Spying in High Heels (21 page)

"Where have you been?" he asked. "Didn't you get my messages?"

I turned around. Sure enough the light on my machine was blinking like mad.

"No, I didn't. I just got in. Why?"

"Can I come in?"

I bit my lip, hesitating. The rational voice in my head said, tell him to leave. Close the door. Do not talk to sexy cops when you're drunk. Only the Beefcakes patron in me said, yes, please, come in. Take your clothes off. Hop into my bed.

And considering the amount of vodka Beefcakes Girl had consumed, she was getting really loud. So loud she was overpowering the rational voice.

"Sure." I stood back to allow him entry.

He stepped into the room. And I swear my eyes went straight to his groin. Boxers or briefs? I just couldn't tell.

"So," I said, clearing my throat loudly. "What did you want?"

"I just wanted to let you know we ran an analysis on the hairs found in the motel room. They weren't yours."

"I told you so." Ugh. I sounded five. "I mean, I'm glad you checked. I'm glad we cleared that up."

Ramirez looked at me kind of funny, but didn't comment. "Yeah, well, I just wanted to let you know you're officially not a suspect."

"Well, duh." I smacked my head with the palm of my hand. "I don't even own a leopard thong."

Ramirez raised one eyebrow. "Leopard thong?"

"And I so don't do nooners. Well, not unless it's a really special occasion. Or the guy's really hot. But I always leave with my panties on."

Ramirez's eyes creased at the corners, twinkling with that Big Bad Wolf look again. "Good to know."

I took a deep breath. Yes, I was aware I sounded frighteningly like Bunny Hoffenmeyer and I wasn't making a whole lot of sense. But somehow the connection between my brain and my mouth seemed to have shorted out. I grabbed the kitchen counter for support, as the room was starting to look like a Tilt-a-Whirl again.

"What I mean to say is, I'm glad I didn't kill him. I mean, I'm glad you know I didn't kill him. I know I didn't kill him. But now you know that I know I didn't kill him. Even though he's dead."

The corner of Ramirez's mouth quivered. "Uh huh."

"I know that you know that I know that I didn't kill him." I paused. Hmmm… that didn't sound quite right. Let me try again. "I mean, I wasn't there. No, I was there, but not
there
there, as in not in his room there." There. That sounded better. Kind of.

The quiver turned into a full-fledged grin. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" I rolled my eyes and did my best as-if face. "I'm so
not
drunk. I'm the opposite of drunk. I'm…" I paused, trying to come up with the word. "… the other thing."

"Sober?" Ramirez supplied, still grinning.

"Right. That's me. Sober Maddie." It might have been more convincing if my hand hadn't slipped off the counter just then, throwing me so off balance I tripped on one of my heels and nearly fell.

Nearly, because Ramirez reached out with quick coplike reflexes and caught me in his arms. Strong arms. I put my hands up to balance and came up against an incredibly solid chest. I felt his heart beating beneath his six-day-a-week-at-the-gym muscles. I think I sighed.

"You okay?" His face was inches from mine. His eyes still twinkled with amusement.

"Uh huh," I managed. Even though my limbs felt like Jell-O and I could swear visions of Damien's package were swimming through my head. I suddenly had a burning desire to know for sure whether Ramirez was a boxers or briefs guy.

"Love the outfit," he said, still holding me around the waist. His eyes dipped down to my librarian wear.

"You're mocking me again, aren't you?"

"Just a little."

"It went over big at the porn studio too."

Ramirez's eyebrow shot up again. "Porn studio?" His grin widened, showing off a row of white teeth.
The better to eat you right up with, my dear
.

"See, I knew there was a little bad girl in you." His voice was low and deep in a way that made me warm in all the right places.

I was still pressed against his chest and his hooded eyes looked wide awake now, intent on me. Making me think serious bad-girl thoughts. Thoughts of bad cops in boxers.

Or better yet, nothing at all.

Try as I might to reign in Beefcakes Girl, her eyes strayed downward. Past his chest, beyond six-pack territory, until they zeroed in on that denim-covered package.

"Are you staring at my crotch?"

At least I had the decency to blush. At least, I think it was a blush. Or maybe just one of Mom's hot flashes at the totally X-rated thoughts racing through my mind.

