I looked down and blinked. “A gun?!”
“It’s a.thirty-eight pistol. Easy to use, all you have to do is pull the safety back like this”-he flipped a little metal switch-“then point and shoot. Simple.”
I shoved it back at him. “No, I don’t want a gun.”
“Maddie, someone out there is trying to harm you. You walked away from them today, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back tomorrow. Please just take it.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn there was genuine concern in his voice.
Before I had a chance to respond, Felix shoved the.38 into my purse.
I suddenly felt as if my Kate Spade were carrying a ticking time bomb.
“Are we leaving or what?” Dana called from the drive.
“Coming, ” I shot over my shoulder. Then I turned to Felix. “You’ll call me the second something comes up on our PayMate search, right?”
He nodded and held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Satisfied, I jogged over to the car and got in as Dana revved up the engine. I could see Felix still shadowed in the doorway watching us as we pulled away, the weight of my purse eerily unnerving.
Half an hour later Dana dropped me off in front of my studio, hightailing it to a SA meeting in Van Nuys. (First heartthrob Ricky, then, as she’d put it, Brit-o-yummy Felix were more than her positive-sexual-sobriety self could take.)
The patrol car was still comfortingly parked across the street, and I gave the uniformed cop a little wave as I climbed my steps. No response. Figured. I didn’t have real good luck with cops lately.
Probably due to the police presence, my doorstep was luckily roadkill free as I let myself into my apartment and saw my message machine blinking like mad. I hit the play button, letting the mechanical voice tell me I had two new messages as I stripped off my clothes in favor of an oversize Aerosmith T-shirt.
“First new message, ” it informed me.
“Maddie, this is Mr. Shuman at Tot Trots.” I groaned, staring at my abandoned design table. “I just wanted to remind you that we’re expecting the Pretty Pretty Princess designs by Monday. Mrs. Larson’s threatening to reassign the My Little Pony flip-flops this summer if you’re late again.”
I made a mental note not to neglect my real job and to finish those sparklies and bows tomorrow. If I lost the My Little Pony account, there went rent. Not to mention those strappy Santana sandals I’d had my eye on.
The machine clicked over to the second message, and Dusty’s shaky voice filled my studio. “Hi, it’s Dusty. Um, listen, I…I kind of need to talk to you, Maddie. It’s important. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. I…It’s important.”
“End of messages, ” the machine informed me.
Something about the urgency in Dusty’s message had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I quickly grabbed the receiver and dialed her number. It rang three times. Then four. Five. Finally I gave up after the tenth ring and redialed. Still no answer.
I hung up, reluctantly telling myself that if it really was that important, she’d call back. I crawled into bed, but instead of falling into the deep sleep I’d been dreaming of all evening, I tossed and turned, uneasy feelings churning in my belly as I mentally replayed Dusty’s message over and over.
I swear, someday I’ll learn to listen to those feelings.
Chapter 11
True to my promise, as soon as I woke up the next morning, I went straight to my drawing table and sketched out the patent-leather buckle closures for the Pretty Pretty Princess shoes. I worked straight through the morning, careful not to get any of my strawberry-frosted Pop-Tart on the drawings, before rolling them up and popping them in a mailing tube, ready to send off first thing Monday.
Those My Little Pony flip-flops were so mine.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I hopped in the shower, letting the hot water work out any lingering stiffness in my neck. Next to push-up bras, hot running water has got to be one of the greatest inventions known to man. I stood an eternity under the spray until finally the water started to turn tepid and my tiny bathroom was filled with so much steam even my eyelashes were beginning to frizz. I stepped out, wrapping myself in a big fluffy towel, and plopped down on my futon to treat myself to a fresh coat of toenail polish. I was halfway through the second foot when my doorbell rang. I did a heel walk, careful not to let my wet toes touch, as I called, “Coming, ” and peeked through the security hole.
Then froze.
Dark, hooded eyes, thick black hair just a little too long, T-shirt fairly painted on that “I can bench-press a Buick” body, arms crossed over his chest, causing that sleek panther to trail dangerously down one bulging bicep.
Ramirez.
I hugged my fluffy towel closer to my body, the sight of him sending a sudden shiver down my spine.
I debated the merits of throwing on a pair of pants first, but his fist banging impatiently on the other side of the door made the decision for me. I undid the security chain and slowly opened the door just enough to stick my head out.
“Hi.”
He gave my disembodied head a funny look. “Hi. Can I come in?”
“Um…” I looked down at my towel, which, in the face of Ramirez’s George Clooney stubble and worn-in-the-right-places jeans, suddenly seemed way too small.
“Please?” Eyes dark, voice low and intimate. That shiver transformed into instant heat, starting in the pit of my stomach and settling somewhere distinctly lower.
What the hell. He did say please, right?
I stepped back, opening the door. The second he stepped in the room, my studio felt about ten times smaller, bursting at the seams with sexy detective. I shifted nervously from foot to foot as his eyes gave me and my itty-bitty towel a slow up-and-down. I’m not totally sure, but I think I heard him groan somewhere in the back of his throat.
Or maybe that was just me.
“Uh, so, what are you doing here?” I asked, tugging at the hem of my towel. “I mean, not that I don’t want you here. Or that you shouldn’t be here. I mean, you can be here anytime you like. If you like. Which, you do, ’cause you’re here, but I mean, we kind of left things…I mean, I wasn’t sure where we…I mean, with all the fighting and all…”
I trailed off as Ramirez licked his lower lip, an innocent movement that somehow erased every single thought from my head.
“The birthday party, ” he said, bringing his eyes (with visible difficulty) up to meet mine.
“Huh?”
His tongue shot out again, and I started having the kind of thoughts that could land a person in SA.
“Your nephew, Connor? You invited me to his birthday party, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Then I paused. “Wait-and you still want to go?” I was pretty sure that the whole “talk to me through my attorney” thing was free license for him to skip any and all family functions he’d previously agreed to accompany me to. And Lord knew I would have taken the out if I could. I cocked my head to the side. “Really?”
He grinned, deep dimples punctuating his stubble-covered cheeks. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Wow, he had a nice smile. I mean, like, completely-aware-I’m-not-wearing-any-panties nice. So nice I could feel any lingering anger I might have had at him melting faster than a push-pop on the Venice boardwalk.
“Right, ” I said, clearing my throat in an attempt to rein in those pesky little hormones of mine. (Which totally failed, by the way.) “So, does this mean that we’re…I mean, am I…We’re sort of…”
His grin widened. “It means we’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed.”
I glanced at my VCR’s digital clock. One-fifteen. He was right. We were so late. “Oh, crap! Molly’s going to kill me.”
I quickly heel-walked over to my closet and pawed through the pile of clothes sitting near the hangers. (I know, I know, on the hangers would be better. But I’m a woman on the go. I’m lucky if the clothes are clean.) I was thankful to find a little pink sundress (clean!) and white sweater (pretty clean) that perfectly matched the pink leather heels I’d put the finishing design touches on last month.