Optical Delusions in Deadwood (22 page)

      “Yes. That’s not the most casual conversation to initiate, you know. I hope you appreciate how awkward it was for me.”

      “Is a large latte enough thanks?”

      “Sure, if you throw in a blueberry and vanilla scone.”

      “Fine. Tell me about the tattoo.”

      “There’s nothing to tell. He didn’t have any.”

      “Damn.” Back to square one.

      Natalie peered at my phone’s screen. “Who called? Was it Doc?”

      I’d have thought her obsession with Doc was pathetic if I hadn’t been wondering the same thing.

      “It was Douglas Mann.”

      “No way! You’re kidding me.” She said it as if Douglas had flown down from outer space to make the call.

      “Listen, I know Douglas is a bigwig up in Lead, and I’ve heard he chases a fair amount of tail, but is it so unreal that he would call me?” It was, but I wasn’t going to admit that to Natalie. He probably tried to get into her lucky Cookie Monster panties every chance he could.

      She laughed. “It’s not you, spaz. It’s what George Mudder was telling me in his office about Douglas not ten minutes ago.”

      I stuffed my phone back in my purse, not feeling up to returning his call tonight. “What did George say?”

      “That Douglas was at the Carharts’ funeral.”

      “So what? I bet half the town of Lead was. It was probably an A-list event. It’s not every day a small town has a murder-suicide double funeral.”

      “Yeah, but did half the town pinch Junior Carhart’s fiancée’s butt while giving their condolences?”

      * * *

      Natalie and I bade our farewells to the Mudder Brothers a short time later, the DVD copy of the Carharts’ funeral in my hand. I planned to scrutinize it for any butt-pinching scenes as soon as I had a chance. I walked her to her pickup in the twilight as the rumble of motorcycles echoed off the surrounding hills.

      I closed the door behind her and leaned on her car’s window frame. Her cab smelled sweet and citrusy—Clinique Happy, her current favorite perfume. “Are you sure you don’t want to go out for a drink? Drown some sorrows? Play some pool? There’s nothing like hitting balls around when a man pisses you off, right?”

      She patted my head. “You’re a great friend, but no, thanks. I just want to go home, slip into my favorite PJs, and watch some Bogart on the old talking box.”

      “‘I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners …’” I quoted a line from one of our favorite Bogie films.

      “‘I don’t like them myself,’” she finished, and grinned.

       “Give Phillip Marlowe a little love from me.” I stepped back as she cranked up the engine. “Thanks for your help tonight.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “If you’d have flashed Eddie, I bet we could have gotten a tour of the autopsy room.”

      That made her chuckle. “I had to save something for next time. Night, Vi.”

      I waited for her to turn the corner toward home before hopping in my Bronco and heading into town. I had a certain dark-eyed ghost-sniffer to hunt down and cut into sushi-sized pieces. There was no way I’d be able to sleep tonight until I heard the nasty truth from his own lips.

      First stop: Doc’s office. His car wasn’t in the parking lot, and the windows were dark.

      Second stop: Doc’s hotel room. No car again, just rows of Harleys. When I knocked, a burly bear of a man in holey socks, blue jeans, and a black leather vest answered, expecting pizza and Coke. Turned out a blonde in a little black dress was a perfectly fine substitute in his opinion. I thanked him for his cheek-burning proposition and scooted back to my Bronco before he could slip into his boots and chase after me.

     
What in the hell?
That was Doc’s room, I was dead certain of it. But where was Doc? Was he staying with the redhead now? How long had this little tryst been going on? Days? A week? Longer? No. Really? God, I was such a gullible fool.

      It seemed that Jane hadn’t cornered the market on cheating bastards. I gunned it toward home. Midway there, I changed course and headed over to the library on the off chance he was hitting the books instead of the skinny redhead. His car was missing in action there, too.

      I sat in the parking lot for a minute, resting my head on the steering wheel. My gut burned. My chest felt like it’d been pummeled by a gorilla. My esophagus had a cantaloupe lodged in it. Self-implosion loomed if I didn’t do something, quick.

      I rolled up my windows, locked my doors, and screamed. Then screamed again and again, letting it all out in long, loud bursts.

