The salad course mercifully ended before I could make more of an ass out of myself, and Sarah served pasta. She and Eamon flirted. I tried to look as if I didn’t notice. It was uncomfortable. My sister’s chicken primavera was unbelievably delicious, but I shoveled it in with reckless disregard for either manners or culinary appreciation. Sarah, naturally, ate about a third of her plate and pronounced herself full. Eamon came around to help her clear the table, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal elegantly long-boned forearms, and brushed past her close enough to qualify as courtship in quite a few parts of the world. As they were standing at the sink together, I watched their body language. His was… comfortable. Proprietary. In her space, drawn to her by gravity. Over the rushing water, I caught snatches of their conversation. I sipped wine and watched him lean closer, put his face close to her neck, and draw in a deep breath. It was amazingly sensuous.
“Bulgari’s Omnia,” he said, in that lovely voice, so precise and warm.
“You know perfumes?” Sarah asked, startled, and turned her head to look at him.
He was over her shoulder, close enough to kiss. Neither of them moved away.
“A bit,” he said. “I had some training in chemistry; perfumes were always interesting to me. Omnia has a black pepper base, you know.”
“Really?” She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face him. “What else?”
“Is there any dessert?”
She blinked at the change of subject, but moved aside and uncovered a pan of perfect little tarts, pale with a browned crust on top. Crème brûlée. Dear God.
I didn’t even own one of those fancy little blowtorches, did I? Well, apparently, I did now. Along with a double boiler.
Eamon made a sound in the back of his throat that I swear I’d only heard during particularly intimate moments, took one of the tarts, and bit into it, watching my sister. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
“No talking with your mouth full.”
Which looked like a private joke, from the intensity of their smiles at one another. He offered her the tart. She bit a neat piece out of it, never taking her eyes from his.
“What do you know about that perfume?” he asked her.
“Tell me.”
His smile widened into something that was both angelic and liable to melt women into butter. “Perfumes have a base, heart notes, and bottom notes. Omnia’s base is black pepper. Its heart notes are tea, cinnamon, nutmeg, and Indian almond. Very exotic. It suits you.”
Sarah looked fascinated. “And there are bottom notes?”
He took another bite of tart. “Indian wood, sandalwood, and chocolate.” He made chocolate sound indecent. “Practically edible, that scent.”
“And how do you know it isn’t edible?”
“Is that an invitation… ?”
I rolled my eyes, got up, and said, “I’ll be in my room.”
They didn’t even notice. I closed and locked my door, flumped down on the bed, and realized my heart was racing. Contact high from the flirting. Those two were Olympic champions at foreplay.
Although I suspected they might have blown past it earlier and gone right to the main event. Probably more than once. The hormones were definitely running at high tide.
I looked around the room. No sign of Rahel. I wasn’t surprised. She was probably in a don’t-see-me mode, or else she’d already decided to check in on Lewis again. I ignored her—or her absence—and stripped off my dinner clothes, threw on sloppy sweat pants that rode low on my hips and a crop top, and slid open my window to get a taste of fresh ocean breeze. It felt cool and dark on my face. I wanted to get out of here, suddenly; I felt trapped. I checked the clock. Thirty minutes until I was supposed to meet Lewis.
I figured I’d better not wait too long, and it would save time if I met him outside; we couldn’t exactly have a heart-to-heart with my sister and Eamon getting to know each other better, in the Biblical sense, in the next room. I slipped running shoes on my feet, laced them tight, and unlocked the bedroom door to take a cautious peek outside.
Eamon was kissing Sarah in the kitchen. They were backed up against the refrigerator; his hands were cupping her head and combing through her hair, her arms were around his neck, and damn, they looked good together.
I blinked, thought about announcing that I was going for a run, then decided it might be a mood-killer and besides, they couldn’t possibly have cared less. I grabbed keys, ID, and cell phone, stuffed them into the zip pocket on my sweats, and headed out.
I was halfway down the steps when my pants rang. I dug my cell phone out and flipped it open; before I could answer, I got a blistering burst of static that made me stumble on the stairs and yank the phone back from my ear.
But I clearly heard somebody yell my name on the other end.
I pressed the phone back to my ear and said, “Who is this?”
“Lewis!” His voice sounded raw, almost drowned by static, and then the noise evened out to a dull roar. Traffic, maybe? Only if he was driving in the Indy 500. “Change of plans. Meet me on the beach across from your apartment.”
“Any particular place?”
“We’ll find you.”
He hung up. I tried redial, got no answer, and decided it was a good thing I’d decided to wear jogging clothes. Gave me a chance to do covert meetings and get some exercise in.
I bounced down the last set of steps and stretched a little, and as I did, I saw that Detective Rodriguez’s white van was still parked facing my apartment, watching the show. No lights. Well, screw him. If he wanted to come after me, he was going to get hurt. I wasn’t in a mood to pull punches.
I put my right foot up on the steps and began stretches. I touched my toe, bent the foot back toward me, and while I was about it sneaked a look up at my apartment window. All I could see was shadows, but that was enough. I was pretty sure Eamon was taking off Sarah’s dress.
“Draw the curtains, idiots,” I said under my breath, but hey, who was I to judge? I was the one who’d had my first really great sexual experience with a Djinn in a hot tub in the middle of a hotel lobby. Maybe exhibitionism ran in the family.
I concentrated on stretches. The rubber-band burn in my muscles had a nice focusing effect.
Once I was decently warmed up, I picked my way through the parking lot, dodging cars, watching for tail lights, jogged in place at the street light as passing motorists whizzed by.
I stiffened up when I felt a presence arrive next to me. Detective Rodriguez wasn’t jogging in place, just standing. He didn’t believe in keeping the heart rate up, I gathered. I could respect that.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m planning to swim to England, steal the crown jewels, hide them in the Titanic, and hire James Cameron to pick them up for me. Do you mind? I’m on a timetable.” I kept jogging. Anger pulsed with my heartbeat. Damn him. I really, really didn’t need this right now. “Look, I’ll be back, okay? I’m just going for a run. People do it. Well, people who don’t live in a van and stalk other people do it, anyway.”
He smiled slightly. He’d changed clothes, or he’d been dressed for exercise anyway; he was wearing dark blue cop-colored sweat pants with official-looking white reflective stripes, and a hooded sweatshirt that had LVPD in big yellow letters on the back. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your workout,” he said blandly. “I need the exercise.”
I kept moving, ready for the green, and when it clicked on I hurried across the street and onto the beach proper. Rodriguez, of course, followed.
“You should have stayed back there!” I said over my shoulder. “I’m not slowing down for you!” And I put on the speed. Sand, soft and uncertain under my feet.
There was a fresh, warm breeze blowing in from the ocean, smelling of twilight and the sea. Always people out, even at this time of day—couples taking romantic walks near the surf, posing for pictures. Kids sneaking beers, or if they weren’t that brave, sipping on Coca-Cola cans liberally jazzed up with booze.