"I was just wondering whether you're a boxers or briefs guy." Did I say that out loud? Oh lord, I must be really drunk.

Before I had time to take back my Sluts-R-Us statement, Ramirez tightened his grip on my waist, pulling my body flush with his.

I think I had an on-the-spot orgasm.

His head dipped down, his lips grazing my ear. "Briefs," he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

And not one of those nippy, soft kissy things. This was a
kiss. A
serious lust-inspiring, picturing-you-naked-all-day, you're-so-going-to-remember-the-sex-no-matter-how-many-Virgin-Marys-you-accidentally-drank kind of kiss. One that left no question in my mind as to whether Ramirez was a Damien or a Richard beneath all those clothes. I knew for a fact that Richard didn't kiss like this. Ramirez was a Damien through and through.

His hands slid up my shirt and I did a quick mental inventory. Legs shaved? No granny panties? Just-in-case condom still in my purse? Check, check, and check. Beefcakes Girl did a mental
woohoo
! as I kissed him back.

His tongue touched mine and I suddenly felt like he was wearing way too many clothes. I slid my hands down his chest, fumbling like a nervous teenager at his belt buckle until his T-shirt came untucked. He didn't protest in the least as I slid the fabric up and over his head. Though he did groan a little as I trailed my hands down his abdomen. Good lord, this guy was built. I bet he worked out more than Dana.

Ramirez picked me up like I weighed less than nothing and sat me on the kitchen counter. My skirt hiked up as his hands slid up my thighs, past my knees, past the oh-that-tickles spot, and on into where's-that-freaking-condom territory.

I went back to fumbling with his belt buckle again. We were suddenly in a race. The winner of who could get their clothes off fastest would receive the orgasm of their life. Ramirez's shoes went flying across the room. My silk blouse was ripped off so fast one of the buttons popped off, pinging against my microwave. My bra was down around my waist and I heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez's zipper sliding open.

And then he froze. Okay, through my vodka-hormone cocktail it took me a second to realize he wasn't kissing me back anymore. But when I did, I saw he was staring at a spot behind me.

"What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

"What is
that
?"

I turned around to see what he was staring at. My heart sank.

The EPT.

"Uh, it's nothing. Just, um, a little pregnancy test."

It was as if I'd said, "Just a little nuclear bomb." Ramirez instantly put two feet between us, still staring at the bomb like it might go off any second. "Why do you have a pregnancy test on your kitchen counter? Are you pregnant?" He stared at my belly. Thankfully, I was still flat as a board. But I could see him mentally putting a basketball there.

"No! I mean, I don't know. I don't think so. Well… maybe."

His gaze whipped wildly from the test to me. Then he muttered a "Jesus," and sat down on my futon, scrubbing a hand over his face.

I slid off the counter, shrugging back into my bra as I sat down beside him.

"Richard's?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Jesus," he said again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know if there was anything to tell. And, well, I don't know, you're a cop and you thought I was in Greenway's room. And then you came here and you looked so nice and you kissed me, and that was
really
nice, and well, I just kind of forgot to mention it."

"You forgot?" He stared at me.

"Uh huh." In my defense, Ramirez shirtless was enough to make a woman forget her own name.

"Hell, this is… this was…" He waved his arms from me to the EPT, searching for the right words.

My heart bottomed out when he found them.

"A mistake," he finally said. "This was a huge mistake coming here."

A mistake. My bottom lip quivered. Okay, so maybe it was a mistake. In fact, I'm sure had we actually had sex, I would have been thinking the same thing as soon as the Virgin Marys wore off. But did he have to say it like that?

I wrapped my arms around my middle, suddenly very conscious of the fact that my shirt was on the other side of the room.

"Maybe you should just go then," I said. Then bit my lower lip to stop that damn quivering.

"You're right. I should go." Ramirez got up and retrieved his shirt from the floor.

"Fine," I spat back. I'm not sure why I was so mad at him, but it beat being mad at myself. "Go then."

"Hey, look, I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't come here for this," he said, gesturing to the counter where we'd been
this
close to being the stars of our very own porno flick.

"Oh, so you're saying this is my fault? That I threw myself at you? That I'm some kind of drunken hussy?" Damn. I had thrown myself a little, hadn't I? But he'd been more than willing to catch me.

