Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (16 page)

“Didn't want to wake you. Had to go to work. I'll call you later. Terry.”

Was the signature really necessary? And couldn't he have added some flowery romantic crap to make me feel as if last night weren't just a one-night stand? Considering the man in question, the answer is no. No-nonsense Terry is also no-nonsense in the sack. He gets right down to business, and he's good at it.

I grin again. I can't help myself.

“Lou, are you alone in there?”

I scramble out of bed, grab my ratty robe, and slip into it. “Yeah, I'm alone!”

“Then I guess my plan didn't work,” Cindy grumbles upon entering my bedroom. She stops short and sniffs. “I think it smells like sex in here.”

A comment from me is not immediately forthcoming.

“Please tell me that's sex I smell,” Cindy persists.

The grin breaks out on my face again. “That's not just sex, my friend. That's mind-blowing sex you smell.”

Cindy glances around the bedroom. “He is still alive, right?”

My grin stretches. “Yes, he left me a note.” I raise my hand to high-five her. She leaves me hanging.

“He left you a friggin' note? That's never a good sign.”

I finally lower my palm. “No, you don't understand,” I stress. “It was good. I finally got mine, you know?”

Cindy's brow lifts. “So Bob gets to retire?”

Glancing at the top left drawer of my dresser, I say, “Well, not just yet. It's not like Shay even asked me out.”

Shaking her head, Cindy says, “And at least Bob has never left you a note.”

Okay, so the afterglow of great sex has worn off and I'm staring at a note. I'm sure Terry will call me later, just like the note says. He's a cop. He's not supposed to lie.

“By the way, what happened last night that you even ended up with Terry over here?” Cindy asks. “And where did you go? I woke up and didn't hear anything on the monitor. No breathing, no tossing and turning like I usually hear. I thought I'd better come over and check on you, and you're gone.”

My euphoria continues to fade. Now I have to think about the bad part of last night. “I had a nightmare,” I answer, moving out of the bedroom toward the kitchen to fix coffee. “This time, I looked around to see where the victim was.” I fiddle with the coffeepot as Cindy slides onto what I now think of as Terry's stool.

“And you could figure it out?” Cindy asks.

I nod. “He was in Central Park. He was going to kill a woman. I woke myself up, called Terry, then raced to Central Park hoping to get there in time to stop him.”

“Lou, are you crazy?”

After dumping the last scoop in the filter and turning on the pot, I face Cindy. “What did you expect me to do?”

Her face is pale. “Let the cops handle it. Lou, you know this creep is after you. I can't believe you went to a location where you knew he'd be. You could have been killed!”

Now I realize I can't tell Cindy what happened after I reached the park. I also understand that the one person I thought I could tell all my secrets to has basically turned into my mother. Like all good daughters, I have to start lying to Cindy. The less she knows, the less she has to worry about.

“As you can see by the fact I'm standing in my kitchen making us coffee, I didn't get myself killed. The police arrived in time to save the woman, the bad guy of course got away, and Terry finally believes all this psychic crap I've been dishing him.”

She chews on her lip before saying, “It's not good to lie to your lover, Lou.”

I don't think a few hours of mind-blowing sex and a note puts Terry in “my lover” category. But yes, I am lying to him. Now I'm lying to Cindy. It's the fact I've gotten so good at it that bothers me.

“Coffee?”

“You're changing the subject,” Cindy grumbles. “But yeah, coffee sounds good.”

After pouring her a cup, I go off to the bedroom to check my messages. And yes, I'm hoping there's at least one from Terry telling me that he's never had sex as good as it was last night and he is now my love slave for life. A girl can hope, at least on her way to find out. There is a message. It's from Morgan Kane.

“Hey, cupcake, a man nearly gets arrested and you don't call him anymore? I found out your mother's name. Meet me at the office today if you want the information.”

