Take Me Two Times Page 14

  She felt him everywhere inside her: at her core, in her blood, in her heart and mind. The sheer, primal power of it overwhelmed her, and impossibly, she splintered around him again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said within moments, taking her face in his hands. “God, I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re sure?” His worry was palpable.

  She smoothed the wrinkle from his forehead with her thumbs and kissed it. “I’m sure.”

  After a moment he said gruffly, “I, uh . . . Normally I last longer than that—”

  “Shhh. I take it as a compliment.” She stroked his jaw, then, gently, the periphery of his swollen eye.

  “Well, but that was kind of embarrassing.”

  A door slammed to the left, and heavy footsteps shuffled along the brick patio behind the sheets on the line. “Not as embarrassing as it’s going to be in a second,” Gwen said. “Because I have a really bad feeling that my neighbor just came out to take down her laundry.”

  chapter 17

  Gwen woke to the damned dream early the next morning after a mostly sleepless night alone in her bed. Despite his pleas, she’d made Quinn stay on the couch, because clearly she’d lost her mind.

  She hadn’t dreamed making love with Quinn and his shiner in the hot tub. The irony was that they’d remained locked, literally joined at the hip in mortification, as old Mrs. Santos had indeed come out to take down her laundry—bless her heart.

  Without her sheets to camouflage them, Gwen and Quinn had had to stay submerged to the neck in the hot tub until they were raisins.

  Mrs. S had dropped the sheets into her laundry basket and then plopped herself down in a wrought-iron chair on her patio to have a long conversation with her daughter in New Jersey about whether the daughter should invest in a new kitchen or save the money for her kids’ college tuition.

  The forty-minute conversation, during which Mrs. S had oh-so-casually looked over into Gwen’s yard at least five times, had been an effective mood killer.

  Gwen had mentally kicked herself all night for being so stupid. Quinn had been pretty disgusted with himself, too, by the time they emerged. What were they, thirteen? How many times did they have to learn this particular lesson? Last time this had happened, Gwen had started puking up her organs every morning and Quinn had used his savings not on grad school but on a ring.

  Now Gwen went straight into the shower, got dressed, slapped on some makeup, and left her hair wet. Carrying her shoes, she tiptoed out to the living room, where Quinn sprawled nude on her couch like a gently snoring Mr. February. The blanket she’d given him had fallen onto the floor.

  His face was turned in toward the cushions, hiding his damaged eye, and his breathing was even and deep. He slept peacefully on his side, giving her a spectacular view of his muscular, naked backside. Honestly, it was hard to look away.

  She ran her gaze upward, along his spine to the powerful shoulders, honed from a youth working so many summer construction jobs and fixing cars and God knew what else. The back of his neck looked oddly vulnerable compared to the rest of him, the dark blond hair curling slightly where it would meet his collar.

  Stupid to bring him back here. Stupid to get into a hot tub with him. Stupid to let him—

  A triple flash of heat streaked through her body, ending between her legs.

  Well, she’d gone and done it, hadn’t she? And someone had needed to babysit him. At least he’d been right—his darn skull was too thick to have sustained much damage. He hadn’t had any seizures or gone into a coma during the night.

  Gwen resisted the urge to stroke his hair or kiss him. She left Quinn sleeping, tiptoed out, and went to the office.

  As she approached the glass doors of ARTemis, she reached out for the brass handle that would open the right one and then stopped dead at the sight of Sheila as the office manager straightened her tight skirt.

  It was black with bright red cherries printed on it. Her shoes were black and red and festooned with plump plastic cherries on the toes. Her red top left nothing to the imagination and had two green stems over the bust—very subtle. And naturally, she wore black cat’s-eye reading glasses with tiny plastic cherries glued near the hinges.

  Gwen recovered and tugged open the door. “Good morning, Sheila.”

  “It’s not a good morning at all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Why not?”

  “We just had a power blink, so I lost a document. And Marty’s being cheap again.”

