Dog Collar Couture (14 page)

“Noooo,” Lucie shouted, her voice carrying into the trees, but drowned out by the whistle of a distant train.

Come back. Please. Come back.

She whipped back to Eric, about to plead with him to do something, anything, to find that swindling Cock Head, but he had his phone pressed to his ear and held his hand up.

“You got him?” he said. “Roger that. Stay with him. What? . . . Dammit . . . All right. Stay on it.”

Before he even hung up, she was on him, stepping right into his personal space. “What is it?”

He shook his head, let out a long sigh. “One of my guys is on him. Well, he
was
on him. He got caught at a light with a cop sitting on the corner.”

Lucie stomped a foot. “Darn it.”

“Rotten luck. He couldn't blow through the light without tripping the cop.”

Once again, Lucie's phone rang. Ro again.
I've had enough of this.
She jabbed at the speaker button, and a niggling pressure wormed up her index finger. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now. Including whatever the hell it was Ro needed. Their only lead to that dress, and clearing Lucie's name, just screeched out of the parking lot.

“Hello?” Ro said, her voice a little more breathy than usual.

“Your house had better be on fire with all these calls.”

“Honey, it's worse than that. You were just on the news.”

T
he postadrenaline fog
disappeared like a drunk at an AA meeting.

“The news?”

Bill had just said something about the news, also.

“Yepper,” Ro said. “They had your picture and everything.”

Eric rolled his eyes, and Lucie understood his frustration on a primal—extremely primal—level. Fighting to control her temper, starting with her toes and working her way up, legs, hands, stomach, arms, all of it, Lucie imagined every muscle resisting tension.
Stay loose.
Relax.

Don't kill your best friend.

When she reached her shoulders, she closed her eyes, blew out a breath.

“Uh, Ro?”

“Yes?”

Ohmygod.
The pressure behind Lucie's eyes exploded and she waved her fist. The last ten minutes had just stripped away the measly crumbs of her sanity, and she couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand trying to control herself when every flipping thing she'd planned for tonight had gone haywire. No, no, no. She'd had enough of this stupid dress and stupid Bill and the stupid Cock Heads.

She whipped away from Eric and stomped off, trying to hold it together. No good.

She shook the phone in front of her, and the words finally broke free. “Why the
hell
was I on the news?”

“Hey, don't yell at
me.
I'm just the messenger.”

Lucie stopped storming the lot. At this rate she'd shatter a knee and wind up on crutches. She bent at the waist, let the cold night air smother that flashing temper.
I can do this.

Calm. That's all she needed.

She glanced back at Eric who watched her with the inquisitive, studious face of a psychiatrist about to commit his favorite patient.

Welcome to my world, mister.

“I'm sorry,” Lucie said to Ro. “You're right.”

“All the reporter said was you'd been questioned by police about the robbery. No big deal.”

“They named me as a suspect? On the news?”

“Well, it was just the cable channel. I did a quick Internet search and the local station is the only one who has it. Wasn't like it was World News Tonight or anything. I think it's contained.”

Contained to the cable channel.
Dear God.

“Don't panic,” Eric said.

Excellent advice. Advice she'd love to take, but just the mention of her last name in relation to a crime would create a media feast.

The phone beeped, and Lucie glanced down at the screen to see Joey's name scrolling across the top. Great. “Ro, I need to call you back. Joey is calling.”

Dumping Ro, she tapped the screen. “Joey?”

“What's going on? Did you make the deal? Why'd that guy haul ass?”

“It's a mess, that's why. We're done here. Send the guys home for me, will you? And tell them thank you. I'll stop by Petey's tomorrow and tell them myself, but I can't handle that bunch right now. Please?”

“Luce?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

She snorted. If she said no, he'd be on her in seconds, doing his pushy Joey thing, wanting to bust some heads or whatever else he could think of. If she said, yes, he wouldn't believe her. Her brother knew her moods. They'd spent their lifetimes dealing with each other, learning the subtle nuances of certain looks and tones.

And right now, he knew she wasn't okay. “I will be,” she said. “Send the guys home and I'll fill you in, but apparently, the Maxmillian dress and I have made the news.”

“Shit.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

Eric stepped up. “Sounds like the PD leaked it to the press.”

“Shit,” Joey said again.

“Ro said it's contained to the local channel. The networks don't have it. Let's hope it stays that way.”

T
he following morning
, determined to make the day a productive one despite the four hours of sleep and the collapse of her reputation, Lucie tromped down Franklin Avenue on her way to Coco Barknell. Having thought ahead the night before, she'd called Lauren, her part-time dog walker, to cover the pooches today.

Unfortunately for Lucie, her plan of spending the morning in her office while she waited for updates on the arrest of Bill and his thieving buddies, hadn't quite worked out.

But that was fine. Being an A-type personality came in handy at times like this because she could focus all her disappointment and anger into the ever-present backup plan.
Plan B, here I come.

Morning dew hung in the air, and she sucked it all in as she walked. To hell with the exhaustion pressing in. She'd do what she always did and march on.

I'm a Rizzo.

And if nothing else, Rizzos knew how to bounce.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

Lucie tilted her head up, let the sun warm her cheeks and hooked the right at the corner. Two stores down she'd find Coco Barknell's headquarters and the always-active Petey's nestled in the middle of the block.

“There she is!”

“Ms. Rizzo!”

“Do you have a statement?”

“Ms. Rizzo, look here!”

Lucie froze as a swarm of people, a giant flash mob holding microphones and cameras, swung in her direction. All of them in front of her office, blocking her path.

And charging.

