Guess the whole world was aware of the Cooks's position on all things related to Jonson Leggett the Third. I struggled to swallow. “Er, maybe.”

As Allan straightened, his gaze bored into mine. “Hate can cause people's behavior to change. They do despicable things, like murder.”

I yanked the flower out of my mouth. “The Super Saver's video recording must be confirming evidence for you to focus on my sister.”

He stopped and let go. His eyes narrowed. “How…did…you—”

Ms. Yolanda moved between us. “Problem?”

Yes. I bet he thought so, too.

“No,” I said.

“No,” he said.

Then the bane of my existence rang.

Allan dug his cell phone from his pocket. In long strides, he reached the studio’s door. “Wellborn.”

Twirling, the rose’s stem in my fingers, I skimmed one pointed foot in a half-circle across the floor and then the other as I tried to eavesdrop on his conversation in case Tracey’s difficulty came up.

“Yes, sir,” he said multiple times.

Which told me one big fat nothing.

“Immediately.” He shut off his phone and flicked a look. “Gotta go.”

“Not surprised.” I squished my eyes into slits and twirled the rose, watching Mr. Dutifully Bound exit.

He paused by the door and looked back.

I blew him a pissed-off kiss.

His brow wrinkled.

I tilted my head and lifted my chin. So there.

“That one”—Ms. Yolanda pointed her finger at Allan’s retreating form—“he’s always in a hurry.”

“Yes, ma'am, he certainly is.” I jerked my fists toward the floor, breaking the flower’s stem. After I inhaled and exhaled a few times, I felt my heart rate slow down and calmness overtook my mind. I scooped the flower pieces from the floor and walked over to the exit, chucking the scraps inside a trash can. Through the windows overlooking the parking lot, I heard Allan fire up the truck’s engine and wheel out to the street.

Rats. Almost had Allan clenched in my hand. I must find another way to get the answers I need.

****

Back at my apartment, Jenny pounced on me the moment I entered. All Vegas gamblers could have bet mucho dough on her wanting to know about my efforts to question Allan about Tracey’s predicament.

I shook my head and shook off her arm. “Not now.” I headed to the bathroom for a meditative purging soak. After the tub filled with grapefruit-scented hot water, I piled my hair in a clasp on top of my head and slipped into the steaming bathwater to soothe away the worries.

After a few minutes, I took my newest paperback romance, The Virginity of Arabella, sitting on the toilet seat conveniently located next to the tub. The lurid cover of a shirtless, dark-headed man with more muscles than brains, clasping a young woman by her upper arms, her curly blonde hair cascading down her bare back, and her pale rose evening gown slipping from her shoulders made me pause. Still, someone, even fictional, is getting more sex than me.

Flipping to my marked page, I read:

The act captivated her, yet her mind still wandered. What happened to the magician’s diminutive assistant she fell in love with at the magic show? Just this morning, the Las Vegas FBI agents interviewed her about the pit boss found dead behind the Castle Casino. Someone had sawed him in half.

Depleted of energy, I could barely stay engaged in reading. Work. Tracey. Allan. Tracey. Tango. Allan. Cushioning my head on the side of the tub, I succumbed to the hot water and its relief. I closed my eyes and slipped deeper into dreamland. I sensed the book drop on the bath rug. Somewhere out there, the doorbell rang. Not now. Sleep.

“Hattie, wake up,” a voice called.

I must be dreaming because no one with a sexy deep voice would be in my bathroom. I flipped a lame wave to signal “go away” and sank deeper in the sudsy depths.

“Sweetheart,” the voice said. “Wake up. We need to talk.”

“Sweetheart” registered. Allan called me the endearment many times—despite me asking him not to. I reluctantly batted my eyes once…twice…three times before I could squeeze one orb wide open.

Allan leaned against my bathroom doorway, blatantly observing me floating in the tub—well, naked. For the time being, bubbles covered my strategic parts.

Bubbles popped. Oops.

In a flash, I pressed my boobs against the side of the tub. I grabbed the towel I’d tossed on the rug. With my free hand, I flipped shut the book. I would be more than embarrassed if he discovered my love for romance, even if his sister lent me the book. “Get out,” I said in my most threatening voice.

“I don’t think so—”

Allan bobbed his head in a confident taking-in-the-whole-room way.

“—looks pretty good.”

Why the dirty rotten, no-good scoundrel. I compacted my lips and squeezed my eyes into lizard-like slashes. “Leave. Now. Or—”

“Or what, sweetheart?”

Hmm. “I’ll call…call—”

“The police? Ha. The police are already here.”

So he was. Then an “aha” hit my head. “I’ll do worse. I’ll call your mother.”

Allan wagged his finger. “You don’t play fair.”

“She’s darn scary, and if anyone can wrangle you, it’s Shirley Wellborn.” I lifted the book, eyeballed the throwing distance to the door. “Going?”

He raised his hands, palms out. “No need to get violent.”

Violent? My yelling equaled violent? He didn't know what violent was. I hurled Arabella in his direction.

He dodged left as the book thunked against the wall by his ear. “That’s playing nasty, girlfriend.”

Gripping the towel, I gritted my teeth so hard, they hurt. “I’m. Not. Your. Girlfriend.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart, either.”

He shook his head. “Sadly, you’re not.”

“You are…mean.” Stupid word. Nothing else entered my mind.

Allan bounced his eyebrows. “I would be glad to show you how mean I am.”

Sexiness seeped sweetly like a toasted, oh-so-gooey marshmallow in a fresh-from-the-fire s’more. I knew what he meant.

“Besides, if I remember right”—he cupped his hand and examined his fingernails—“I’ve seen you naked a couple of times.”