      After the crazy-rage had finished geysering from my lips, I took a big breath, rolled the windows back down, and shifted into gear. I needed a drink. Something with tequila in it. Or some ice cream.

      To avoid all the motorcycle traffic, I wound my way toward home through back alleys. The sight of Doc’s Camaro in my headlights made me stomp on the brakes. Idling, I frowned at it. He’d parked it in the same weird spot as the other day, a few blocks from his office.

      What in the hell was going on?

      I headed back to the office and parked in my usual spot. The orange streetlights made everything appear to be coated in bronze, as if the Coppertone fairy had paid a visit. I weaved through parked bikes and pickups as heat still rising from the asphalt kept my calves warm. Mixed in with the distant rumbles of exhaust pipes, I heard the twangy sounds of George Strait singing about all his exes living in Texas. Catcalls and wolf-whistles abounded. Deadwood was partying hard tonight, and I was an outsider peeking through the keyhole.

      I closed and locked Calamity Jane’s back door behind me. The fluorescent lights buzzed to life overhead. My mule heels clomped along the wooden floor, doubly loud in the silent office. Tossing my purse on my desk, I pressed my ear to the wall dividing Doc’s office from mine.

      Silence.

      I stepped back and glared at the wall. Was he over there with her? Were they in the back room? Was he kissing her neck, whispering in her ear, slamming her up against the wall?

      My breath rattled in the quiet room, the green jealousy monster crushing my lungs. I walked over to my desk and stared down at the phone. How had I fallen so fast for this guy? So hard? This wasn’t me—the total lack of control, the petty jealousy, the quick temper.

      I flashed back to last month, to his ex-girlfriend’s  reaction to the sight of him standing next to me, her slap, her swearing.

      “Oh, my God,” I whispered. I’d turned into Tiffany. All this time I’d thought her temper tantrum was genetic, that it came with the red hair. But it was Doc. He made women lose their minds.

      Something thumped twice against the wall that divided us.

      I snapped. “You son of a bitch!” I yelled. The rage came from nowhere, overpowering me. I picked up my stapler and hurled it toward the wall, where it hit Jane’s Goals whiteboard with a loud bang. Louder than I’d expected.

      The whiteboard crashed to the floor after the stapler.

      “Oops,” I whispered. That was going to leave a mark.

      A calm settled over me, flowing through my limbs. Mr. Hyde had returned to his lair, leaving Dr. Jekyll to clean up the lab. I skidded over and picked up the white board, wincing when I saw the big dent in the middle of it. A definite mark.

      Crap. Now I had to go buy Jane a new whiteboard. I leaned it against the wall, then picked up the stapler.

      Someone pounded on the front door.

      I screeched and dropped the stapler—right on my big toe.

      Pain shot upward, riding the expressway to my skull. I blinked away tears as I kicked off my shoe, hopping up and down as I turned toward the front door.

      Doc stood on the other side of the glass, arms crossed over his chest, frowning at me. His hair looked like it’d tangled with his fingers; his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was clothed in jeans and T-shirt, his usual attire.

      He pointed at the door handle.

      I hesitated. Looking into those dark eyes that had the power to make my knees wobbly, I was afraid to bridge the distance between us.

      I shook my head.

      He mouthed the words, “Open it.”

      Feeling all kinds of silly, I limped over to the door, unlocked it, and then stepped back.

      He crossed the threshold, his gaze locked on mine. “What’s going on, Violet?”

      “Nothing.” I backed toward my desk. He stalked after me. “I stopped by work to grab a file.”

      “What happened to the whiteboard?”

      “It just fell off the wall.” I tried to laugh, but it came out scratchy with a hint of crazy cackle. My butt hit the edge of my desk. “Weird, huh? Maybe it was that ghost you claim lives here.”

      “You don’t believe in ghosts.” He kept coming. “Why is it dented?”

      “I don’t know. It must have hit something when it fell.”

      “Or something hit it?” He towered over me.

      “Yeah, something like that.” I bent backward as he leaned down, planting his hands firmly on the desktop on each side of my hips, trapping me, his lips level with mine. “Ummm, should you be in here?” I asked. “I mean, with that odor that bugs you and all?”

      “It’s not here at the moment.”

      “Oh.”

      “But you are.”