My heart lurches. I wish I'd answered the phone when Morgan called. I could already know my mother's name, something I have wondered for years. I pick up the phone and dial Morgan's number. I get his answering machine. Why does he always insist on seeing me? Because he's a perve, I'm thinking, and he wants to annoy me with his perviness. My mother's name is worth a meeting with Kane. I head for the shower.

*   *   *

Ironically, Kane is on the phone when I walk into his office. I have a feeling he ignored my call earlier after the caller ID showed my number. He wanted me to have to come all the way downtown to his dirty office. He holds up a finger to indicate one minute. I walk over and sit across from him. The highlights really are nice. He looks … somehow sexier.

While he talks, I watch his lips move. I'm not really paying attention to what he's saying, just noticing that his mouth is shaped nicely. What's wrong with me? Has one night of wild uninhibited sex turned me into a nympho? Kane hangs up and nods toward me.

“Good to see you, cupcake.”

I must wipe away all thoughts that Kane is in any way attractive to me. “Wish I could say the same. Was it really necessary for me to come down here?”

“Most people don't like personal information left on their answering machines,” he answers. “I thought you wanted to keep this private.”

He has a point. Not that I usually have anyone around listening to my messages, but I might start having someone around. Like a certain hot detective who doesn't need to know my private business. “Okay,” I agree. “What's her name?”

Morgan opens his desk drawer and takes out his Wild Turkey and two glasses. He pours each glass half full and shoves mine toward me. Normally, I would refuse, but what he's about to tell me requires a shot of something strong. I snatch up the glass and take a sip. It's horrible. I wish he'd drink something else.

“I got a copy of your birth certificate. Her name is Wendy Underwood.”

Wendy? It's funny how when you're a kid, you dream that your parents have some exotic name, maybe foreign, mysterious. “What about my father's name?” Surely he has a more mysterious name.

Kane throws back his drink in one gulp. “Unknown.”

Well, that's certainly mysterious. “She didn't know who got her pregnant?”

In a surprise move, Kane reaches across the desk and pats my hand. I snatch it away and he smiles. Then he gets back to business. “I'm sure she knew. A lot of unwed mothers put ‘unknown' on the father's identity. Makes the adoption process easier, or maybe their lives, depending on the relationship and the circumstances.”

I take another drink of Wild Turkey and find myself thinking it's not so bad after all. “Do you know where she is?”

“I'm working on it, cupcake. She was once employed by that lab I told you about. She's probably the one who did a search on you.”

My stomach feels warm, either from the liquor or the knowledge that at least my mother is curious about me. She wants to know where I am. “She doesn't work there now?”

He shakes his recently highlighted head. “No. I called and asked for her. She's been gone for about two years.”

“What about the Billingtons? Have you contacted them for information?”

Sitting back in his chair, he sighs. “I thought you didn't want me messing with them,” he reminds me. “Has that changed?”

I don't want Kane messing with anything that has to do with Haven, but I can't help but wonder if my birth mother might have contacted them in the time I've been gone. That would be logical since she had to have known my adopted name to do the search for me.

“I didn't and I don't,” I admit. “But I also told you not to contact the lab, and you did anyway.”

Morgan holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey, if I hadn't lifted your mother's name from the birth certificate and traced her to the lab, I wouldn't have contacted them. All I did was ask for her by name. Talk to someone in personnel to see if they knew where she'd gone. Sounds like she didn't give notice. Just disappeared.”

Kane's eyes are really sexy when they're not bloodshot. Why am I noticing that? I shake my head in an effort to clear it. “She might have left to look for me. I'll call the Billingtons and ask if my birth mother has contacted them. I just didn't want to talk to them again. We didn't part on good terms.”

Kane reaches for his glass again. “Pass whatever information you get along to me. I need the money, cupcake.”

“So, what happens next?”

After pouring another shot, Morgan answers, “I stay on the trail of your mother. Do you want me to go to Nevada, snoop around down there?”

It seems to me that people would be more forthcoming with information to a daughter looking for her mother than to a rock star asking questions. I can't go myself, not now, but I like the thought of seeing where my mother lived and worked. “No, I'd rather you not go there. At least not without me. I'll let you know when my schedule is clear.”