  Marty was not only Sheila’s husband, but the accountant for ARTemis, and his cheapness was legendary. He’d once tried to institute an office policy that limited the amount of toilet paper each employee could use daily. That plan had come to an abrupt end when the entire staff (directed by Sheila) started taking the elevator down to the third floor and using Marty’s firm’s facilities instead.

  “What did he refuse to buy you?”

  “A silver fox coat. Full-length. Gorgeous. And on sale, thirty-five percent off, at Bloomie’s. I want it to wear to my mother’s funeral.”

  “But . . . your mother is alive and well and living in Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah, so? You have to seize your opportunities. The coat is on sale now. This way I’ll have it when the sad day comes.”

  Gwen wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this piece of reasoning, but she nodded noncommittally.

  McDougal walked in from the back. He’d obviously heard the exchange. “So, Sheila, have you decided what you’re wearing at your own funeral?”

  “Couldn’t you have stayed in Scotland?” Sheila complained.

  McDougal shrugged. “Easy job. Sorry. So, do tell us about your burial outfit.”

  “A purple St. John suit with a big pink silk rose on the lapel. Pink readers with rhinestones. Still haven’t found the right shoes. Why, you planning to off me, McD?”

  “I think about it every day, sometimes twice,” he said, grinning.

  If sarcasm could be bottled and sold like tequila or mescal, McDougal would be the drunken worm at the bottom. Not that Gwen had ever seen McDougal drunk—his hard Scottish head could take on anything. He was the guy whom they sent to the casinos and strip joints to get information out of pickled marks. Dante or Gwen did the upscale events, where McDougal would stick out like Opie at a black Baptist church.

  “Any messages, by the way?” he asked Sheila before he left.

  “Yeah: You can kiss my left butt cheek, sailor.”

  “Ooh, don’t get me all excited.” He turned to Gwen, sweeping his eyes over her apricot linen blouse. “By the way, sweetness, I was about to text you back. No sign of the Borgia mask in Angeline’s panty drawer, though she does have a nice collection of paper ones hanging on her bedroom wall.”

  “Did you look everywhere?”

  “I did,” he said with a lascivious grin. “It wasn’t in Angeline, either.”

  “Ugh! Was that detail really necessary?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who called me McMan-whore.”

  Sheila burst out laughing as he sauntered out.

  “And where are you off to today, Miss Thing?” she queried.

  “I’m going to track down the Velasquez brothers.”

  Sheila nodded. “Take your SIG.”

  “Always.”

  “And your cell.”

  “Got it.”

  “And watch your back.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I took my vitamins, too.”

  “I worry about you,” Sheila said with a scowl. “You’re fragile.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Not too much in the brains department, either.”

  “Sheila!”

  “Just saying. Anyone playing with a full deck woulda told Kelso to go to hell on that dog-napping thing. But you . . . you actually flew to Rome and did it.”

  Gwen gaped at her.

  “And then,” Sheila continued, “you don’t take advantage of the fact that a famous rock star want
s to date you.” She shook her head.

  Gwen set her jaw and blinked in irritation as she counted to ten. “Sheila, trust me on this: Sid Thresher doesn’t look like he used to. He’s also borderline insane and heavily medicated.”

  Sheila spread her hands wide. “So?”

  “I have to go,” Gwen said, smiling politely. “Please tell me he hasn’t called again.”

  “Four times. He’s getting very insistent about prying your cell phone number out of me.”

  “Sheila, if you give him any of my personal information, I will wring your neck with my oh-so-fragile hands. Are we clear?”

  The receptionist pushed her reading glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “It’s a crime,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Why don’t you date him?” Gwen asked, exasperated.

  Sheila drew herself up to her full height. “Oh, I couldn’t. Marty would be devastated.”

  Twenty minutes later, Gwen was playing bumper cars with all the other lunatics on the Miami freeways and headed back to east Hialeah, a part of town that was seedy, to say the least.

