Project Produce (6 page)

He shrugged. “You said you had to eat. Besides, you’re the one who said you owed me. This is how I choose to collect. Do you have a problem with that, Callie?”

My name sounded so sexy on those sculptured lips, my heart pinged like I’d hit the jackpot in a pinball game. Oh, yeah. I had a problem, all right. The last thing I needed was to fall under his spell and wind up in another scandal, even if said scandal was positively gorgeous. Although, I did have a project to finish and some questions that needed answering, so I had a reason to say yes. Or so I kept telling myself.

“Dinner will be fine. Then we’re even, and I have a few questions you can answer for me, agreed?”

“Whatever you say.” He smiled wide, but I got the impression answering my questions was the last thing on his mind.

“So, when will this, um, payment take place?” I asked, not sure what to call it.

“This date will take place as soon as I check my schedule,” he replied. “I’ll call you to work out the details.”

“Okay. Well, Detective, thanks for the ride home.” I fumbled around for the door handle.

“Something wrong?”

“New contacts. Didn’t have the time or patience to try to put them in, and my glasses broke. Can’t see worth diddly, Dukeypoo.”

He shook his head, wearing an odd smile. “Here, let me.” Then he reached across my lap to open the door at the same time I leaned forward, and we bumped heads.

“Ow.” I lifted my mitten to my forehead.

“You okay?” He touched my arm.

The thick layer of my coat did nothing to prevent his touch from radiating up my arm and streaking down my spine to pool in the pit of my stomach. Triple flip into a double layout, and the U.S. wins the gold. “I... I...” I lifted my eyes to his, only to see their blurry reflection in those annoying heat shields he wore.

“Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hell.” He pulled off his shades, and his five-alarm gaze sizzled as it bore into mine. Then his long, capable fingers slid up my sleeve and under the band of my mitten to draw slow, sensual circles on the center of my palm.

Could this be called mitten pool?

Whatever it was, I liked it way too much. My tongue slipped out to moisten lips gone desert-dry. Lord, I wanted nothing more than to jump on him, but I could think of a million reasons why that wasn’t a smart idea. He was a man, for one. That alone should have been reason enough.

He shot a look at my mouth, and a groan rumbled deep in his chest. Tossing his glasses on the dash, he eased his hand down to rest on my thigh. I blinked rapidly, trying like heck to stay in control. I didn’t need a man, didn’t have a clue how to pick the right kind of man. And men like Hot Britches never hit on women like me. I felt completely out of my league with Mr. I-Can-Have-Any-Woman-I-Want-And-Probably-Have.

Those expert fingers crept higher, almost causing me to hyperventilate. I couldn’t stop from tracking them, from noticing his olive skin tone. Dylan had nice hands. Long and lean. Masculine. He squeezed and kneaded the muscle of my thigh, while his other fingers worked magic on my palm.

I had to stop him now before I lost control, so I lifted my face to talk and then gasped. His mouth hovered only centimeters from my own. When had he moved?

Needing to put some distance between us, I twisted until my back pressed up against the door. He scooted closer, then his warm breath caressed my face, smelling like coffee and spice. My heart beat like a trip hammer, and my breathing quickened. I felt like a doe mesmerized by the headlights of an oncoming car: not quite sure what to make of it but too paralyzed to move. I wanted to make a new life for myself, not fall back into the bad patterns of my old life, but I didn’t know how to tell him.

He rattled me big time.

He searched my eyes, apparently seeing the invitation I couldn’t hide, then licked his lips and leaned in. My heart thumped, and alarm bells rang in my ears like a drill sergeant shouting, “Move it, move it, move iiit!” Jerking away, I pulled the door handle and tumbled in a backward somersault out of the car to land in a snow-bank, my stomach stuck in my throat.

“What the hell? Are you alright?” Hot Britches leaned across my seat and stuck his head out the door.

