Standing over Chuck Puckett’s prone, naked body, sirens wailing in the background, I had done what I’d been dying to do for days—I kicked him square in the nuts. The pointy toe of my leopard-print, kitten-heeled pump had made a satisfying triangular dent. So satisfying that I kicked him twice more for good measure. The only thing I regretted about this later was the fact that the bastard was dead and didn’t feel my sharp retribution.

Even hearing the words “Maggie Mae Castro, you’re under arrest for murder”, the taping of my perp walk—which had garnered over a hundred thousand hits on YourVid—being forced to wear a hideous orange jumpsuit after my clothes were confiscated as evidence, and being ditched by not one, but three public defenders, didn’t ping on my shame-o-meter. Sitting across the cold metal table from my new attorney, explaining why I’d tried to rearrange Chuck Puckett’s genitals while my lawyer defensively cupped his own, it suddenly dawned on me that I’d heard nothing about the skank ho Chuck Puckett had been banging behind my back.

“What about Crouching Slut, Hidden Man Stealer?” I asked.

Regis Dilton, AKA the attorney, who was dumb enough…or smart enough—time would tell—to take my case, glanced up from his notes to stare at me over the rim of his glasses. “What?”

“The slut Chuck Puckett was cheating on me with.”

“The senator was cheating on you?”

Oh yes, Chuck Puckett was an Arizona state senator. But not just any senator—he was the conservative, Christian-family-values senator who’d tried and almost succeeded in passing legislation to have creationism taught in schools. The irony of him being found naked and dead, wearing lipstick and a long, blond wig, might have been funny but for the fact that I was now the accused murderess who, according to the morning paper, had desecrated their golden-boy senator in some sick sexual death ritual.

I filled in old Regis on finding Chuck Puckett in bed with his Asian sensation riding him like a prize bull and how she’d invited me to join them. I had declined the invitation of course, doing so with a lot of cursing and smashing…and maybe a little car keying. But when I got to the part where Chuck Puckett had lured me back to his mansion the following day with lots of pitiful pleading and how I’d shown up only to find the Jade Jezebel fleeing the scene of Chuck Puckett’s murder, I faltered. I was pathetic. I had also been set up. Of this, I was sure.

Regis…not so much. “And you think this woman is the one who killed the senator, leaving you to take the fall. Do you have proof?”

“Well, it’s not like I stopped to jot down her confession.” If I had gotten a hold of her, I would’ve earned the murder rap honestly and could truly bask in the joy of getting to know old Regis here.

“Miss Castro, I suggest we stick to what we and the police can prove.”

“What can they prove?”

He stacked his hands on the table. “They caught you in the act of desecrating the body of an Arizona state senator. So there’s that.”

“That’s all I did. And it wasn’t desecrating, it was…anger management. I’ve been told I might have an issue in that regard.”

“No kidding. You were also in possession of a firearm.”

“Um, hello. We’re in Arizona. Besides, it’s registered.”

“To you?”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

“Miss Castro—” he exhaled as though he was having a little anger-management problem himself, “—you were found at the scene of a murder, in possession of a firearm not registered to you, kicking the body of a beloved senator who’d been shot to death.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

There was a knock on the door. Detective Barry opened it. “We’re releasing her. For now.” He threw that last part in to scare me. It worked.

“I’m free to go?” I asked.

Regis was already stuffing his notebook in his briefcase like he had better places to be. I could hardly blame him. “Looks that way.”

“And you were so pessimistic.” I popped out of my seat. “Where are my things?”

Detective Barry tossed me a large manila envelope. I tore it open and peered inside. All it contained was the contents of my purse minus the gun. The purse itself was missing. It was my favorite one too. Chuck Puckett had given it to me for my birthday, not that I was sentimental or anything. But it was Prada, for jeepers’ sake.

“Where’s my purse? And jewelry?”

“The handbag is evidence. The jewelry is in a baggy at the bottom. Have a nice day.” With that, the detective left like he’d done me some kind of favor. The bastard.

“I have an appointment across town,” Regis said. “I’ll call you.” He dropped his business card on the table, making a quick exit as though he was the one who’d spent the night with Big Bertha and her prison pals and couldn’t wait to get the jail stench off him.

I pulled out my cell phone and tried to turn it on. Dead. Great. How was I supposed to get home?

“Need a ride?”

I looked up into the dark eyes of a very large man in an ill-fitting suit who seemed to know not only who I was but the predicament I was in. I was already mentally undressing him and redressing him in something that would be worth stripping back off him. Too bad I could smell the cop on him.

“Yeah, no. That’s okay. Is there a pay phone around here?”

“Down the hall, but you wouldn’t want to use it without a hazmat suit.” His voice rumbled through me like a commuter train making all the stops—Hot Guy City, Interested Town, and Turned-Onville. “Here.” He held out a spiffy-looking phone that looked like it could control the space station. “Use mine.”

“Would you mind switching it on? And setting it to ‘phone’…you know, with the number-pad thingy?”

His lips kicked up at the corner, revealing a rather charming dimple. Damn it! I loved dimples on a guy.

“Sure. Here you go.”

The tips of my fingers slid across his palm. There was a snap and I got a little jolt. Yeah, not sparks. Just plain old static electricity.

“It’s…ah, dry in here I guess.” I laughed, but it wasn’t an aren’t-I-witty chuckle, it was a crazy-psycho-lady kind of cackle. My flirting skills had been seriously ground to nubs by Chuck Puckett. I’d better shut up before someone decided I should be put on a psych hold.

He watched me with his dark eyes, assessing. Probably thought I’d pocket his phone. Who was this Duane The Rock Johnson lookalike? And why was he being so generous with his cell phone minutes?

I kept my eye on him—like that was a hardship—and dialed my friend Tabitha, thinking she might be home, but then I remembered it was Tuesday and she had rhombus…no zima…no, that wasn’t right…she had some kind of dance-fitness thing so that was a no-go.

I handed tall, dark and disturbing his phone back. “How do I go back to the number part?”

“How about you tell me the number and I’ll dial it for you?”

“Yeah, sure.” I rattled off Xavier’s number. Hot Cop punched it in and then handed me back his phone.

Hot Cop and I eyeballed each other while I waited for Xav to pick up. I got the feeling I’d seen him before, but couldn’t place him. Maybe I’d seen him at the department store where I worked. He didn’t look like someone who’d step foot in the cosmetics department unless he’d been dragged there by a girlfriend. And why I found the thought of him with a girlfriend so depressing was beyond me. I really needed to get out of this room before Hot Cop’s pheromones caused my ovaries to explode like confetti cannons.

“Finally,” I said when Xav answered.

“Maggs?” He squealed like he was the one who’d been given a cavity search. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s one phone call. Holy mole, Chiquita, you’re famous. It’s all over the Internet and TV. You’re YourVid famous. A hundred and fourteen…no, a hundred and twenty-one thousand hits on your Walk of Shame. Great mug shot, by the way.” That Xavier. He was nothing if not a big fat boost to my insecurities.

“Gee, thanks. Can you manage to pull yourself away from my humiliation long enough to give me a ride?” I told him where to pick me up, promising to fill him in on the stuff that wasn’t already on the Internet.

I gave old Chocolate Eyes his phone back. “Thanks Mr.… Detective…”

“Special Agent.”

Yeah, I could see the “special”. “What? Was Super Agent already taken?”

I got the full-tilt, crinkly-eyed smile. “Special Agent Clive Poole…FBI.”