I stared at the screen when she disconnected, wondering exactlyhow I was supposed to prepare for a meeting with a TV producer. Was I supposed to come up with answers to questions like: What inspired you to write this story? What kind of research did you do for the book? Are any of the situations you write about based on real people or events?Well, I’m so glad you asked, Mr. Fancy TV Producer. Actually, yes, I do have a lot of experience with organized crime. I also own the highest-rated garden shovel money can buy. I could tell you exactly how many hours it takes for a frozen body part to thaw, how many bath bombs it would take to cover the smell, and in a pinch, I could probably figure out how to operate a backhoe.My research on the topic of murder was extensively (and disturbingly) thorough. My knowledge of Hollywood, on the other hand, was not.
Downing the last gulp of my wine, I traded my cell phone for the TV remote and turned up the volume. I switched from the Hallmark Channel to a cop drama, chalking it up to preparation for my meeting as I settled back under my blanket to watch.
I stirred some time later, roused from a deep sleep. I blinked, barely awake as the TV suddenly turned off.
A man-shaped shadow hovered over me. With an ear-splitting shriek, I bolted upright. My skull smacked against something hard and Nick barked out a curse. I slapped a palm over my throbbing forehead, squinting as he slowly came into focus. I could barely make out his dress shirt and tie in the dim moonlight sifting through the blinds. He massaged his forehead and sat down beside me.
“Hello to you, too,” he whispered.
“I thought you were still at work. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I did.” He pushed my cell phone across the coffee table toward me. An unread notification waited on the screen. “I would haveknocked when I got here, but you told me to use the key.” He sank into the cushions of the old sofa, took off his holster, and loosened his tie as I read his message. I set my phone down and knelt on the cushion beside him.
“How was your day?” I asked, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where our foreheads had smacked together.
He dropped his head back against the sofa and threw an arm over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. How about yours?”
Aside from Delia being suspended from preschool, Mrs. Haggerty moving in, and a possible killer on the loose? “I don’t want to talk about mine either. I’m just glad you’re here.” I slid one leg over him and sat on his lap. He peeped out from under his arm as I ran my fingers through the short, dark waves of his hair and stole a kiss.
His brown eyes twinkled in the dark. “How glad?”
“Very glad,” I said as I loosened the top button of his shirt.
His hands moved to my waist and pulled me closer. He’d only used the key under the downspout twice since we’d come back from Atlantic City, but we were already good at these stealthy middle-of-the-night visits, the near-silent sex, and sneaking him out of my bedroom before the children woke up. Mostly, we were good at not talking about all the delicate and dangerous topics we’d been avoiding, namely my involvement with several unsavory culprits in a few criminal cases Nick had been tasked with solving.
“Want to go upstairs?” he asked, his body responding as I untucked his shirt from his slacks.
“No.” I definitely did not want to go upstairs.
“What about Vero?”
“Gone for the night—” He took my whole mouth with a savage, hungry kiss. I felt his arm loop around my waist, and I was a little dizzy as he slid me off his lap and set me down onto the couch. Wewere both breathing hard as we fumbled with my elastic waistband and his belt buckle. I hoped I had remembered to wear cute underwear—or at least, not old and hole-y underwear—as we took turns stripping each other of our pants, too impatient to waste time taking off anything else.
I took him by his tie and dragged his body down onto mine, arching against him as his hand slid under my T-shirt. I grabbed the ends of his boxer briefs and started to pull them down.
“Finn?” His entire body had gone rigid above me—every part but the one I had been hoping for. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a slow, hard swallow as he stared over the back of my sofa. “Why is Mrs. Haggerty in your house? And why is she pointing a gun at me?”
“Oh, god!” I said, scrambling out from under him.
“Put your hands where I can see them, home invader, or I’ll shoot!” Mrs. Haggerty cried.
Nick sat up very slowly and put his hands in the air.
“Stand down, Mrs. Haggerty!” I lunged for the lamp switch, tripping on our pants, certain Mrs. Haggerty wouldn’t be able to see Nick’s raised hands if he’d been waving them right in front of her face. I turned on the light, momentarily blinding all three of us. “It’s only Nick!”
Mrs. Haggerty squinted in his direction. “Detective Anthony?” He shielded his head, tucking me behind him as she waved her gun at the wall clock. “It’s past eleven o’clock, young man. What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
He raised his hands higher, the half-buttoned shirt and loose ends of his tie lifting to reveal the fire-engine red boxer briefs I thankfully hadn’t had the chance to strip off him.
“I just came to see Finlay.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes locked on her weapon. It looked old and solid, like something Dirty Harrymight have carried. If I hadn’t seen her handle a .357 Magnum revolver during our police academy firearms class, I might have doubted her ability to shoot it. “She invited me,” Nick said. “You can put the gun down. Please,” he added with another tight swallow.
Mrs. Haggerty threw me a scandalized look as she lowered her weapon.
Nick dropped his hands. “I’m assuming you have a permit for that?”
“This old thing?” she asked as she waved it again. “It’s not mine. It’s my late husband’s.”
I refrained from pointing out the fact that it was, by default, now hers.
