Knock Off (6 page)

Five

I’m fine. I can do this.
But just in case I couldn’t drum up the calm, casual demeanor I needed, I shifted the handle of my purse into my right hand. It was a handshake-avoidance trick I’d learned from the master—my mother.

Three more steps and I’d be within perfume-sniffing distance of Liam and Drinking Beer from a Long Neck Bottle Barbie.

Liam flashed me a slightly crooked smile. His teeth seemed bright white set against his deeply tanned skin. To my surprise, Beer Barbie was just as friendly. I gave her some mental props. If the situation was reversed and I thought some other woman was poaching Patrick, I’d have tossed her a chillingly polite smile while quietly planning her death.

Liam provided the introductions. “Finley Tanner, this is Ashley.”

She smiled and thrust out her hand. Since I didn’t have any alternative, I slid the handle of my bag up on my wrist. “Nice to meet you.”

Liam grabbed a manila envelope off the bar and handed it to me. “Looks Like Marcus’s car is clean,” he said, leaning in so that he didn’t have to yell over the cacophony of a group of men gathered at the far end of the bar. A large television screen, volume off, was showing a baseball game, and based on their comments, it wasn’t going very well for the Marlins.

Beer Barbie wriggled herself closer to Liam, her warm smile never faltering. Getting up on tiptoes, she whispered something to him, then hooked her arm possessively around his waist.

Whatever it was, Liam didn’t react. At least not that I saw. He has one of those faces that’s impossible to read. I have a feeling he could be giddy with happiness and no one would be the wiser.

These people had history, though, that was for sure.

Beer Barbie’s forefinger was making tiny circles on the fabric just above Liam’s waistband. Personal history. Who am I kidding? History means past, and it didn’t look to me as if anyone had put a period on this relationship.

Liam tapped his finger on the tip of Ashley’s nose. “I’m making this quick.”

“You’d better,” she said. Her pretty smile morphed into an impressive pout. “This is
our
night, remember?”

“I’m supposed to be having one of those, too,” I said, waving one hand in front of my fab new dress. I didn’t really care if she approved of my clothing, I just felt a childish need to prove that I, too, had a man in my life.

Truth be told, I wasn’t bent on proving it to her, really.

It would have been nice if Liam had given some hint that he’d noticed. I might not have surgically enhanced boobs spilling out of a flimsy top, but I looked pretty damned good in my own tailored, fitted way. Good enough to warrant a quick once-over by half the other guys in the bar.

Self-confidence semi-restored, I finally decided that Liam liked them slutty. So be it. Just another reason to add to my growing list of reasons why he was the wrong kind of man for me. Not that he’d been offered to me, but I like to think ahead of the curve.

Liam leaned closer to me, and I got a whiff of his cologne. The classic blend of bergamot, citrus, and honey, with just a hint of coriander, amber, and moss on a base of sandalwood, leather, and cedar was easily recognizable as Hugo. It suited him. As did the lock of hair that fell forward. The only thing completely wrong with this whole picture was my almost overwhelming urge to reach out and brush the midnight-colored strands back into place.

Bad, bad idea.

I didn’t want to make a scene and—oh, yeah—I had no doubt that Beer Barbie could take me. Time to cut this short.

“I’ve got someone waiting,” I said as I tucked the bulky envelope beneath my arm. I glanced at the clock. Some-what pissed since it was already twenty-five of seven.

“Read the report, and watch that tape,” Liam said. “I’ll come by your office in the morning.”

Even though I knew there wasn’t anything on my calen-dar, my reply was, “Call first, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Wait,” Beer Barbie insisted as she dug through her Dooney and Bourke knockoff. She handed me a small stack of business cards. The graphics were nice, and the stock was heavy with a gloss finish.

“Thanks,” I said, still scanning the cards in the less than perfect lighting.

The soft purple print was hard to read until I got outside. Which, as it turned out, worked pretty well for me.

“Eternal Beauty,” I read as I started back to my car. “Full Service Day Spa. Ashley McGarrity, Owner.”

McGarrity?
I remembered the touching and rubbing and decided there was no way in hell Beer Barbie was his sister. Not unless they were the biggest family of perverts in South Florida. Too much touchy-feely to be cousins, either. No matter how far removed. Someone—I couldn’t remember who at that second—had said Liam was divorced.