I gave him a brilliant but too-stiff smile. “Fine, fine. Just fine. Forgot. Hand on door. Do it all the time.” I scrambled to my feet and fought to catch my breath, backing away toward my apartment.

His lips dipped down at the corners, and his brow buckled.

“Call me when free. Pay off debt. Gotta go now.” I raced into my apartment, my Snow Flurries slipping on the ice, then I slammed the door and locked it behind me. Leaning against it, I panted. Okay, more like heaved for air, as I said to no one in particular, “Close. Too close. Way too flipping close.”

“Big Betty” started up with a loud rumble and idled for a few minutes, so I held my breath. After what seemed like forever, he finally drove away, allowing me to blow out a shaky puff of air. Then I slid down the door and landed hard on my huge insecurity with one thought keeping time with the bongos in my chest.

What on earth did you get yourself into, Callie Anne?

***

A couple days later, I sat in Big Betty, as far from Detective Cabrizzi as possible. He looked away from the highway to smile at me, but I turned to stare out the window, watching the skyscrapers pass by. Rush hour traffic had eased up, and the snowplows had cleared away yesterday’s snow. All in all, we were making good time, yet it seemed like an eternity. Probably because I hadn’t said a word since he’d picked me up.

He’d waited a couple days before calling me about our dinner date, or rather, my payment of this debt. I hated owing anyone, but I had to admit the new job was a huge improvement over Roach Central. And I’d only agreed to dinner so we’d be even, plus I still had to question him about what it was like to be a zucchini. It wasn’t like I wanted to spend time with him.
Liar
. I couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid “almost” kiss and what it all meant.

He’d asked me out. Me! Little Miss Small-Town, for Pete’s sake. Maybe he’d seen the tape. He had caressed my palm and thigh, after all. And if I hadn’t fallen, or rolled, or whatever that was, right out of his car door, he probably would have done a whole lot more. Once again, I wondered what on earth I’d been thinking by saying yes tonight.

I hadn’t been, that much was clear. “So, any news on the case?” I asked when I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

I looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glanced at me and then back at the road. “The Midnight Molester struck again.”

“Oh, no, that’s awful. When did it happen?”

“The night the health department shut the motel down. Right after you showed up.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Wish I was. He struck earlier than usual, around eleven, close by the motel.”

Good Lord, that could have been me
. “Animal, my foot,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I heard a sound in the bushes before I ran into you that night around ten.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced at me.

I looked out the window again, feeling stupid. “I didn’t think it was important. I thought it was an animal. Then after you stepped out of the shadows, I thought it had been you. My God, he didn’t get me, so he must have attacked some other poor woman after you gave me a ride home. I feel awful.”

Dylan squeezed my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Callie. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It may not have even been him. But take this as a lesson and be more careful.”

I looked back at him. “How come they call him the Midnight Molester if he doesn’t always strike at midnight?”

“Because up until now, he’s
only
struck at midnight.”

“Huh, that’s odd.”

“Not really. He’s been following the same M.O. all along, until now. Something, or someone,” he shot me a pointed look, “made him snap. This makes him more dangerous, but cocky, which might make him easier to catch.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t really think this has something to do with me, do you?”

His eyes met mine again. “The victim looked a hell of a lot like you.”

“Oh,” I squeaked. “Well, I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“Not likely.” He reached out and patted my hand. “Don’t worry, Mac, I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.”

“Well, thanks for your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” I pulled my hand from under his. He hugged a corner, zoomed into a parking lot, and then cut the engine.

I blinked. We were having dinner at his apartment? Not a good idea. Somehow, I’d envisioned a noisy restaurant with loads of people, not a night alone with Mr. Make-My-Pulse-Beat-In-Places-It-Has-No-Business-Beating.

“You coming?” Dylan asked, grinning wide.

I clamped my lips closed before I said something stupid.

“Or can’t you handle being alone with me, Mac? I don’t bite.”