The herd descended, and a seizing panic shot right down her legs, rooting her to the sidewalk. And still they kept coming.

No.
Nuh, nuh, nuh. Run.

“Ms. Rizzo! How does it feel to be associated with your father's criminal activity?”

“Ms. Rizzo, where's the dress?”

“Ms. Rizzo, have you spoken to your father?”

Rushing blood blurred her vision, and the stampeding crowd looped and swayed. She rocked back on her heels and blinked. Once, twice, three times.
There we go.

The whooshing in her head settled into a low hiss, but the mob closed in. Getting closer. She could turn and run, but . . . no. She had a business to mind. The only way to the other side was through them. She shoved one hand in front of her, gripped her messenger bag with the other and pushed into the crowd.

“Step aside, please. No comment. Step aside. Coming through. No comment.”

All but one pesky cameraman let her through. The cameraman walked backward, filming as he went while Lucie forged ahead, denying them a statement.

Maybe he could have gotten the hint. No. Freaking. Comment.

Being careful not to bump him—she'd learned that lesson aeons ago when Joey wound up accused of assault for putting his hand on a reporter who'd gotten too close to Dad—she swerved, hustling toward the shop's door.

Head up, Lucie plowed through the crowd, the voices melding, building to a crescendo of unintelligible shouts. A reporter jumped into her path, and she threw her arm out.

“No comment. Please move. No comment.”

She cleared a small path to Coco Barknell, and a photographer standing to the left of the doorway snapped pictures.
Click, click, click.

Look away. Ignore him.
A few more feet. That was all she needed.

Two doors down, a crowd began to gather at Petey's. Oh, no. If Dad's crew came outside, she'd have a total mess. They'd take one look at the cameraman bullying her, and someone would lose their mind.

Most likely, her father.

Get inside.

She dug her keys from her front pocket, her fingers shivering as she stabbed at the lock and missed.

“Step back, folks. Step back.”

He's here.
Lucie whirled around just as Tim pushed through the front row of reporters.
He's here.
Relief poured over her, an instant depressurization. She'd like to kiss him right there in front of the gang of reporters. Wouldn't that be a great lead story?

“Hiya,” he said.

His giant hand came around her shoulder and settled over the key still dangling in the lock.

“You're okay,” he whispered, unlocking the door.

Tears bubbled in her eyes, and her chest heaved because, holy cow, Tim was here.

Helping her. Taking care of her.
Supporting
her.

“Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea . . .”

Tim swung the door open. “You're welcome. Let's get inside.”

He locked the door behind them—for all the good that did. The reporters and cameramen lined up across the front of the plate-glass window, their hungry eyes peering in.

Her back to the windows, she shook her head. “This place is a total fishbowl. Now they'll stand out there and watch.”

Always the calm one, Tim slid his hands into his pockets. “So we'll go in back.”

Back room. Inspired thought. She had shades on those windows, and at the end of the short hallway the hideous old saloon doors had been replaced by a lovely raised paneled pine door. That sucker would shut out the gawkers.

Lucie waved one finger and marched past him. “Perfect.”

Tim followed, closing the door behind him, and Lucie bent at the waist, bracing her hands on her thighs.

“So,” he said, “good morning to you.”

At that, Lucie smiled.
Thank you for bringing me this man.
She straightened up and slapped both hands over her chest. What she wanted, truly, was to step into the fold of his arm, wrap herself around him and just snuggle in.

But with the chaos she'd brought him, he might be here to dump her.

And who could blame him after this reporter fiasco? One thing a cop didn't need was bad press for his girlfriend. This life. She couldn't take it anymore, the running, the proving herself, again and again and again. The tiring emotional zigzagging every time she thought she'd prevail in finally showing people that she'd grown to be an educated and driven woman. A woman who valued independence and honesty and hard work.

Who valued life as a successful—and legitimate— businesswoman.

Yet, here she was, locked in the back room of the old Carlucci's shoe store, just down the street from Petey's, that damned luncheonette where her father ran his illegal activities. And right outside a gaggle of press people wanted her to comment on being a suspect in the theft of a slice of movie history.

No matter what action she took or how much she denied it, the truth would be buried, way down deep, under all that crap she fed herself about rising above. All there, rooted in her.

Lucie Rizzo.

Mob princess.

She sucked in a breath. Wow.
Wow, wow, wow.
All this time, she'd been fighting it. Denying it. Avoiding it.

No use.

She could either buckle under the pressure of the stolen dress, the reporters, the
gossip
or she could fight back.

And one thing about Rizzos, they knew how to fight. Tim stepped forward, eyes slightly narrowed as he studied her face. “Luce? What's happening right now? You look a little nuts.”

She bobbed her head. “I'm . . .” What? What did she feel when it came to Tim?

She knew.

The constant worry, the ridiculous self-protection about him dumping her, had to stop. She wanted him in her life. Period. All the rest had to go away.

Tim wrapped his hand around her wrist and squeezed. “Luce, what is it?”

She smiled. “I'm . . . just . . . so happy to see you right now.”

S
tanding
in Lucie's quasi storage/break room, Tim fought the urge to play Superman. Lucie, he'd quickly learned, had signals. Her dipped head and bowed shoulders were the
give-me-a-second
signal.

Still hanging on to her wrist, he waited. His gaze went to a red bolt of fabric sitting amongst other fabric samples, organized by color and pattern, filling half of a shelving unit against the wall. No doubt Lucie had sorted them. Had to love an organized woman. The remaining half of the shelves contained office supplies and dog-related items—poop bags, treats, bolts of fabric, collars—all of it neatly stacked.