“That’s one friendly freaking divorce,” I grumbled as I unlocked my BMW, tossed Liam’s sacred envelope on the passenger’s seat, and started the engine. He might be divorced, but from what I saw, he still had an ongoing relationship with her genitalia. I guess when you look like Liam, you get vaginal visitation rights.

Okay, I’m totally in favor of sexual equality, but my support waivers with the whole “friends with benefits” thing.

If I want no-strings-attached sex, I want it with a complete stranger. Not someone who called me in the middle of the night to arrange for a quickie, then calls a week later to invite me to his place for a cookout. How uncomfortable is that? If I ever get that desperate, I’ll buy a vibrator to go with my DVD of Dennis Quaid in
The Big Easy.
In my opinion, the hottest seduction ever put on film.

My cell phone rang just as I was turning south on A-1-A. It was probably Patrick calling to ask if I actually knew how to tell time.

Flipping it open, I quickly said, “I’m on my way. I had a meeting that—”

“Miss Tanner.”

Stacy Evans made my name sound like a childhood dis-ease.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were my boy—next appointment.”

“No, I’m your client. The one whose calls you’ve been avoiding all day.”

Man, this woman had a guilt-o-meter that could give my mother’s a run for her money. Speaking of which, I made a mental note to meet Ricardo for the orchid-replacement ceremony.

“I’ve been working on your case,” I insisted. “In fact, I was just with the investigator, and he’s uncovered a few things.”

“Such as?”

How should I know? I haven’t opened the envelope because I’m on my way to have dinner and some serious sex
with my boyfriend.
“I don’t feel comfortable sharing any specifics until I have more information.” My conversation with Trena flashed through my mind. Why did she tell me about the blood samples? “Would you be willing to sign a release for the medical examiner’s office?”

“A release for what?”

Please, pleeease let me explain this right.
“They keep biological samples for a period of time following autopsy.

I’d like to have an independent forensic lab do a more elaborate tox screen on your husband’s blood.”

“He wasn’t drunk when the car crashed.” I could hear her annoyance level increase with each syllable.

“I know that. But other things can impair a person’s driving. Was your husband on any medications?”

“Just cholesterol pills, but he’s been on those for years and never had any ill effects.”

“No drowsiness? Nothing like that?”

“No. What are you getting at, Miss Tanner?”

“What about cold medication? Something for allergies?

Anything new or out of the ordinary?”

“Not a thing. Are you suggesting that my husband took some sort of drug?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Just trying to cover all the bases.”
Do I tell her about the other dead jurors?
I thought long and hard before I said, “I’ve uncovered a couple of other, um, irregularities, and I just want to make sure to follow up on all the possibilities.”

“I’m expecting nothing less.”

I had reached the entrance to Patrick’s place. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No,” Stacy countered. “I’ll call you at three. Make sure you’re available.”

The line went dead. Apparently I was dismissed. Which didn’t put me in the best frame of mind for my Patrick reunion, which should have been great, but not after that verbal spanking from Stacy. And not when I was already feeling guilty for being late.

Those weren’t the only things bothering me. Thing, actually. Even as I parked and started toward the elevator, I was still haunted by the image of Liam and his ex-wife. It was just abnormal. Divorce was, by my definition, supposed to be final. Hell, my mother’s were so final that by the time the ink dried on the Dissolution of Marriage papers, the ex–Mr. Stepfathers were never heard from or spoken of again.

I fluffed my hair with my fingers and reapplied gloss before reaching Patrick’s floor. I took one deep, calming breath and told myself to put the day’s event behind me.

Turning left off the elevators, I went to the third door on the right and knocked softly. I could hear his approaching footsteps as well as the muffled sound of his stereo through the door.

Patrick greeted me with a broad grin, then an eager kiss.

Any other guy would have ragged me for being late, but not Patrick. He wasn’t big on recriminations, which was just one of his many good qualities. I felt a little pang of guilt as his tongue slipped inside my mouth. He was a great guy, and lately I’d been selling him short. Liam might have zing, but Patrick had everything else.

