Cooking Up Murder (22 page)

Until a light came on inside.

"She's in there. In the office." I flicked off my flashlight and backed up as far as I could, but because of how high up the window was on the wall, I still couldn't see anything. Even Eve standing on tiptoe couldn't catch a glimpse of the person inside. I shook my head in frustration. "We've got to see what she's doing. We might be missing something important."

Before I could remind myself that sensible women didn't do unsensible things, I manuevered the first packing crate into place.

"You're not--" Eve began, but one look at the set of my chin told her I was.

It didn't take more than a couple minutes to place three crates one on top of the other like stepping-stones.

Using Eve's hand for support, I carefully made my way to the top of the stack. From my vantage point, I could just see over the ledge of the window.

As I expected, Beyla was in the office. What I didn't expect, though, was that it would still be as much of a mess as it was the last time I'd looked inside. Why hadn't Yuri cleaned? How could he work in such chaos?

I recognized the questions for what they were, the workings of a mind too obsessed with cleanliness, and snapped myself back in focus. I watched Beyla kick her way through the flurry of paper on the floor. She hurried across the room.

"What's happening?" From the darkness below, I heard Eve's anxious question. "What's she doing?"

I shushed her with a wave of my hand and kept watching. From what I remembered from my peek into Drago's office, there was a small safe right under the window. Sure enough, Beyla headed that way.

Trouble was, the closer she got to the window, the less I could see of her.

I stood on my toes, and caught a glimpse of the top of Beyla's head.

I craned my neck, but I couldn't see much of anything except the occasional glimpse of her black clothing.

She moved a little farther to her right, and suddenly, I couldn't see anything at all.

Now it was frustration fueling my every move. I braced my hands against the window ledge and pulled myself up off the packing crates.

Success!

Suspended like a gymnast, my feet dangling and my arm muscles screaming in protest, I watched Beyla grab the corner of the red and blue area rug nearest to the safe. She yanked back the carpet.

I couldn't tell what she found there; I only knew it was something important. Beyla breathed a sigh of relief. When she looked up, she was smiling.

She was also looking right at the window.

Instinct took over--and instinct told me to run for cover. Not exactly an easy thing when you're hanging like a salami in a deli window. I lowered myself back to the packing crate, feeling for a foothold. When my sneakers touched, I settled myself and squatted down, out of range of the window and Beyla's gaze. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Until I scooted forward and my knee hit an exposed nail.

I felt a sharp pain and the warm trickle of blood, and though I knew it wasn't serious, I reacted like anyone would have: I jerked away.

Unfortunately, I moved too quickly.

The stack of packing crates shifted and tilted. From somewhere down in the darkness, I heard Eve gasp with horror.

Then the crates went out from under me, and a noise exploded inside my head. In perfect rhythm to its wailing, pulsing sounds, I sailed through the air and tumbled into the darkness.

Fourteen

I MAY HAVE MENTIONED A TIME OR TWO THAT I'M
quite possibly the most logical person on the planet.

Logically, when I woke up, I expected to find my arms and legs twisted like pretzels and my head cracked open against the pavement.

So naturally, I was amazed when I came around a few minutes (hours?) later, and the first sensation I had was that of being cradled in warmth.

The second thing I realized was that the noise I'd heard right before I fell--a shrill, whiny sound that made my nerve endings tense like the grating sound of nails on a blackboard--still throbbed inside my head.

I ignored the wailing and concentrated on the warmth, trying to forget the sensation of spiraling through the darkness. I smiled and let myself sink farther into what I assumed was some sort of concussion-induced delusion.

I was snug.

I was comfortable.

I sighed and turned my head, settling further into my daydream and wondering if instead of delusional, I might actually be dead. Maybe I already had my wings and was perched up on a cloud, like one of Rainbow DayGlow's adorable cherubs. No, it didn't account for the noise, but it went a long way toward explaining my contentment. And the gentle warmth that pervaded every cell in my body, like sunshine after a storm.

I rubbed my cheek against the smooth something next to my skin and let myself drift back into oblivion. Until I realized the softness against my cheek felt like fabric. More specifically, like denim. Way more specifically, like blue jeans.

My eyes popped open, and at that moment I knew for sure that I must be delusional, dreaming, or dead.

Because Jim was looking back at me.

"It's about time!" My head was on his lap, and it jostled slightly when he spoke. The light was pretty much nonexistent, and my thoughts were soft and hazy, but still, I could see the relief that washed over his expression as he peered down at me. I heard it in his voice, too, right there next to a note of urgency. "I was beginning to think I should really be worried. Are you all right? Can you move?"

Did dreams speak with Scottish accents? Did they roll their
r
's? Were their thighs lean and muscular, and when they moved--just a little so that I could get more comfortable--was a thrill supposed to tingle through my body?

I wasn't about to take any chances. I didn't want the answer to any of those questions to be
no
. I closed my eyes so that I could go back to sleep and keep on dreaming.

