Slay it with Flowers (13 page)

Silence frosted the air behind me. I imagined long, fragile icicles dangling from floral arrangements, thin sheets of ice glazing the wooden floor, unsuspecting customers windmilling their arms as they slid across the room. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

With a wedding on my shoulders and a pair of disapproving eyeballs on my back I made my exit, fairly pushing my mother out the door ahead of me. It wasn’t that I was trying to escape from Grace’s inevitable lecture, but—well, yes it was.

“I didn’t want you to say anything in front of Grace,” I explained as I tucked my mother into her van. “She has this crazy idea that I’m a meddler.”

“You get that from me,” she said proudly.

I assured her I would show up for dinner at the club the next day, then I took off for the deli, where I had two honey-baked ham and baby Swiss cheese sandwiches prepared. No cold chardonnay in stock so I grabbed a bottle of pinot grigio and a bag of chips. Then, armed with my excuse for dropping by, I headed for Marco’s bar.

“He’s still on the roof,” Gert told me.

I carried my bundle past the bar that was now buzzing with patrons downing burgers and beer and watching golf on the overhead television and stowed it in Marco’s office. I managed to snag a tablecloth, two wineglasses, and a spare votive candle from a supply cabinet, then I unfurled the checkered square on the light gray carpet, set out the food picnic-style, and lit the candle for effect.

Now to find my prey.

To get to the roof, I had to exit the building and climb a fire-escape pull-down ladder on the alley side. I had no problem grabbing the wrought-iron ladder and tugging it down to my level, but I ran into problems climbing the rungs in a short skirt. Luckily, the alley was deserted, or someone would have had a daring view.

Marco was standing near the front edge of the roof, a shovel in his hands, examining the results of his handiwork when I stepped onto the hot black surface and shifted my skirt back into place. He was the only man I knew who could look sexy in denim bib overalls. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt underneath that showed off his great biceps didn’t hurt any either.

“Do you hire out?” I called.

He turned and gave me that half grin that drove my insides into an Irish jig. “Depends on the job.” He held up a bucket filled with black goo. “Need anyone tarred and feathered?”

“I’ll give you a list.”

He watched me approach, his eyes smoldering with what I imagined to be burning desire, but when I got up close I saw that his gaze was instead brimming with laughter. “What the hell did you do to your legs?”

“Long story. Too warm up here to tell it,” I said, fanning my face. My legs had started to itch from the heat but I didn’t want him to know. I walked over to the front edge and gazed down at the square. “Cool view.”

“Not if you’re working with tar. Then it’s a hot view.” Marco came to stand beside me and we gazed together.

“What are you doing for lunch?” I turned to look at him and my head started to spin, maybe from the antihistamine, or maybe from the smell of hot tar. Whatever the cause, the effect was instant dizziness. I gasped as I swayed toward the edge, where I had a quick view of the roofs of the cars parked alongside the curb below. A hand clamped around my arm and yanked me back from the brink of death.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, as though nothing had happened.

What I had in mind at that moment was breathing again. Once that started up, I felt an overwhelming gratitude for Marco’s quick reflexes. My first instinct was to throw my arms around his neck and shower him with grateful kisses. But since I was already pressed against his hot body, gazing up into those sexy brown eyes, I wet my lips and said, “How about a picnic?”

“Here?”

“Come with me.” I led him across the roof to the ladder. And that’s where I had to stop, because there were now people in the alley below who appeared to be digging through a trash bin. If I went first, those people would have a view I wasn’t particularly inclined to share. If Marco went first and I backed down after him—I still wasn’t inclined to share the view. Some things are better left for the dim light of a candle.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, peering over the side.

“I’m not dressed for descending a ladder with people below.”

“I’ll go first.”

“Wait.” I grabbed his arm before he could start backing down. “Let me go first.”

“But you just said—”

“Pay no attention to me. I’m high on antihistamines.” And not only that, but I didn’t know the people digging through the trash, so what did I care if they saw my pasty white thighs?

I made my way down the ladder, feeling for each rung with one foot, then the other, until I hit bottom. I stepped out of Marco’s way, shifted my skirt into place, and turned to gaze into the stunned faces of the assistant pastor of my church and his wife.

“Hello, Reverend McCrory,” I said sheepishly, feeling my entire head turn red with mortification.

“I thought that was you, Abby,” he said.

He had recognized my thighs? I tugged my skirt lower and introduced the couple to Marco. Then, being female, I had to ask, “Why are you digging through the trash bin?”

“We’re looking for our daughter’s retainer,” the pastor explained. “She wrapped it in her napkin and didn’t remember it until after we’d left the restaurant. Naturally, by the time we returned, the table had been cleaned.”

“I’ll get someone out here to help you,” Marco promised, and went into the bar through the back door, leaving me to stand there with my bitten legs and red face, making small—actually minuscule—talk until a busboy came out to assist.

“Nice to see you,” I called, and darted through the door before it closed.

Marco was talking to someone at the bar, and when he saw me, he signaled that he’d be right there. I went ahead to his office to light the candle.

Standing in his doorway, staring at my little feast, he said, “You weren’t kidding about the picnic.”

I held up the pinot grigio. “I even brought wine.”

Sitting on his carpet with my knees tucked beneath me, gritting my teeth against the carpet fibers that rubbed my itchy skin, I divided the food and poured the wine. Marco practically inhaled his sandwich and in between swallows muttered things like how he’d worked up quite an appetite on the roof, and how thoughtful I was to bring food, and how sorry he was that my legs were in such a state, making me feel almost guilty for my subterfuge. Almost, but not enough to prevent me from doing it.

