Dog Collar Couture (18 page)

Ugh.
Thanks for that, Ro.

A round of muttering about the press conference rose from the folks around the table, and Lucie took that as her cue to fess up to the group.

“Everyone,” she said, “I just told Annabelle, but I want all of you to know as well that I had nothing to do with the robbery. I was simply walking one of my clients—I'm a dogwalker—around the time the robbery occurred. That's why I offered the reward. I'm trying to clear my name.”

“Did you get any calls for the reward?” a man called from one of the tables near the wall.

Oh, they'd gotten calls. So far, though, it sounded like crackpots. Still, maybe something would come of it. “Nothing solid yet. I'm hopeful, though.”

Two seats down from Ro, a man Lucie didn't recognize waggled his finger. “She's right. There's a huge market for memorabilia of this level. If the dress isn't recovered, you people are sunk.”

“We people?” Ro said.

Uh-oh.

“What are you saying? You don't care about the dress?”

“Sure I care.
You're
obsessed.”

Lucie turned to Tim. “Oh. Crap.”

“On it.” He sat forward. “Listen, I can understand the outrage. As an art collector, it galls me. Nothing we can do about it.” He picked up one of the convention flyers and waved it. “I've never been. Anyone have any tips?”

Across from him, Ro—obviously craving the smackdown Tim had just thwarted—harrumphed. Lucie rolled her eyes. Later, she'd remind her partner about the benefits of staying on topic.

A multitasking woman at the end of the table set her knitting down. “Personally, I like to see all the exhibitors first. A lot of merchandise gets sold, and if you don't get there early, you miss out. I do the exhibitors first and then the panel discussions and parties.”

Lucie perked up. “Parties?”

“Oh, those are the best. They even have food at some of them. You get to mingle and meet people who were involved with the original film.”

“Holy cow,” Lucie said, “they're still alive?”

Tim made a noise from deep in his throat.
Whoopsie.
She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Was that rude? I mean, the film is fifty years old. How many people can be left?”

This time O'Hottie laughed and gave her a smooch on the cheek. “You're so damned cute.”

“I'm just saying . . .”

The smackdown guy pointed at Ro. “Talk about the hunt and capture. You should see the stuff that gets moved at this convention. Huge deals are made behind closed doors. You ladies really want to find that dress, that's the place to look.”

Huge deals. Excellent. That's what they were here for. Tim perused the convention flyer. Well, pretended to peruse. She knew him well enough to know when he relaxed, his body went loose and his shoulders dropped. Right now, those shoulders were stiff enough to divert bullets.

“Do tell,” Ro said. “In addition to helping my friend Lucie here, I'm trying to screw my rat-bastard husband in a divorce. Money is no object.”

Tim inched closer to Lucie. “She could be mentally unstable.”

“You're just figuring that out? Why do you think she and Joey work? They're both lunatics.”

“Good point.” Satisfied with her answer, Tim went back to pretending to ignore the conversation happening across the table.

“From what I've heard,” the man told Ro, “they don't bring the high-value items onto the floor. All that stuff is sold through back rooms.”

“How does that work?”

The guy shrugged. “I guess you tell someone what you're looking for and word gets out. I think they find you if they have what you want.”

Annabelle checked her watch, cleared her throat and set her hands on the table clearly ready to start the meeting.

Ro held her finger up. “Hold on. This is good. So, all I need to do is put the word out that I'm interested in buying the Max and if it's being sold on the black market, I might have a shot at it?”

Annabelle cleared her throat again. “I don't think this is appropriate.”

Good luck, girlfriend.
Inappropriate or not, Lucie refused to let Annabelle shut this down. “Annabelle, I agree. But on the flip side, if the dress is being sold in a shady deal, and Roseanne is able to uncover its whereabouts; the dress could be returned, and the thieves incarcerated.”

And I'm off the hook.

The bored housewife perked up. “And if we all helped her, we'd get credit for finding the dress.”

Lucie could see the headline: Cock Head Heroes.