And I’d seen him naked, too, but he didn’t have free rein to watch me whenever he pleased. I glared the nastiest look I possessed, one sure to scare small children and white mice. “Leave. I mean it.”

He smiled.

“N-period. O-period. W-period, Allan. I don’t want you to show me how mean you are. I don’t want to talk about you seeing me naked before. I don't want anything to do with you—”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I raised my hand and dropped it in the bubbles, splashing soap across my cheek. Then I remembered the naked part and went chest-to-tub again. “Because you’re on my hit list, buster, because of my sister. You dashed from tango lessons before we could discuss her situation like adults.”

Allan leaned his six-foot-plus body against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Had to—”

“Had to? Had to?” A blood vessel in my temple throbbed to popping point.

“Had to. Office called.”

“You say the ‘had to’ phrase all the time, and it makes me sick. Your ‘had to’ ’tude better be good. My mom’s pretty angry with you.”

Slowly, he ran his thumb over his jaw. “My mom came close to disowning me.”

“Fat chance. Shirley Wellborn wouldn’t disown her adored, holier-than-thou, on-the-way-to-sainthood son. Your mom’s scary, though.” All my grade school friends believed Mrs. Wellborn was scary. Her flying monkey expression intimidated Navy SEALs.

I grappled the towel into place and pointed with my free hand. “Go.”

Allan just ignored me.

Watching. Waiting. The hint of a smile curled one corner of his mouth.

“You look good, Hattie.”

Most naked chicks look good to most men. “I swear you have hearing issues.”

Nothing. Nothing but a big, wide, making-you-uncomfortable-and-I-love-every-minute-of-it grin.

Brat. I flushed with more embarrassment. Maybe pleading with him would work. “Come on, Allan. Give me a break. Please. I’ll get out of the tub as soon as you leave.” A slip of my feet caused a splash. “Pretty please. The water’s cold. I’m shivering.” I shook for good measure.

Allan stood as immovable as Mount Rushmore. As Pikes Peak. As Mount Fuji.

Forming a new plan, I struggled from the water and stood, wrapping the damp towel around my torso. The soggy covering outlined my jiggly bits. I very cautiously stepped over the rim and walked to where Allan stood in the doorway. He stared like a fat cat lapping a bowl of cream. Time to move on. In a flash, the towel fell to the floor. I gave him one giant drippy shove, which pushed him against the hallway wall. I slammed the door behind him.

“Hey, you got my coat wet.”

Pressing my ear to the closed door, I heard Allan grumble with a few expletives. Tee-hee-hee.

“I still have a good imagination,” he shouted. “Very good imagination. Like what cold water does to your nipples.”

I rolled my eyes. Ya, put your imagination to work and see where it takes you.

Snagging a clean towel, I dried and dressed in Plain Jane undies, black sweatpants, and a ratty Jeep T-shirt, arranged my hair in a ponytail, and swiped on a teensy bit of mascara. Leaning closer to the mirror, I dabbed on a colored lip gloss and smacked my lips in approval. “What we women go through to look good.”

I opened the bathroom door to my bedroom and found Allan lounging on his side on my bed, and his coat flopped open. Casually, he flipped through Arabella. I held my breath and prayed he hadn’t read anything…embarrassing. The romance contained racy passages with long, incredibly descriptive sex scenes, not to be shared with someone of the male species. However, some guys could take lessons from those passages.

Setting hands on my hips, I watched him turn several pages. “Learn anything…interesting?” I got the policeman look, which said “squat.”

“What’s interesting is you used the word ‘learn.’” Allan said, “The guy has nothing on me.”

“As you know, I don’t know.”

“I’ll borrow it when you’re finished. The diminutive person passage you earmarked sounded fascinating.”

Damn. Allan looked migh-tee fine in navy slacks and white shirt. I sat beside him on the bed. He let me tug the book from his hands.

Allan and I stared at each other for a while. Bucket loads of energy pulsed between us. If he made the right overtures, I’d hop on top of him, despite what I said earlier.

“Um,” I said, “I’ll take a page from one of Mom's lectures and be polite.”

He grinned.

Mom’s infamous little talks spilled over the Wellborn family, too.

“How about the ‘Be Nice to the Uninvited Guest’ one?” he asked.

“I’m being nice.” I extended my hand. “Soda?”

He laced his fingers with mine. “No nookie?”

“Nookie?” I arched one eyebrow. “What century are you from?”

“This one.”

He yanked me on top of him.

“Now, I call our current situation nice and interesting.”

Allan scanned my face as his hand tucked a stray hair strand behind my ear.

All the togetherness caused me to want, to pant, to yearn, to beg him to kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. With a slight shift, I wiggled my body. I placed my forearms on either side of his head. I toyed with his crisp hair; then, I let the same hand drop to thumb his lower lip. It felt soft, damp, lush.

He cupped the curvy part of my buttocks, pressing our pelvises together.

Leaning over, I let my cheek skim across his temple. I felt his heart rate accelerate, and his breath grew heavier.

I paused to take in all male, all him. I connected my gaze with his. A suggestive glint burned in his eyes. Our mouths were moments away from devouring each other. An immense bulge developed on his side and pushed into my thigh. Hot swirls rose in my body, making my head scorch and the girl parts throb in the what-are-you-waiting-for way.

Allan’s hands crept under my T-shirt and along my spine.

A lazy smirk shaped his face as his head dipped to the right.

“You’d better stop. You might get more than you bargained for,” Allan said.

I twitched my lips as awkwardness raced over me. “Stop might not be on today's agenda.”

“Hussy,” Allan said. “Your mom and dad won’t like you making love with a traitor.”