Sleeping with Anemone (21 page)

“So you’re going to pump your best friend’s boyfriend over dinner on a double date? That’s kind of tacky, not to mention that you can barely tolerate Morgan.”

“I think I should learn to like him, though, for Nikki’s sake.”

“You don’t have a problem with taking advantage of Nikki’s friendship?”

“It’s what girlfriends do for each other, Marco.”

He tweaked my nose. “You’re cute when you’re desperate.”

“So, we’re on with Nikki and Morgan for tomorrow night?”

“As long as you’re not going to quiz Morgan.”

I sighed in frustration. “Do you have a better plan?” “Are you going to keep Nikki waiting?”

“Hey, Nik? Do you mind holding?” I listened a moment, then said to Marco, “Go ahead.”

“She’s going to hold?”

“No, she hung up.” I replaced the receiver. “How do you propose I get the information?”

Marco shoved away from the doorjamb and headed into the workroom. “You already know my answer to that.”

And wasn’t accepting it. All I could see was more days of being confined to the shop or having a sitter at my apartment. More days of having to negotiate to drive my own car. More days of waking to Nikki’s screams.

Wait. An idea was forming.

We had flowers to deliver to Peter Chinn at the hospital, and Marco hated hospitals. If I could convince Marco to let Lottie drive me there, I could arrange a quick stop at the prosecutor’s office afterward. Plus, as long as I would be seeing Peter, I might be able to persuade him to push through my door and ramp projects.

And my mom thought her sons were the geniuses of the family.

 

“Lottie, are those arrangements ready to go?” I asked, returning to the workroom.

“They will be in about five minutes, sweetie.”

“Hey, Marco,” I said, draping my arms around his neck, “since I know you hate hospitals, how about if I help Lottie deliver flowers there today?”

“How about if I help her instead?” he asked, his eyes on the monitor.

“But I love making deliveries. I miss that.”

“Okay. Then you and I can make the deliveries.”

Rats. That wouldn’t work.

“Lottie, dear,” Grace said, coming through the curtain with a tea tray, “didn’t you say earlier that you wanted to stop by the nursery to see Paula’s new baby?”

Lottie and I stared at Grace in befuddlement. I had no idea who Paula was, and by the look of it, Lottie didn’t, either. Then I caught a mischievous gleam in Grace’s eye and understood. There was no Paula. Grace knew in that uncanny way of hers that I needed to get away from Marco for a while and was doing what she could to help.

“Oh, that’s right!” I chimed in. “Paula had her baby.”

Lottie caught on. “Then we’ll have to stop by the nursery to see the little darlin’. I’ll take real good care of our gal here, Marco. We’ll pull right up to the hospital’s lower level entrance so we can unload our deliveries right where the guard is. Abby can even sit in the back of the van where no one can see her. We’ll be back in less than an hour.”

That was called teamwork.

“What do you say?” I asked Marco.

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t completely buying it. “You really want to go?”

I nodded. “I really want to go.”

“You’re not nervous about leaving the safety of the building?”

Well, of course I was nervous. I wasn’t a total moron. Still, in a show of bravery, I shook my head. My desire to be free from whoever had
initiated
the kidnappings was stronger than my fear of
being
kidnapped.

“Okay,” he said with great reluctance.

I wanted to high-five my girls, but that would have been too obvious. Instead, Lottie and I waited until he’d gone back to his Internet search; then we huddled inside the walk-in cooler, ostensibly to gather the arrangements, but really to giggle together like naughty schoolmates.

“I don’t know this Paula person,” Lottie whispered, “but maybe we should take flowers to her anyway.” She slapped her knee, chortling. “Poor Marco. He doesn’t have a clue, does he?”

T
en minutes later, I was riding shotgun in the rented minivan we used for deliveries, drawing vertical lines in the condensation that had formed on the glass. Seated behind the wheel was Marco, who, as it turned out, had a clue after all.

“So what was your plan?” Marco asked, pulling out of the alley. “Make your hospital run, then get Lottie to stop at the courthouse afterward so you could talk to Morgan?”

I drew crosshatches through my lines, tic-tac-toe style. “Possibly.”

He reached over to run his thumb under my chin. “Sunshine, don’t you trust me to get the job done?”

“Yes. But you hate hospitals, so I thought—”

“Are you sure you trust me?”

I heard the hurt in his voice and turned to reassure him. “Of course I trust you. Haven’t I always relied on you to get the job done?”

“Abby, I’ve had to pull you out of more than a few dangerous situations because you
didn’t
rely on me. You’re impetuous. You rush into things without thinking them through.”

“Not true. I’m just a fast thinker.”

“A good PI has to come up with a strategy, set it in motion, and watch for results. That takes patience.”

“But I don’t work like that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Try to understand it from my point of view, Marco. You know how I love being independent, but right now I feel like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I please without someone always there watching me. And that’s not going to change until we find out who was behind the kidnappings. So what are my options? Let the DA make his case against Raand and hope he’s got the right guy? Or take immediate action ourselves?”

“My being around all the time makes you feel like a prisoner?”