Ro smacked both hands on the table. “Yes! People would love us.”

“Uh,” Tim said.

Lucie elbowed him again. “Shut it, you.”

She didn't need her cop boyfriend warning them about danger. She needed that dress found.

He opened his mouth, obviously about to argue, but she pinched his forearm.

“Ow,” he said.

“Do you
want
me to be someone's prison bitch? I was kinda saving that for you.”

Tim paused then gave her a hard look. “Uh . . . wow . . . okay . . . I guess we'll discuss it later.”

I guess we will.

Chatter erupted around the table, everyone talking over each other about solving the mystery, media attention, being honored at the Academy Awards—total stretch there, but whatever.

Lucie stood and held up her hands. “Gang, let's pipe down. I love all these ideas, but truly, this could be dangerous. I think being impact players in the dress's recovery would only bring more attention to the importance of the Cock Heads. But we can't get hurt in the process.”

“She's right,” the bored housewife said.

A round of agreements followed and the noise kicked up again, scraping against Lucie's ears. “Quiet down a second. I have a plan.”

A
fter deputizing
the Cock Heads for the convention and instructing them to phone or text her if anyone heard anything about a sale involving the Max, Lucie turned the meeting back to Annabelle while Tim shot lasers from his eyes.

The hot, Irish detective wasn't happy. Worse, she agreed with him. Inciting a bunch of crazed Cock Heads might get any number of people hurt.

Which she'd warned them about. They were not, under any circumstances, to try and make deals on their own. All they needed to do was bring Lucie the information and all of it would be turned over to the police.

Still, these Cock Heads were an unpredictable bunch.

Now, standing in front of the coffee shop, where the evening temperature had dropped a good ten degrees in the ninety minutes they'd been inside, Lucie's nerves started to sizzle. The cold air prickled her cheeks, and she shoved her hands into her trench-coat pockets while waiting for Joey to pull around the corner.

“Luce,” Tim said, “I could kill you.”

Ro swung a look at him, then Lucie and wisely stepped away, pretending to check her phone.

Lucie faced Tim. “I know. I'm sorry.”

He dipped his head. “You're sorry? What if one of those people gets hurt?”

“They won't. They're reasonable.”

“They're running around with peacock feathers on their heads. How reasonable can they be?”

She held up a finger. “Think about the knowledge they have. Your department has art-fraud experts, right?”

“They're trained police officers.”

“But they have informants. Regular citizens that feed them information.”

She should know, considering her father had been convicted with the help of a confidential informant—a CI.

To this, Tim had no argument. And he knew it.

He stared up at the sky, shaking his head for a few seconds before meeting her gaze again. “Well played.”

“Thank you.” She linked her arm through his and squeezed close. “I know you're worried, but Ro and I are good at this. Unfortunately. I can control it. I promise.”

“As much as I'd like to believe that, I have to call my lieutenant. I
have
to. He'll get a couple of extra people in the place.”

Wait. Extra detectives? “The police will be there anyway. Why do we need more?”

“It's an investigation into the theft of a million-dollar piece of memorabilia, that's why. Not that I should have told you that, but hell, at least I know you'll be somewhat safe.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Yes. You'll make it up to me.”

Yay, Lucie.

Where was Joey? He'd texted ten minutes earlier with his ETA. They certainly weren't going to leave Ro alone while they went off to play house.

Humping-bunnies house, anyway. A low, deep yearning squeezed her belly and moved lower, settling in a place that hadn't seen one darned bit of activity since Frankie left.

In the months he'd been gone, she'd been okay without sex. Well, relatively speaking. She'd been grieving her relationship with Frankie, and, as much as she was attracted to Tim, she'd hadn't been ready for intimacy with someone new.

Someone different.

And Tim O'Brien, with his height and big shoulders that could probably support a mountain, was definitely different.

Lucie snuck a peek at him, the one who'd obviously been watching her.

A wicked smile split his lips.

My God. I might do him right on this sidewalk.

