Unmanned (5 page)

He canted his head a little. “They?”

“Rivera. Lieutenant Rivera.”

He thought about that for a second. “And you think this man meant to…” He shook his head. “…to kill you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. Because he’s dead.”

Manderos’s eyes went wide. “Not the lieutenant.”

“No. The hit man. Someone shot him by my garage.”

For a moment there was absolute astonishment on Julio’s face, but I was still kind of surprised, too.

“Dios mio!”

I nodded, having no idea what he’d said. The King’s English is almost more than I can handle.

“You have suffered a great shock. Yet you are here at work, laboring to help those who are troubled.”

“Yeah, well…” I sniffled a little. “…they’d probably do better just watching Dr. Phil.”

He smiled gently. “I was correct,” he said, “you are the most brave of women.”

I remembered myself sniveling and cursing and crying as I crawled on bloody knees toward the house after the shooting.

“I hate to argue,” I said, “but I think you might be wrong.”

“One moment, please,” he said. Rising to his feet, he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. But in a moment he was back.

“Christina,” he said, gazing at me. “You must not be here this day.

“I—” I began, but he raised a peaceful hand.

“It is good for neither you nor your patients. I spoke with your Ms. Amanda. She has agreed to reschedule everything. I shall take you to dine, then see you safely home.”

“I can’t,” I said. Partly because he was right, I was in no condition to see anyone, including him. But mostly because there was just a shitload of baggage tied up with this guy, and jumping his bones wasn’t going to simplify matters. Not that I would do any such thing, of course. I mean, I’m a classy, well-educated woman with a Ph.D. and everything, but sometimes, when guys kiss me, then die on my property with a bullet in their brains, I feel a little needy.

“Christina…” Julio held me with his eyes. “…you are a strong, capable woman, yes. But even so, you must care for yourself. Eat…”

“I eat enough.”

“Please don’t tell me you think yourself too plump.”

“Okay.”

He smiled and took my hand. “You are a beautiful woman.”

I felt my defenses topple like trailer houses in a windstorm. “That’s what Will said.”

He studied my face with solemn, sympathetic eyes. “The man who died.”

I cleared my throat and glanced out my window toward Sunset Coffee. My hand trembled a little in his. “Yes.”

“Amanda.” He barely said the name above a whisper, but my secretary popped in as if on springs.

“Yeah?”

“I will be taking Ms. McMullen home. Notate any messages she receives but do not call her. She needs some time for rest and meditation. Do you understand?”

“Sure.”

If she did it would be the first time, I thought, but somehow I didn’t care, and let Julio lead me out of my office.

“If you like, I can drive your automobile so that you need not bother retrieving it,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, and numbly pointed to the Porsche. For one crackling, paranoid moment, I considered insisting on driving, but taking a nap on the express lane seemed safer in my present condition, so I handed over my keys.

“A handsome automobile,” he said.

“It’s a friend’s.” I got in. He did the same, put his satchel between us, and started the engine. I dropped my head against the cushion as he pulled smoothly out of the parking lot. But in a moment, a realization struck me; he hadn’t asked for directions. I jerked upright. “How do you know where I live?”

He scowled, eyes concerned. “What?”

“How do you know how to get to my house?”

“I fear there has been a misunderstanding. I meant to take you to my home.”

“Your house! Your—No!” My heart was humping like an unneutered poodle. Yeah, sure, a minute ago I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep my pants on if he gave me a glance from the corner of his Latino eyes, but now I was pretty sure he was going to kill me. Eventually most people give it a shot. I don’t know why.

“Christina, there is no need for you to fear me,” he said, and reached across the seat. Maybe he meant to reassure me, but in that second his bag toppled toward me, spilling a gun into my lap.

6

If you don’t scare the neighbors while copulating, I’m afraid you’re doing something terribly wrong.

—Eddie Friar, Chrissy’s favorite gay ex-boyfriend

“H
OLY CRAP!” I SAID
, and plastered myself against the passenger door.

Reaching out, Julio retrieved the gun, then wheeled to the right and brought the Porsche to an abrupt halt.