  The Velasquez brothers lived in a one-story stucco box of a house that was painted an unappetizing flesh color. They had a gravel driveway and a sagging carport held up by metal poles of the same color. The brown plastic garbage cans next to the back door overflowed with debris and fast-food cartons. A mangy cat poked its head out from under a truck and gave her the feline stink-eye.

  Gwen parked the Prius at what passed for the curb, which was really just a line of demarcation where grass met tarmac. She made sure that both the SIG Sauer and her compact stun gun were readily available.

  She’d worn jeans with the apricot linen top, and a pair of high-heeled sandals with spike heels in case she had to do any instep stomping. They might look delicate, but they were great weapons. Gwen got out of the car and took a deep gulp of air that was unfortunately redolent with the smells of gasoline, spoiled food, and dog poop. She managed not to gag and made her way up the cracked sidewalk to the two cement steps that led to the front door.

  Wrought iron reinforced the screen door, which she tugged open in order to knock on the wooden one behind it, which wasn’t quite closed. Nobody answered.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  Only silence greeted her. Carlos and Esteban might well still be asleep. Gwen checked her watch. It was almost ten a.m., but they often kept late hours.

  She knocked again and the door creaked open a few inches. She peered inside. “Hello? Carlos?”

  Then she saw the feet protruding from the hallway. Male feet, bare, dark olive skin tone.

  Fear chased adrenaline to her heart, which hurled itself against her rib cage. Gwen drew the SIG from her bag and used it to push the door open the rest of the way. She listened. What if someone was hiding in the house?

  Not too much in the brains department, she heard Sheila say.

  Maybe not. But what if the man lying on the floor needed medical attention?

  She told herself that it was just as likely that he’d been partying and passed out cold the night before. But . . .

  Gwen stepped inside, keeping her gun leveled in front of her and her back to the wall. She walked the short distance to the feet, which she could now see had a bluish tinge. Dear God.

  One more step and she was looking into the dead eyes of Carlos Velasquez, who still wore the tiny shark earring.

  He also wore two neat, clean, horrifying holes in his forehead. Blood had pooled underneath, soaking his shaggy dark hair. His arms lay spread to the sides, palms up. The coppery smell of blood mingled with the undertones of urine and the stale, faintly sweet stench of death.

  Shock fluoresced through Gwen’s system, and bile shot up her throat. Cold sweat broke out of every pore and she heaved once, then twice. She ran to the door, just making it outside before she threw up ingloriously into the raggedly pruned bushes.

  She wiped her mouth on a tissue from her purse, and then fumbled with shaking hands for her cell phone. She’d never had such difficulty dialing three numbers, but finally stabbed them out with her malfunctioning, rubbery index finger.

  The emergency dispatcher told her to stay right where she was, so Gwen sat down on the steps and got her breathing under control. She was tempted to call Quinn, God only knew why. But Quinn didn’t need to be anywhere near the dead body of Carlos Velasquez.

  The cops were already going to interrogate Gwen until her face was blue, and unless she could come up with a heck of a cover story, they were going to wonder why she hadn’t shared information about the brothers and the break-in with them.

  She dialed the ARTemis office, and as she pressed the last two digits her gaze focused on a tiny shred of khaki cloth that had caught on a finishing nail halfway up the door frame. Someone had attached black rubber weather stripping to keep the heat and humidity out.

  “ARTemis, how may I help you?” Sheila’s nasal accent made the company name sound like Ottemis.

  “Sheila, it’s Gwen.” Feeling as if she were underwater, she reached out and plucked the khaki cloth off the nail, examining the worn cotton.

  “What’s wrong with you, doll? Your voice sounds funny.”

  “I just found the body of—”

  “Did you say body?”

  “—Carlos Velasquez.”

  “As in dead body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my Gawd.”

  “Exactly. Sheila, is Dante there?”

  “Huh-uh. You want McDougal? He’s back.”

  “No—listen, can you page Dante? I need—”

  “It’s going straight to voice mail. I just tried him for a client. You need someone there with you, doll. I’ll send you McDougal.”