She whipped around to Ro. “Have we heard from Joey?”

“Look at you in such a hurry. Relax. He'll be here.”

Joey's Jeep finally swung around the corner. He double-parked in front of the shop and, from inside the car, opened the passenger's side door.

Lucie moved to the edge of the sidewalk and peered in. “Thanks for coming. Tim and I are, uh, gonna grab a bite.”

They sure were.

“No problem.” Joey leaned right and pointed at Tim. “Are you doing my sister?”

“Joey!”

Tim bent at the waist and met his gaze. “Dude, you really want to know?”

Good answer.

“Just ignore him.” Ro slid into the car. “You two have fun. Luce, tell your folks you're staying at my house tonight. Stay out late for once in your life. Change things up. Be a slut.”

Still bent over, Lucie tilted her head to Tim. “The people in my life are all nuts. You know that right?”

“Yep. From my perspective, it keeps things interesting.”

Excellent response. Lucie went back to Joey and Ro. “Be careful going home. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Ro offered up one of her flirty finger waves. “Toodles. Have fun, you two.”

They would indeed.

T
im made
a right off of Taylor Street in Little Italy onto a quiet, tree-lined block packed with parked cars. In the darkness, modest street lamps threw light over the three-story brick homes stacked together like soldiers in formation.

“If we get lucky,” he said, “we'll find a spot on the block. If not, we're hoofing it from the honey hole.”

“The honey hole?”

“Two streets up. I always find a spot there. It's the whorehouse of parking. Always one available.”

Lucie laughed. “In Franklin, we just put garbage cans in the spaces. A practice, I might add, I don't partake in. Unless it's winter and we've just shoveled out the spot. Then all bets are off.”

“Damn, you're cute, Lucie.”

He reached the end of the block and hooked a right. “I'm gonna do one more pass.”

“There was a guy walking.”

“Yep. He lives two doors down. Night owl.”

“I like this neighborhood.”

“Me, too. I moved here two years ago. Buddy of mine got a job out west and needed to sublet. Rent's on the high side, but the location is aces.”

“With Taylor Street right there? No kidding.”

Growing up, the Rizzos shared weekly meals at Santa Lucia, her father's favorite restaurant, and one Lucie suspected she might have been named after. In the warmer months, they'd eat and then wander Taylor Street to, as Mom put it, work off dinner.

Back then Dad hadn't been around much, and the walks were probably more about her mother wanting to hoard time spent as a family.

Tim made the second turn onto his street as a car vacated a spot at the opposite end. “Bingo. You bring me good luck, Luce.”

He zipped into the spot easily. Even if he did give the car behind him a nudge. Again, in Lucie's opinion, not unusual when it came to city parking.

“Whoops” he said, “call it a love tap.”

After parking, he wandered to the rear of the car, bent low and, using the flashlight on his phone, checked for damage to the other car.

“You barely tapped it,” Lucie said. “There can't be any damage.”

“Doesn't hurt to check.”

A man with a conscience. She liked that about him. A lot of people would simply assume there'd been no damage and walk away.

He stuck his phone in his jacket pocket and held his hand to Lucie. She'd gotten used to holding hands with him. Given the time they'd spent walking from parking spaces there'd been ample opportunity to partake.

She slid her hand into his, let the familiar warmth of his much larger fingers lace with hers. She lifted their hands, kissed the back of his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I'm safe with you.”

He shrugged. “I'm crazy about you. Why wouldn't I want you safe?”

Because Frankie was crazy about her, too, and she had never felt safe with him. No. That wasn't fair. He'd been protective of her when it came to her physical safety—catching her when she tripped on the sidewalk or slipped on ice. He'd always watched over her in that way.

He'd just never taken her side when it came to his family. And that had left her . . . alone.

With Tim? Never alone. He was Team Lucie all the way. And he proved it every day, even when it could risk the job he loved.

Lucie popped up to tiptoes and dropped a quick kiss on his lips. “I just wanted you to know.”

He smiled at her, tickled her under the chin with his free hand. “It's cold out here.”