He polished off his second glass of wine and the rest of the chips, then leaned against the wall with a satisfied sigh and a glimmer of curiosity. “Are you going to tell me where you got those bites or am I supposed to guess?”

I laughed lightly and waved him away. “You’ll never guess, but give it a whirl.”

“You were at the dunes last night and the sand fleas got you.”

My smile turned wary. “That’s right.”

Marco placed his fingers against his temples and shut his eyes, as though he were a fortune-teller. “I see you with a guy—in the sand.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“I’m getting another picture now—sand dunes, water, blood—wait, it’s a
murder
scene, with witnesses and police and—who is that young woman elbowing her way to the front? Why, it’s Abby Knight, of all people. What could she be doing there? Could she be meddling?”

“You talked to Reilly, didn’t you? Listen, Marco, Jillian asked for my help. The police arrested her groomsman based on flimsy evidence, and if he isn’t cleared soon, the wedding is off.
Off,
Marco! That means I’m out a load of money that I desperately need to pay my bills.”

He held up a palm. “I’m getting something else . . . kind of fuzzy . . . A ruse designed to trick me into helping you with the case. Now, what could that ruse be? Could it be a picnic?”

He opened his eyes and fixed me with a knowing look. The jig was up, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I hadn’t lost the bet yet.

“You’re completely off base,” I said with dignity, then got up on my knees to gather the goods, at which point Marco tackled me and we landed in a heap on the carpet, with him braced on his hands above me.

“Who bet me that the next time she came here it would
not
be to ask for help?”

“Have I asked?”

“Were you going to?”

I pushed against his shoulders. “Let me up, you oaf.”

He lowered his head so that I was staring straight up into those sexy eyes. “Fess up, sunshine, and I’ll consider it.”

His male scent wrapped around my sensibilities, raising my pulse rate and making me go soft and gooey in the center. Instead of thinking about a witty comeback, I started thinking about what I could do to make him kiss me. “And if I don’t confess?” I said in a suggestive manner.

His mouth curved, his lips dangerously near mine. “You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do,” I replied, and then, instead of waiting for his comeback, I said, “Oh, hell,” and grabbed his head and pulled his mouth down to meet mine.

We kissed hard, lips moving against lips, fingers threaded through hair, eyes closed. His mouth tasted like grapes and his body felt like iron. I’d never been that intimate with Marco. I’d never even dreamed about it. But if I had, it couldn’t have done that kiss justice. He had the technique down pat.

We kept it up for several long, glorious minutes, making me start to wonder where it would go from there. Would this change our relationship? For better or for worse?

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door staccatolike, and Marco was on his feet before I could blink, muttering oaths under his breath.

“W
ho is it?” Marco barked as the rapping continued. “Jillian Knight. Is Abby in there?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I whispered, as Marco pulled me up by the hand. “Tell her I’m not here.”

“Abby?” Jillian called, beating the door with the palm of her hand. “Is that you whispering? Are you in there?”

“She’s here,” Marco replied testily, and flung open the door as I hastily smoothed my hair and clothing.

Jillian stood in the doorway in a gauzy mint green summer outfit that looked like it had come straight from the runways of Paris, her hair a shimmering copper waterfall, her skin glowing with just the right amount of color, and not a bite on her anywhere. She took a look at the mess on the floor and turned to give me an innocent stare. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Take a wild guess,” I said in a lethal tone, tempted to inflict at least one bite on her perfect skin.

“Were you asking Marco what to do about Flip?”

Marco took a seat behind his desk. “She was just getting to that.”

“No, I wasn’t. We were having lunch, Jill. That’s all. Just lunch.” I glowered at her.

Jillian heaved a sharp sigh. “Well, when
are
you going to ask him? I don’t have forever, you know. My wedding is less than three weeks away.”

“What makes you think I’m going to ask Marco anything?” I countered, while the subject of our discussion leaned back, folded his arms, and put his feet on the desk.

“I win,” he said smugly.

“No, you don’t. I didn’t ask you for help. Jillian did.”

“I didn’t ask Marco,” Jillian shot back. “I asked
you.
”

“Have a seat, ladies, and let’s get on with it,” Marco said with a resigned sigh. “I don’t have forever, either.”

“How did you know I was here?” I asked Jillian, flopping into one of the black leather chairs.

Jillian sat down carefully, so as not to wrinkle her outfit. “Jingles told me.”

“The window washer knew where I was?”

“Jingles knows everything that happens on the square,” Marco commented blandly.

“How did you know to ask Jingles?” I asked my cousin.

“Grace said he’d know.”

“How did Grace . . . ?”

“Ladies?” Marco said, swinging his feet to the floor. “I have a business to run. What do you need to know?”

I opened my mouth and Jillian spoke. “My groomsman has been charged with murder, and I need to get him uncharged so I can get married.”

I rolled my eyes at Marco. “She went to Harvard. I thought I should point that out.”

Jillian eyed me with disdain.”What’s wrong with you?”

“You can’t
uncharge
a person. You have to clear him.”

“I uncharge my credit cards all the time.”

“Sorry. No such word.”

She swiveled to face me, her fists planted on the slim belt around her waist. “The people at Nordstrom’s don’t have a problem understanding me, Miss Law School Reject. If you can charge, you can uncharge.”

Law School Reject? Jill was playing dirty now, just like she did when we were kids. And I was always the one who got in trouble afterward. But that was usually because I had decked her. “Listen, Miss Flunked College English Twice—”