"I didn't say that. You're not a drunken—" He paused. "Wait, you're pregnant and you went out and got drunk?" He stared at me as if I'd just confessed to shooting my grandmother.

That did it. The quivering lip shook out of control and big fat tears rolled out of my eyes. Did I mention I also tend to get a little emotional when I'm drunk?

"I-I-I'm a horrible p-p-person," I wailed.

"Oh, Jesus."

"I'll be a horrible m-m-mother."

Ramirez sat down beside me. "No, you won't. I'm sure you'll be a fine mother."

"I didn't mean to get drunk. I was tricked. I would n-n-never hurt a baby." My words were coming out in big slobbery sobs and I was pretty sure my nose was running too. This was about as unsexy as you could get.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm sure the baby is okay."

"If there is a baby," I reminded him between sniffles.

"Right. If there is one." He put his arm around me.

"I'm sorry." I sniffed again. "I'm a mess."

Ramirez looked at me. He pushed one stray strand of hair behind my ear. Oddly enough, it was an even more intimate gesture than having his hands up my shirt. More… touching. Wow. Who knew Bad Cop had a soft side?

"You're not a mess. You'll make a beautiful mother."

Okay, so I knew he was lying. I was so far from beautiful right now. My mascara must be in streaks, my nose was red and runny, and I'm sure my eyes were once again puffier than the Michelin man. But it was a nice lie. And he was a nice guy to say it.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I'm sure you have stuff to do. Important Bad Cop stuff."

He smiled. Not that smirky smile and not the sexy, wolfish grin either. Just a smile, like maybe deep down he really didn't think I was such a mess after all. "Nope," he said. "I've got nowhere to go."

He pulled me close to him and I laid my head on his chest. I could hear his heart beating. It was a comforting sound. He smelled like fresh laundry and mellow aftershave. I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent.

I closed my eyes. I wasn't sure if it was the vodka, the good cry, or Ramirez's steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, but for the first time in days I felt peaceful. Calm, peaceful and so very relaxed. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift, feeling utterly comfortable in Ramirez's arms.

I heard a phone ringing, echoing through my head like a car with too much bass. Slowly I flexed one limb, then the other. My neck was stiff, like I'd fallen asleep sitting up, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. I managed to open one eye a crack.

And saw Ramirez.

Yikes!

I blinked hard against the assault of sunlight coming through my windows. What the hell was Ramirez doing in my apartment? His head lolled back on the futon cushions, his mouth slightly open as he slept, making deep breathing sounds. Slowly it came back to me as I watched him. The Virgin Marys, the EPT. Ramirez's hands up my shirt.

I groaned. Oh god, I'd practically thrown myself at him. And then bawled all over him. I'd made a drunken fool of myself. I shook my head. Ouch. And I had the headache to prove it. And where the hell was that ringing coming from?

I dove for my purse on the floor, every movement jarring my head until it pounded like a marching band. Oh my god, someone stop the ringing!

"Hello?" I croaked as I found my cell phone.

"Maddie! Where the hell are you?"

I held the phone away from my ear, Dana's shrill shriek assaulting me in so many ways I couldn't keep track.

"Shhhhh. Hangover."

"Oh my god, Mads. You're hungover? I knew I should have picked you up this morning."

Picked me up?

And then through my hungover haze I had a moment of clarity. Oh shit. The wedding!

I spun around, producing a new round of pain in my temples, and looked at the clock on my kitchen wall. Oh shit. Ten o'clock!

"Maddie? Are you still there? The ceremony starts in half an hour. Your mom is staring to freak."

"I'll be right there. Don't start without me!"

I hung up, throwing the phone down on the carpet.

"Shit!"

Ramirez opened one sleepy eye. "What time is it?"

"Ten. I'm late. I gotta go. Shit!" I ran to my closet and pulled the Purple People Eater out of its garment bag. I didn't even take the time to grimace as I stripped off the rest of my librarian outfit and threw the dress over my head.

Had I more time I might have waited until Ramirez was gone to strip down. As it was, I think the sight of me half naked and running around like a crazy woman woke him up quickly enough.

"Late for what?"