Was that all he got out of my impassioned speech? “I didn’t say you were the cause of my feelings. Whoever planned the kidnappings is the cause.”

“This bodyguard arrangement isn’t permanent, you know.”

Great. Marco was stuck on the prisoner concept. “I know it’s not permanent.” I drew more vertical lines in the condensation. “I just wish I knew how long it would be until I wasn’t in danger anymore.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Abby. It is how it is. I’m doing my best to keep you safe.”

I drew a box around my lines. “What if the true mastermind is never found?”

“Seriously, Abby, if you have a problem with me being around all the time—”

“No! Absolutely not! I love your being around. It’s different, certainly, but . . .”

He lifted an eyebrow. Yikes. Was I making it worse? And in all honesty, why wasn’t I enjoying Marco’s company more? What normal, red-blooded twenty-seven-year-old woman wouldn’t want a hot guy like Marco, the love of her life, the man of her dreams, keeping a protective eye on her at work—sitting at her desk and hogging her computer not withstanding—as well as bunking down in her apartment? In her small apartment. That she already shared with a roommate and a cat.

Why did my window drawing look like bars on a jail cell?

I used my coat sleeve to erase my artwork before Marco saw it. Stress, I assured myself, was causing me to think irrationally. Once everything went back to normal, so would our relationship.

“Listen, Marco. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or unwelcoming. You’re merely hearing the voice of a frightened, frustrated florist.” I smiled at him and reached over to squeeze his hand. “I really do appreciate you. Bear with me, okay? I’ll try not to be such a pain.”

“I know losing your independence is hard on you, Abby. Hell, I’d feel the same way.” He squeezed my hand back. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“No problem. And I found someone to keep you company this evening.”

Not another sitter!

“Rafe is working the day shift this week, and since he doesn’t have wheels, he’ll be bored stiff. If I can drop him at your place, I won’t have to worry about him getting into trouble. You okay with that?”

More than okay. Ecstatic. If I decided to get out and do a little sleuthing, Rafe would be putty in my hands. “I suppose,” I said, trying to sound resigned.

Marco pulled the minivan up to the rear entrance of the hospital so we could unload the two large boxes of floral arrangements. The entrance opened onto the hospital’s lower level, where the laboratory and X-ray departments were located, accessible up the long hallway past the bank of elevators. Close by was the physical therapy center; through large glass windows I could see therapists working with patients.

As I waited inside for Marco, I heard a rapid
tap-tap-tap
of high heels striking the cement floor and glanced up the hallway to see a slender woman in her thirties, with big honey blond hair and an oversized, shiny gold tote bag slung over one shoulder, heading toward the entrance. I studied her as she approached. She seemed very familiar. I was sure I’d seen her recently. A flower shop customer perhaps?

As she passed, she glanced at me and did a fast double-take before hurrying on. She was probably trying to figure out how she knew me, too.

When Marco came in, we carried the boxes to the bank of elevators and rode up to the second floor.

“We’re taking these to Peter Chinn in room 203,” I told him, after checking the tag on one of the arrangements. “That should be at the other end of the hallway.”

“You didn’t tell me you were delivering flowers to Chinn.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You’re not going to harangue Chinn about your back door and ramp, are you?”

I scoffed. “He’s injured, Marco. Of course I won’t.” Not on this visit anyway. Maybe a few subtle hints, but no haranguing.

“Then why not leave the flowers for the nurses to deliver?”

“They’re busy and understaffed. And as I told you, I enjoy making deliveries.”

“I’m surprised you’re allowed into the patients’ rooms.”

“They didn’t used to let me, but now that they know me, they usually do, unless the patient is seriously contagious, requests privacy, or is in the intensive care unit.”

“How about the maternity ward?”

“I’m allowed.”

“So did you bring those flowers for Paula?”

I glanced at Marco.
Damn.
He knew we’d made her up. I could see it in the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth. “Busted,” I said, and he shook his head.

“You’re so transparent, every thought and emotion plays out on your face.”

“I’m trying to correct that.”

“Don’t do it on my account. I like your face just the way it is.”

As a courtesy, I stopped at the nurses’ station to tell them my destination and get their approval. “No problem,” one nurse said, waving me on. She barely gave me a glance. Marco, however, was another story. As was typical with most every female, all three nurses stopped what they were doing to watch him. In fact, two of the nurses couldn’t take their gazes off him—or his hot pockets. I was surprised they didn’t form a conga line behind him.

A loud moan came from one of the rooms as we trundled the boxes up the hallway.

“I hate hospitals,” Marco grumbled.

“So you’ve mentioned. You were an Army Ranger, for heaven’s sake. You’ve seen worse.”

“Why do you think I hate hospitals?”

We stopped in front of 203, a private room. The door was open, but I knew better than to walk in without announcing myself, especially to a male patient. I called, “Floral delivery,” but nobody answered.

“Would you look to see if Peter’s presentable?” I asked Marco. “I don’t want to embarrass him.”

Setting the box on the floor outside the door, Marco walked to the end of a short hallway, past a bathroom, to see into the room. He peered around the corner, stared for a moment, then turned around and came out. “That’s not Peter Chinn.”