He stares at me from over the top of his shot glass. “Or whenever whoever it was that kept you up all night and put the glow in your cheeks says you can go?”

My supposedly glowing cheeks start to sting. I can't remember the last time I blushed. “I'm talking about my work schedule. And just for the record, I don't answer to anyone. And if my cheeks or anything else is glowing it's none of your business.”

Kane leans back in his chair. He puts his hands behind his head and smiles at me. “I see getting some hasn't improved your mood. He must not be doing something right.”

As far as I'm concerned, Terry did everything right. It's Kane who sours my mood. “Been arrested lately?” I ask sweetly.

His shit-eating grin fades. “I can't help it if I just happened to have a connection to those two poor women. That was a low blow.”

He's right, but he's also annoying. “I never said I play nice.” Rising, I gather my beauty bag and slide it over one shoulder. “You do owe me one for helping to convince Terry you're not the murdering kind.”

Morgan raises his brows. “Terry? Terry Shay? Don't tell me that cop who hauled your sweet ass to jail is the same one who got a piece of it?”

When he puts it that way, I no longer feel warm and fuzzy over our night together, but more embarrassed than anything. Would another woman go to bed with a man who had just a few nights ago suspected her of having something to do with a murder? If he looks like Shay, I decide, yes, she would.

“I told you it's none of your business,” I remind him, hoping I'm not blushing again.

His chair makes a loud scraping noise when Kane gets to his feet. “At least now I know you're not all that picky. Gives me hope.”

A growl escapes me before I can control it. Morgan throws back his head and laughs. “You are one of a kind, cupcake.”

Yeah, one of a kind all right. And the only person who can tell me why is a woman by the name of Wendy Underwood. “Keep searching online to see what you can dig up on Wendy Underwood's trail after she left the lab. I'll contact the Billingtons and let you know if they have any new information.”

I turn and walk toward the door.

“You know where to find me if you can't reach me by phone.”

Without commenting, I walk out and close the door. The thought of calling the Billingtons churns bile in my stomach. I can't imagine what they thought when I didn't come home on prom night, or the night after or the one after that. Just because they weren't capable of openly expressing love toward me didn't mean they didn't care. Where was the bond that should have driven me home to throw myself in their arms and sob out everything that happened? Maybe neither the Billingtons nor I allowed ourselves to care too deeply. Maybe on some level we all knew there was something unnatural about me.

I brood over it all the way home. Once I'm in the apartment, I brood over the unblinking light on my answering machine. Why hasn't Terry called like he said he would? I catch myself before I become too pathetic. I have enough to worry about at the moment.

Like calling the Billingtons after seven years without a word from me. I pick up the phone and stare at it. The number is still etched into my brain. Then I realize I can't do it. At least not without moral support. Instead of dialing my old phone number, I dial Cindy's cell.

CONFESSION NO. 14

They say you don't miss something until you've lost it. What they don't say is that even though you lose, sometimes someone you care about ends up winning, which makes it almost all right.

While I wait for Cindy to arrive from an outing with a new friend, I'm forced to chow down on stale cereal. I wish I hadn't finished off the pretzels and yogurt. I'm in serious need of food around here. Half a box and one episode of
Psychic Detectives
later, Cindy uses her key to enter my apartment. I don't get up; I'm embarrassed to say that my knees are shaky.

“What's up, Lou?” Cindy flounces over and plops down beside me. Before I can answer, she notices what I'm watching. “Oooh, is this the one where the psychic actually gets arrested because they think she must have been involved in the murder to know so many details about it?”

It is the episode, and I see a strange parallel to the psychic's circumstances and my own. “Yeah, it is that one,” I answer. I'm about to launch into my dramatic tale about having to contact the Billingtons when I notice a heavenly smell. Cindy has a McDonald's sack in her hand. “Please tell me that's for me. I'm starving.”