But all I could think of was the weapon. It looked cold and black and deadly in his ultra-steady hand. Our eyes clashed.

“I am sorry, Christina. Truly I am,” he said.

I could barely breathe, but my mind was scrambling in circles, trying to make sense of things. To understand why. “Sorry for what?” My voice was breathy. His gaze held mine, firm and steady, just like his hand on the pistol.

“For frightening you,” he said, and after a moment, wrapped his fingers around the muzzle and handed it to me.

I scrunched more firmly against the door. “What are you doing?”

“Christina…” His tone was melodious, his eyes sad, but he could have been Mother Teresa and my heart would have still been thundering along like a runaway freight train. “You have been good to me. Kind when you could have caused me grave trouble. You are brave and noble. I may not possess a bold soul such as your own, but I do not harm my friends.” Picking up my hand, he pressed the pistol into it. The metal was cool, smooth, and heavy. I swallowed, as afraid of the weapon as I had been of him only moments before. “Do you know how to use it?”

I shook my head.

“It is not complicated. One does not need a fine education to take a life.”

“Uh-huh. What the hell am I doing with this gun?”

“You are protecting yourself.”

“From…?”

“Me. And every man who might wish to take advantage of a beautiful woman. Do you feel safe traveling to my house with me now?”

I blinked, but the gun remained, real and heavy and earnest. “Maybe…” I swallowed and tried not to pee in my pants. “…maybe I should just go home.”

He stared at me for a second, then nodded solemnly and shifted back into drive. “How shall I get there?”

He didn’t know my address after all. I thought that was refreshing and kind of a good sign. I believe everyone who’d tried to kill me thus far had had my address locked into their GPS systems.

I told him the directions, then stared down at the gun, turning it in my hand. “What kind is it?” It seemed like it should say on the product, like Doritos or Virginia Slims or other things that are likely to kill you.

“It is a Glock.”

“Is that good?”

He shrugged. “It will discharge a bullet. That is very nearly all I know. That and the fact that you must have protection.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He glanced at me, eyes fuck-me sober. “So that you remain safe.”

“I mean…” I pried my gaze from his, feeling a little bit sorry for myself. People kept trying to kill me, and I still couldn’t have sex with this guy. “Why me? Why do you think these things keep happening to me?”

He thought about that for a moment. Maybe he was afraid that if he gave the wrong answer I might toss myself out of the car, but it was unlikely. The gun looked so much more expedient.

“I believe it is because you are too good,” he said finally.

Here was a theory I hadn’t previously considered.

“You spend your days helping those who are deeply troubled. Do you not think it likely that these same troubles would come to rest on your own weary head now and again?”

I blinked, then thought about his theory as we rolled along the 210. Maybe the interstate was as hair-tearingly horrible as usual, but I didn’t notice. “David Hawkins was my mentor,” I said. “And my friend. I trusted him. Told him things….” My voice faded off. I pointed to my exit. He took it without question.

“I do not know this David Hawkins.”

“He was—
is
…” I cleared my throat, then gave him a few directions, until he finally pulled the Porsche onto the side of the little street I called home. “…a world renowned psychiatrist. And the first man who tried to kill me.”

He stared at me an instant, then got out of the car and came around to my side. Pulling open my door, he reached for my hand.

“Come,” he said. “We shall speak of these things inside.” Perhaps I hesitated a moment, because he added, “You may bring the gun.”

Harlequin met us at the door, bounding and panting. He seemed to have gotten over Swanson’s untimely death pretty well. Julio stroked the dog’s ears and said something sexy in Spanish. Harlequin grinned like a clown. Better him than me.

“I did not know you had a dog.”

I nodded numbly. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No,” he said, and taking my arm led me firmly into the family room. Turning me at the couch, he pushed me gently down. “Today, you think of none but yourself. Consider me your servant,” he said, and raised his arms slightly. “What is your command?”

I stared at the width of his shoulders, his lover’s eyes, and cleared my throat.

“You must be hungry,” he said.

“A little,” I admitted, and set the gun on the cushion beside me.

“Good. Unfortunately, I am a terrible cook. I am not so bad at the ordering, however.”