“I’m fine,” I said, climbing out of Big Betty. Being alone with him didn’t bother me, it was the handling him that worried me. And now I couldn’t get the image of him biting me out of my mind, either, darn it.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me through his apartment door before I could say anything further. Then I skidded to a stop and gaped like a flounder.

“Anything wrong?”

“Uh, no. Course not. Um, interesting décor.” I smiled big, trying to hide my surprise. I might not know much about make-up and fashion, but after remodeling the general store back home, I knew a bit about interior design. Honestly, I’d never seen anything like this. His taste wasn’t modern, or country, or Victorian, or even rustic.

It was sheer madness.

“Cool, huh?” He beamed. “A cop’s salary isn’t much, but you’d be surprised what you can do with a little imagination and a whole lot of improvising.” He hung up our coats on a hockey man coat rack and headed into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he called back, giving a vague wave in the direction of the adjacent room. “I’m gonna check on dinner.”

Hot Britches could cook? The enticing aromas of basil, oregano, and garlic permeated the air, giving me hope that he cooked better than he decorated. Wandering into the living room, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

A basketball hoop dangled from the wall, and a punching bag hung ready in one corner. In the other corner stood a widescreen TV. Obviously exercise and entertainment were important to him, but entertaining? Entertaining ranked last on his list, judging by this room.

Entertaining women, anyway.

Where was I supposed to sit? The nearest chair was a tie-dyed beanbag that looked like it had seen better days. I picked up a few scattered shirts to get to that chair and then tossed them into a corner and dropped down into the beanbag. My long legs folded in half, and my knees slammed into my chin. I grunted. Beanbags were not made for tall people.

And this so-called bag was in desperate need of more beans.

I wiggled my way out of the thing as I sneaked a glance through the kitchen door. Dylan’s back faced me as he stirred some pots, whistling to a classic rock station. Good, he hadn’t seen me.

Note to self: Zucchinis have seriously strange taste
.

“Everything all right out there?” He peeked out the doorway.

“Fine. Just looking around.” I smoothed my hair and leaned back against the life-sized marble statue of Michelangelo’s David behind me, holding onto it for support. Sitting wasn’t an option. At least not after the episode with Mr. Beanless Bag.

Dylan walked into the room and gave me an odd smile. “Would you like a drink?”

“Got any Bahama Mamas?”

“Uh, no. But I have some wine.”

“Wine it is, then.” I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but with the way he made me all shaky and goofy-acting whenever he got too close, I had a feeling I would need the whole bottle before the evening was through. He walked over to a small, portable bar that sat against the other wall, and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. I had to get my hormones under control.

“Here you go,” he whispered in my ear a moment later.

My eyes flew open and I jumped, breaking the finger off the statue. A tingle of awareness shot up my spine. The man was downright deadly. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Trade you.” He handed me a glass of merlot.

“I’m so sorry.” I held out the broken appendage, glancing at it while I spoke. “I didn’t mean to break his... holy mother of Mary, what is that?” I yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned, dropping the appendage on the floor, causing the circular end pieces to split in two and roll in opposite directions across the room.

“I have to say David won’t be quite the same ever again,” Dylan commented.

Feeling terrible for breaking his art, I shoved my glass of wine back at him and ran after the rolling ball, snatching it just before it fell down the register. “Got it! Now where’d that other little sucker go?” I scrambled to the other side of the room, adding under my breath, “And I do mean little.” Flasher Freak had
David
beat by half a gherkin, and I hadn’t thought that possible.

“Don’t worry about it, Mac. It’s only a statue,” Dylan said.

As I grabbed the other ball, I ignored him, trying like the devil not to blush. I didn’t quite meet his eyes as I thrust out my hand. “A little glue should fix him straight up. Well, maybe not straight up, but you get the point. The picture, I mean.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice sounded strained, as if he were struggling not to laugh. He took the broken pieces and handed me the glass of wine again and then headed back into the kitchen.