Red Blooded Murder. Laura Caldwell

It banged against the wall.

      He started, raising himself up on his elbows. “Mornin’, gorgeous,” he said when he saw her standing there, naked.

      She walked to the bed. She put her hand on his chest and shoved him.

      He smiled. “Yeah. Get back in here.” He threw off the covers.

      She glared. She pulled the blanket back over his body. “Just so you can get your information straight, that scarf was given to me by Barbara Brewer, the famous journalist and my first mentor. It was not some ‘PR schlock—’” She made air quotes with her hands “—and if you don’t stop following me, I’ll have you arrested.”

      She turned and began searching for her clothes, suddenly teary and fluttery instead of angry. The threat was a lame one. If she called the cops and accused this guy of stalking her, he might tell them about her affairs, her dalliances, which he clearly had learned about. And she knew the Chicago cops well enough to know that such information would hit the streets—accidentally of course, but fast. She couldn’t risk that kind of bad press, certainly not with Trial TV about to launch.

      She retrieved an earring from the floor. Her hands trembled as she tried to get the post through her lobe. She found her skirt, then her jacket, and put them on, trying to steady the shake that was not only in her hands but quivering through her organs, crawling on her skin. She glanced back, expecting to see him with a guilty expression, maybe a scared one now that she’d busted him, but he was just stroking that cleft in his chin that she’d found so sexy last night. And it was he who was studying her.

      “What exactly is that?” She gestured toward the hall.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Those notes on your desk. The article. The lists.”

      “So you’re a snooper, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a snooper.”

      She finished dressing and put a hand on her hip, willing herself not to show her nerves. She wanted to say something smart in return, she wanted to ask him so many questions, but his cold, assessing stare frightened her, draining away the shock and the anger, leaving only a hyperawareness that screamed that she was alone with this man. Anything could happen. Why had she thought for so long that she was immune to danger? That she could screw around with strangers without consequence? She had to get out of there.

      She grabbed her purse from a brown velvet chair in the corner and tucked it under her arm. She wished he would say something normal, something that would explain all this—maybe even something that would make her laugh, because she wanted very much to cry.

      But all he said was, “You were even better than I thought.”

      4

      When I woke up, I reached for Sam, feeling for that blond fuzz on his thighs. Instead, the legs I touched were smooth, longer than Sam’s, so muscled they felt like bone.

      I opened my eyes, and there was that child. His brown hair spun out from his head like a Chinese fan. His face was white, his lips a pillowy pink. He was sleeping soundly. He looked like one of those people who could sleep anywhere—a plane, a crowded bus, the bed of a strange woman he’d only met the night before.

      My first one-night stand. I’d never thought I’d have one. I was supposed to be a married woman by now.

      A twisted sheet had fallen to the floor. I picked it up and wrapped it around me. Then I sat against the headboard and drew my knees up, staring at him. The tattoos on his arms—a gold-and-black serpent on one, twisting ribbons of red on the other—fascinated me. The people I knew with tattoos had tiny ones. My best friend, Maggie, had a shamrock on her ankle, for example. But Theo’s covered his entire forearms, his round biceps. High on his left pectoral was an Asian-looking symbol.

      A buzzing sound split the silence. Startled, I dashed out of bed and grabbed my cell phone from the dresser. Sam, cell.

      I hit the off button for the ringer and glanced over my shoulder. Theo moaned, happily it seemed, and curled into a ball.

      I took the phone in the hall and shut the bedroom door. Sam, cell, the phone kept flashing. I felt an irrational guilt about the boy in my bed. I reminded myself that there was nothing to feel guilty about. I was an adult, Theo was an adult—legally anyway—and Sam was decidedly an adult. It was Sam who’d made our lives so crazy months ago; it was Sam who had hung up on me.

      But still he was hard to resist. I answered. “Hello?”

      “Sorry about last night, Red Hot.”

      I leaned my back against the wall. I twisted a strand of my hair around my fingers. “How are you?”

      “Feeling like a jerk. I’m sorry. This whole thing just gets me crazy, this being apart. I really miss you.”

      “I miss you, too.”

      “So what are we doing? Let’s just get back together.”

      “I don’t know, Sam. It’s not that easy.” I grabbed a larger strand of hair, my hand twirling, twirling as I twisted it tighter onto my finger. If Sam were here, he’d gently take my hand; he would untwist my hair and kiss me on the head, just the way he’d always done.

      “Yes, it is that easy,” he said. “You’re the one making it hard.”

      “I’m the one?”

      “Well, yeah, now you are. We’ve gone over and over everything. I had to do what I’d promised to do.”

      “You promised you’d marry me.”

      “And I still want to do that!” His voice was raised, and the tenderness was gone.

      We were back to where we’d been many times since Sam had returned to town.

      Suddenly, a tall band of light moved into the hallway, and there was Theo.

      His nude body took up nearly the whole doorway. He crossed his arms, the red ribbons stretching tighter across his biceps, and gave me a lazy grin that was so sexy I felt my mouth hanging open. What was this kid doing in my hallway? How did I get him back to my bed?

      “You got any eggs?” Theo asked.

      I put my finger to my lips and pointed toward the kitchen.

      He walked toward me, slow and steady until he towered over me. Last night I was wearing heels and he hadn’t seemed so big. Now, he was a large, strange man. Seeing him like this, naked and in daylight, made everything surreal, as if my world had been shaken like a snow globe.

      “What’s going on over there?” Sam said.

      “Nothing.” Just that there’s a molten-hot boy in my condo.

      Theo leaned over me, that silky hair brushing my cheeks again. “I’m gonna make you breakfast,” he whispered in my ear. Mundane words, but the way he’d said them made my stomach flip.

      “Iz?” It was Sam.

      “Can we talk later?”

      A pause. “Let’s get it out now.” But his voice was flat. We were both weary of talking.

      I watched Theo’s ass as he walked toward my kitchen. I’d never seen such a perfect ass—two smooth orbs at the top of those long legs.

      The other line rang. The display showed a number I didn’t recognize. Maybe Mayburn? “Sam, hold on a sec.”

      I switched to the other line and heard an unfamiliar man’s voice say my name.

      “Yes?” I said.

      “It’s Zac Ellis.”

      “Who?”

      “Jane Augustine’s husband.”

      “Oh, hi, Zac.” Jane had told me that her husband, a photographer, was in New York for an exhibit.