His palms slid from my face, down over my bare

shoulders, my ribcage, and eventually came to rest on my hips. His pale blue eyes scanned my face, then moved lower. The corners of his mouth curved in an appreciative smile.

I was half-tempted to reach for the buttons of his slate-colored silk shirt but knew better. Dinner first, sex second.

That was the way it worked. That was the plan. Never a deviation.

“I’ve missed you,” he said as he draped one arm around my shoulder and fitted me against him.

“Sorry about the present thing,” I said, rubbing my cheek against his chest. “I had to pick something up for work, and it took longer than expected.”

“You?” he asked. “The woman who prides herself on never working an instant past five?”

Not wanting to ruin our evening, I let that little dig pass. Besides, I still hadn’t gotten my presents.

Patrick led me into the combination living room–dining room. Like the rest of his one-bedroom, it was very male.

I’m really in no position to criticize since decorating my own place is still on my to-do list. Much to the utter mor-tification of my neighbor, Sam Carter, I still have the same black leatherette sofa I bought as a transitional piece five years ago.

Patrick’s tastes were narrow. Everything—lamps, art, pillows, rugs—all of it had some sort of aviation thing going on. Okay, “art” is a stretch. Framed posters, magazine covers, and news articles about Charles Lindbergh cover three of the four walls. The only reason the fourth wall isn’t Lindberghed is because of the huge picture window.

The furniture is big, masculine, and all done in flight-jacket brown. Even his dining table is brown leather. The lamp bases are little bronze airplanes. Not my taste, but, then again, our relationship hasn’t progressed to the one-drawer, one-shelf point. I’m not sure if that fact is good or bad. Normally after two years in a relationship I would have at least given him one drawer in my dresser and he’d have given me one in his. Same with the bathroom. I’d keep one of those cut-yourself-shaving sticks in my medicine cabinet for him, and he’d have some feminine hygiene products handy for me. But with us? Nope, we’re keeping our respective drawers to ourselves.

“Even though you were late, you can still have your presents.”

As if there was ever any doubt. I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Thank that dress,” he teased as his hand fell away from me when he stepped around his flight case to get to the bedroom. He returned a minute later with a medium-sized box and a smaller gift bag. Both were professionally wrapped, and I recognized the logo on the bag. My heart sped. It was from my favorite chocolatier in Switzerland.

The box was black, tied with a gold satin bow.

“This one first,” he said, dangling the bag from his forefinger.

I liked the way his pale blue eyes sparkled as he waited patiently for me to dig past the tissue paper. “Thank you,”

I said, my mouth watering now that I officially owned a one-pound box of my favorite assortment of truffles.

“Now this,” he said, holding another, larger box between us, relinquishing it only after I gave him a quick kiss.

Inside was a silk nightgown in my favorite shade of pink. He might fail miserably at home furnishings, but he was a regular metrosexual when it came to choosing lingerie. Pinching it at the straps, I held it up and said, “You’re amazing. It’s beautiful. Thank you. Want to take it for a test drive?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, but then, crushing my hopes, “We’ll do it right after dinner.”

While Patrick hunted down his keys, I folded the nightgown, put it in the box, and left the box on the edge of the bed. I know I shouldn’t take it personally, but I did.

Patrick’s remark made me feel sexually undesirable. The fact that it had been weeks since we’d last been together, coupled with a sexy new nightgown, still wasn’t enough to veer him off course.

I bet Liam wouldn’t have passed up that kind of offer.

Hell, I thought with a frown, Liam and Beer Barbie were probably already rolling around in the sack. My mind flashed some vivid, x-rated images of Liam in bed.

Now I wasn’t sure if I was pissed at Patrick for not taking the hint, or pissed at Liam for violating my thoughts without permission, or pissed at myself for, well, for just feeling pissy.

I washed away my foul mood with two glasses of pinot grigio before our main course was served. Fendu is one of those intimate places with incredible service, soft piano music, and fabulous food made even better by artistic presentation.

We had a conversation dominated mostly by Patrick’s retelling of his latest hops around the globe. He was animated and passionate when he talked about flying. But I was only half listening. My thoughts kept drifting between Patrick and work. God knew
that
had never happened before.