      “Right.” His eyes were directly in front of me, watching. He smelled sexy as hell, all manly and spicy, making me a bit rummy. “I was just about to leave.”

      “Who’s the son of a bitch?” he asked.

      I froze, as trapped prey tends to do. “What?”

      “You yelled. I heard. Then it appears you threw a stapler at a poor, defenseless white board.”

      “Well, aren’t you just a regular Phillip Marlowe.” I still had Bogart and
The Big Sleep
on the brain.

      “‘Somebody’s always giving me guns,’” he quoted, leaning even closer.

      No fair using Bogie lines to fire me up.

      “Who’s the son of a bitch?”

      I held my ground, not bending another inch. “You are.”

      He lingered, almost touching, his eyelids at half mast. The heat of his breath warmed my lips. “What did I do now?”

      “You kissed a girl.”

      His eyes met mine. I could see flecks of gold around the outer edges of his irises. “I’ve kissed a few in my time. So what?”

      “You kissed her tonight, in the parking lot. Natalie saw you.”

      He grinned, slow and easy-like. “You’re jealous.”

      That tightened me up all over again. I pushed against his chest, backing him up a couple of inches. “I’m pissed.”

      “Excellent.”

      “What?”

      His gaze dipped to my cleavage. “Damn, you look edible in this dress.”

      “Doc, I’m really ticked off here.”

      “I know.” He chuckled.

     
He chuckled!
“I don’t see what’s so fucking funny about this.”

      “Violet,” he slid his hands up my arms, his palms hot. “I didn’t kiss Tiffany. She kissed me—”

      “You’re splitting hairs.”

      “On the cheek.”

      “Still ...” Still what? A cheek kiss was a lot different from a lip lock, I couldn’t deny it. Natalie must have been hallucinating with jealousy by that point. “You hugged her.”

      His fingers trailed over my shoulders, stopping at the base of my neck. “She hugged me—goodbye.”

      “Tiffany said she was glad you were back together again.”

      “Natalie heard that? Where was she, under the car?”

      I wouldn’t be distracted. My gut had to know for sure before it would stop the grinding. “What did Tiffany mean?”

      “I’m taking care of a financial deal for her. Something we set up months ago, back when we were sort of dating. Then all hell broke loose.”

      “Yeah, well, you tend to bring out the deranged side of women.” I kept my hand on his chest, maintaining enough space between us to keep my thoughts from getting all muddled with lust. I wasn’t free of this jealousy cramp yet. “So, when Tiffany said you’re back together, she meant as business partners only?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Will all of your meetings end in touching?”

      “Not if I can help it.” His gaze dropped to my lips. “Will it make any difference if I tell you that she has a boyfriend now?”

      “A little.” Relief made me feel all loose and liquid, as did his hands, sliding around the back of my neck.

      I scratched my fingernails down the front of his T-shirt, teasing.

      He growled deep in his throat. “Natalie was right about one thing.”

      “What’s that?”

      Before I realized it, he’d loosened the clip holding my French knot. Curls tumbled around my face. He tugged on one. “I was kissing a woman tonight.”

      “Who?”

      His lips claimed mine—slow, gentle, soft; exploring, stealing my breath, dragging a moan from me. He tasted like red wine with a hint of temptation, and I was thirsty as hell. His hands delved into my hair, tipping my head back as his mouth grew bolder, his tongue teasing, then seeking. He slid one hand down my shoulder, burning a path along the side of my breast, my ribcage, around my lower back. Then he pulled me against him, his hips pressing in all the right places.

      He pulled back, his breath ragged. “I’m kissing
you
, Violet.”

      “Oh.” I didn’t want to think about Natalie. Just Doc and what I wanted him to do to me. “Maybe you should kiss me again.”

      “There’s no
maybe
about it.”

      His mouth came down on mine once more.

     
Chapter Thirteen

      When I was fourteen, I rode on the Demon Drop—five times in a row. The amusement park ride shot me one hundred feet into the air, suspended me out over a ledge for a count of three, and then let me free-fall almost two-thirds of the way back to Earth. The drop stole my breath mid-scream, shoved my stomach into my throat, and boosted me clear off my ass, leaving me winded and tingling at touchdown.