  “I can’t deal with McDougal right now!” Gwen said, but Sheila had already hung up.

  Gwen threw her phone into her purse and stared a moment longer at the khaki cloth. Something tickled her memory . . . but what? She frowned. She should have left it alone. It could be a clue as to who had done this to Carlos Velasquez. She’d turn it over to the police.

  Gwen dropped the fabric into her purse and then put her head into her hands. The cops would be here any minute, and she needed to pull herself together.

  Actually, what she needed to do was try to find any link between Carlos, Esteban, and the art world. But if she went inside to search, she’d be further contaminating a crime scene.

  What if she went inside and was excruciatingly careful not to touch anything? She got up and stood outside the screen door, gazing at those dead, bluish feet. Gwen shuddered.

  There was no dignity in death. The soles of Carlos’s feet were dirty, almost black, and stuck to the heel of the left one was a small piece of what looked like tape. Under the middle toes of the right foot was a portion of what might have been a dust bunny. His jeans were frayed at the bottom hem.

  Around the corner was the rest of him, soaked in his own body fluids. His belly was visible under his rucked-up T-shirt, and his underwear emerged from the loose, faded jeans. She’d never forget the slack mouth, the dull open eyes. Or the smell.

  Gwen’s stomach lurched, and she gagged a couple of times outside the screen door. But she had to go in. She had to find a link. She’d steeled herself to do it when a police car came screaming around the corner.

  I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I look around before I called 911? Now it’s too late.

  chapter 18

  Gwen studiously ignored the repeated ringing of her cell phone, since the caller ID showed Quinn’s name and she didn’t feel up to explaining her current predicament to him yet. He wasn’t likely to be happy.

  She waited outside as various investigators and CSI people swarmed in and out of the Velasquez brothers’ house and Carlos’s body was finally bagged and taken away to the medical examiner for analysis.

  The officer in charge was pleasant-looking and harried, with a long, bulbous nose that made him resemble a moose. She privately dubbed him Bullwinkle.


  Detective Bullwinkle wanted a statement from her—go figure. He’d already asked where she’d been the evening before, since, judging by preliminary evidence, the crime had been committed then. He’d wanted to know what she was doing there today. He asked to see her gun and the permit she carried for it, but had given it back because it was the wrong caliber to be the murder weapon.

  He asked her if she knew where Esteban Velasquez was—there were signs of panicked packing, a suitcase bearing his initials.

  Gwen shook her head.

  As all this replayed in her mind, the deep rumble of McDougal’s Kawasaki announced his presence before he turned the corner and zoomed up. He brought the bike to a halt across the street, dismounted, and pulled off his helmet, revealing his rumpled ginger hair. He stowed the helmet and crossed the street, his long gait eating up the tarmac.

  Gwen was unexpectedly glad to see him, but she resented the fact that Sheila—and all of the ARTemis staff—thought she needed to be babysat. Fragile . . . It pissed her off. “Hi, McD. You didn’t have to come over here. Sheila’s just being a mother hen.”

  He raised a pale ginger eyebrow. “The concept of Sheila as a mother is horrifying,” he said. Then his blue eyes went dark and serious for once. “Hey. Are you doing okay?”

  She gave a wobbly nod.

  “Yeah, no.” McDougal pulled her onto her feet. Then he gave her a bear hug and patted her back. He smelled of Irish Spring soap and leather and motor oil. “Dead bodies aren’t a lot of fun, are they?”

  “Not so much,” Gwen admitted.

  He held her away from him and looked her up and down. “You ever seen one before?”

  She shook her head. “Not . . . like that. Only in a funeral home.”

  McDougal sighed and ran a hand through his hair as his gaze flicked to the house and then back to her. “I’m not sure which is creepier—the satin-lined coffin and the professional makeup job, or the real deal with the unputtied holes still in the forehead. Anyway, let’s get you out of here.”

  Gwen stared at him. “How did you know Velasquez was shot in the forehead?”