"Oh, no you don't!" Jim nudged me. "I may know more about cooking than I do about medicine, but I do know that going to sleep probably isn't a good idea right now. And medicine aside . . ." He glanced toward the street, and when I followed his gaze, I didn't see Eve. "We've got to get out of here."

"But . . ." I tried to sit up, but I was either too weak or just unwilling to leave what undoubtedly was the best lap I'd reclined on in years. I sank back down. "What happened?" I asked him. "Where's Eve? Why are you here? You weren't. Not when we got here. Not when I climbed on the crates."

"Aye, the crates." Funny how an accent that's so scrumptious one moment can sound so ominous the next. Especially when the person wielding it is annoyed. "Have you no sense at all, woman?" he asked. I decided it was a question I didn't have to answer. Besides, Jim didn't exactly give me time to get a word in edgewise. He made a sound of disgust as he slipped an arm around my shoulders and helped me sit up. When I wobbled, he propped a hand behind my back. "You might have been seriously hurt. You might have been killed. Why on earth would you take the chance of doing something so daft?"

"Why?" I brushed a hand over my ear. When that didn't make the noise stop, I gritted my teeth and braced my hands against the rough pavement on either side of me. "We followed her," I said with as much indignation as I could muster. And if Jim couldn't see the importance of that, well, I'd just have to explain it to him another time. Maybe when I was capable of stringing together more than three words into a coherent sentence. "She was looking. For something. I had to see. What it was. There was no way. Except the crates."

"So you risked your life because of this goofy investigation."

Goofy? I'd take that up with Jim another time, too. Like when he wasn't trying to help me to my feet, and when my head wasn't spinning, and my legs didn't feel as if the bones hadn't been yanked out of them and replaced with rubber bands.

"Didn't risk life," I told him, even though the fact suggested otherwise. "And even if . . . It doesn't matter. I'm fine." They were brave words, but now I knew I had to put some oomph behind them. I pulled myself out of the circle of Jim's arm. The world wobbled a little more, and as casually as I could--so Jim wouldn't see and accuse me of covering up, even though that was exactly what I was doing--I propped a hand against the brick back wall of Arta.

"Good as new. Better! I know more, much more than when I got here."

While I was busy justifying the new, daredevil me, Jim grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the mouth of the alley. I suppose being a new woman, I should have stood my ground and refused to budge, at least until I had the full story about what was really going on. But new woman or not, there was something about the feel of his skin against mine that made it impossible to resist. When he moved, I moved.

Except for my head whirling and the pavement rising up at me in waves, I think I did a pretty good job of it, too.

"But . . . Eve . . ." I looked back into the alley, hoping to penetrate the darkness. "We can't leave--"

"She's gone on ahead," Jim told me. "I'll tell you later. When we're away from here." We were just about to step from the alley onto the sidewalk when a car turned into the street. With no warning, Jim grabbed me, pushed me back into the shadows, and pressed himself against me to shield my body with his.

"What on earth?" I exclaimed. OK, it's true, any woman who brushes Jim off needs to have her head examined, but there were extenuating circumstances here. Like the fact that things were moving too fast for me. I slid away from him and did my best to sound like the new, self-assured woman I was.

Which would have been easier if I didn't find myself pushing away from him one moment and gripping his arm the next to keep from toppling over.

"Why are you in such a big hurry?" I demanded. "And where's Eve? And what--?"

The car that had turned into the street passed by, and Jim let go the breath he'd been holding. He tugged me onto the sidewalk. "You hear that noise?" he asked.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. "You mean you hear it, too?"

"Aye, I hear it right enough. Do you know what it means? The window you were looking in must have been wired, and when you fell, you knocked against it and tripped the alarm. If we don't get out of here--"

I got the message.

And even if I hadn't, the sounds of a police car racing down M Street . . . well, that pretty much sealed the deal.

Jim led the way. With one arm around my shoulders to steady me, he hurried me as quickly as he could in the opposite direction from M Street. We stagger-stepped into a parking lot just out of range of the pulsing red and blue lights from the police car that screeched to a stop in front of Arta.

"Time to get out of here," Jim told me.

I was all set to agree until I saw our mode of transportation.

When Jim stepped up to a big, black motorcyle, I hung back. "Oh, no." I shook my head. Not a good idea for a woman who was dizzy to begin with. "I can't ride on that. It's too dangerous. And you'll drive too fast. And there are no airbags, or seat belts, or--"

"Would you rather be arrested, then?" Jim held out a helmet.

It was a damn good question.

I plunked the helmet onto my head and buckled the straps under my chin. When Jim patted the seat behind where he was already perched, I gulped down a breath for courage and climbed on.

He didn't have to tell me to wrap my arms around his waist. He didn't have to tell me to hold on tight. I figured out the part about squeezing my knees against his thighs all on my own, too, and wondered if he knew that when he expertly threaded his way through traffic and we headed as far away from Arta as fast as we could, I slipped back into the dream I'd been having back in the alley.

The one that was all about warmth, security, and the all new but surprisingly not so bad combined sensations of speed, danger, and excitement.