“So, you agree, I look fat.”
Grabbing her around the waist, I tickle her until she doubles over. When she drops to the floor, I roll until my body covers hers. “Stay down. Incoming. Call the bomb squad.”
She pushes at my chest, giggling. “Oof. Get off and I’m sorry. Lack of food makes me crabby. Let’s talk about something else. I told you about my poor luck with Chrissy. What’s going on with Selena?”
“She’s with Wheels. We’ve upped security and moved her to a new hotel.” Standing, I hold out my hand, and wait for her to grab on.
After I pull her up, she brushes herself off, and places a fry pan on the burner. “Any idea what’s going on?”
“Her clients are some of the most powerful people in Washington. She must’ve seen or heard something she shouldn’t’ve of.”
“But she’s not saying?”
I flatten some meat with my palm and when I drop the patty on the metal, it sizzles. “Maybe she doesn’t know. That’s one of the reasons I came home. I think we should join forces. I’ll help you find Chrissy. Then, we both work to find out what is going on with her mom.”
“Deal.” We shake hands like partners, but heat hits my groin, and I swell below the belt.
My mouth crashes against hers and suddenly, I’m pressing her against the wall. My hand slides up the shirt, fondles her breast, and the fucking doorbell rings.
Panting, Sam reaches for her phone, snorts out a laugh, and turns the screen so I can see who’s out there.
God almighty, her hitman friend stands on our front step with a pink bag slung over his shoulder. If the purse ain’t bad enough, a cat’s head sticks out the top.
Unable to speak, Sam’s eyes water, and she tries not to bust a gut laughing.
“Hey Frankie, c’mon out back.” A warrior, used to all kinds of torture, I manage a straight face, press the intercom button, and wait at the kitchen door.
The man tips his dark ball cap, turns to study the street, and strides to the garden. Long legged, dressed all in black, he takes the stairs two at a time. At the landing, he lowers his sunglasses and surveils the neighborhood before ducking inside.
Smiling, Sam reaches a hand to a wet nose and the orange tabby rewards her with a head butt and a purr. In the living room, a jealous Catrina scowls, and scratches her post.
“How youz doin’?” Frankie shakes my hand, squats to let the cat out of the bag, and laughs when it zooms under our couch.
Then, he turns to me. “I thought you waz in DC, guarding a hooker.”
“I was, but got a feeling I should come home.”
“You fuck her?”
“My wife? Not yet. You interrupted us.”
“Excellent. I’d hate for Chloe’s sitter to undergo psychological trauma. Cats feel dat kind of t’ing. It’s not good for them.”
Standing, he puts his hand on the door, ready to go. “So, youz guyz good to watch Chloe for a few days?”
Sam looks at me for affirmation before nodding. “Sure. We may be in and out, but my cousins will be around. We got her covered.”
Understanding she has competition, our cat narrows her gaze, then slinks under the table. No doubt, she’s wondering how to murder the hitman without anyone knowing.
Frankie, no fool, leans over and scratches her chin until she purrs.
Almost as an afterthought, he clears his throat, and his clear gray eyes meet mine. “Someone high up in Washington is concerned about Ms. Bright saying things that ought not to be heard.”
“You can let it be known; she hasn’t said squat.” I have no idea who this man works for but obviously, he has his fingers in a lot of pies.
Nodding, he opens the door. “Nonetheless, if I waz you, I’d find her a safe house and keep her away from windows.”
“Why? Is there a price on her head?” My wife has got big balls. Who else would ask a hitman about a contract?