“Sure is. Whaddya say, big fella? Wanna warm me up?”

“Honey,” he said, “if that's your idea of dirty talk, we have work to do.”

He led her to a stately brick home with arched windows, a concrete stoop, and a four-foot patch of grass bordered with day lilies.

“I like the landscaping. Nice touch.”

“Yeah. It's the lady upstairs. The landlord takes care of the grass and Mrs. Hendry tends to the plants. The lilies are nice. I guess. But I can't find the point of the grass. It's not like we can play ball on that grass.”

Men.

“Ambiance, my love. Ambiance.”

He pulled his hand free, ran it down her back and guided her up the steps. “I like the sound of that.”

“Ambiance?”

“No. The ‘my love' part.”

Ah. That. She could backtrack, deny, deny, deny and tell him it just slipped out. That she'd gotten caught up.

People did that. People who weren't Lucie.

People like Lucie
didn't
say those things.

An overhead light illuminated the lock as Tim messed with his keys. Lucie focused on the thick, oak door. The rich, green paint had a chic distressed vibe to it. She took it all in, every scrape and crack and nick.

All the changes in the last few months hit her. Frankie leaving, the loneliness and hurt in the beginning and then, slowly, allowing Tim and the joy and ease of him—the laughter—into her heart.

In a lot of ways, he'd saved her.

And for a girl who never needed or wanted a man to save her, that was saying something.

He pushed the door open and waved her in. “I'm on the first floor. Easy access.”

She stepped into the hallway. Stairs on the left led to the upper floors. To the right was a short hallway and another door.

Tim's door.

She waited for him to check the lock behind them—again with the safety—and when he turned back she grabbed his arm, held him there a second.

“I love you.”

Dear.
God.
A burst of panic shredded her chest, cutting off her air.
Too soon.
Why, why,
why
had she said that?

Because it was true. And no one should ever be afraid of that.

If Tim rejected her, so be it. She'd live with it. Even if he didn't feel the same, being the man he was, somehow she didn't believe her admission would send him hiking.

“I'm sorry,” she blurted.

Tim's jaw flopped open. “You're sorry that you love me?”

She slapped her hand over her mouth, and Tim cracked up. How many different ways could she blow this?

If Ro were here, she'd be screaming by now. She held her hands up. “No. I just . . .” She glanced back at the front door. Pondered running through it.

“Hey.” He gently tugged on a few strands of her hair. “Just what?”

“I don't know.” She waved at that damned door. “Got caught up.”

“So, it's not true?”

“Yes.”

Tim tipped his head back, muttered a “help me” and faced her again. “You're killing me right now.”

“I'm sorry.”

He held up a finger. “Clarify. Yes, it's not true that you love me or yes, it
is
true?”

She shook her head. That question of how many ways she could screw this up? Apparently a lot. “I do love you. Absolutely. No question. I don't want you to freak out.”

“I'm not the one freaking out.”

Point there.

“I am, in fact, quite comfortable with it. No need to kill it with conversation or feel awkward. It's all good.”

What did that mean? Did he agree? Love her, too? What? But she wouldn't ask. No way. If he didn't love her, the humiliation would be complete. “Okay.”

Brilliant.

He jerked his thumb toward his apartment. “You wanna go inside?”

So he hadn't said it back. So what? Three seconds ago she'd gone on a full-bore internal lecture about how it wasn't important if he didn't feel the same. She'd done this, created this moment between them, and damned if she'd go psycho on him and ruin their plans for the evening.

Besides, she could use some sex with a hot guy.

She nodded. “You bet.”

“Good.”

He walked to his apartment door, unlocked it and pushed it open, holding it for her. Inside, a light from the corridor threw shadows into a room with hardwood floors. Probably the living room.

“Welcome,” he said.

Again, she nodded, stepping into the barely lit room.

“And, Lucie?”

For someone who didn't want to talk, why was he talking? She turned, met his gaze. “Yes?”

“I love you, too.”