I kept my gaze firmly on his. I wasn’t some oversexed, tuba-playing, cocktail waitress. “A valuable skill.”

“I think I will place a call to Melisse if that is satisfactory to you. Then I shall mix you a drink.”

I gave him the okay and told him where to find my unspectacular liquor cabinet. He turned away. The view was very nice from behind.

In a few minutes, he returned. The view wasn’t bad in that direction, either, especially now that I knew he wasn’t going to shoot me. I took the drink he offered. It was amber-colored.

“What is it?”

“Taste it.”

I did. As you know, I can’t even hold my Nyquil, so I generally avoid liquor, but this was good stuff. Sweet and rich and strangely satisfying. “How’d you make it?”

He shrugged and sat beside me on the couch. “I am good at only a few things. That is one of them.”

I drank again, impressed. “What are the others?”

He smiled.

“Oh,” I said, and he laughed. The sound was rich and sexy, a bit like the drink.

“Put your feet here.” He patted his thigh. “And I will show you.”

“I don’t think—”

“Christina, please, let me pamper you this once,” he said, and stared at me with those sexy, soulful eyes.

I turned slowly about and settled my feet cautiously onto the couch.

“Perhaps I should tell you—” I began, but in that moment he took my left foot in his hands. Now, here’s the thing, I’m an American. A Midwesterner by birth, in fact, and Midwesterners don’t touch except to copulate and give purple nerples. Hell, they barely talk. So the feel of his hands against my arch was shocking. His smile, on the other hand, was just short of celestial, and when he pressed his thumb up the middle of my sole, I felt myself go into a full-body swoon.

“What were you about to say?” he asked, and massaged again.

“Ummm. Oh, yes.” I’m sure I wasn’t panting. Damn noisy dog. “Rivera and I…
Jack
Rivera…we’re—”

He massaged my little toe. Holy fuck, who knew the little piglet was the center of all things erotic? “You are what?”

My neck had gone rubbery and my mind was about to follow suit.

“We’re…friends.”

He smiled and moved on to the next toe. Lightning zinged straight from my digit to every sex organ in my body. “It is good to have friends.”

“Of course, that doesn’t mean that
we
can’t be…” He pressed his thumb slowly up my sole again. I stifled a moan. “Friends,” I added.

“That is good, Christina, for I wish to make you happy.” His thigh felt hard beneath my heel. It made me wonder about other parts of his anatomy. “I believe you will enjoy the lobster.”

“The…” My gaze zipped nervously to his crotch.

“Melisse is renowned for its bolognese.”

“Oh.” I snapped my hot attention back to his eyes. “The…the…restaurant.”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t decide if he looked amused or bemused.

I nodded spastically and took a drink. “Where…ummm…where is this Melisse exactly?”

“On Wilshire. In Santa Monica.”

I stared. “Are you kidding? That’s half a state from here.”

He laughed. “I have friends, too, Christina.”

“Did you give them foot massages or something?”

He laughed. “Or something,” he said, and sobered. “Tell me of this David Hawkins.”

I scowled. I was just beginning to relax and didn’t want to think about anything but the sunshiny feel of his hands against my skin. Besides, it was kind of embarrassing to admit that the man who’d been my hero was now doing life in a California state pen.

“It may help you to talk about it,” he said.

I scowled, drank, took a deep breath. “David helped me out when I first arrived in L.A.”

“Arrived from where?” he asked, and flexed my toes with the palm of his hand. I let my eyes drift closed for a second.

“Chicago. That’s where I grew up.”

“I bet you were a beautiful child.”

“You kidding?” Was my diction slipping a little? “They barely made a tuba big enough for me.”

He smiled. “Well, you are just the right size now.”

“For a tuba?”

He laughed. “For a man.”

I felt myself blush down to my freshly massaged toes.

“I did not mean to embarrass you, Christina,” he said, watching me. “Tell me more of your childhood.”

I considered refusing, even thought about pulling my feet from his lap, but just then he slipped his hand under my pant leg and massaged my calf. I thanked God I had shaved just that morning.

Happy feelings shimmied up my leg to my groin. I stifled a moan.

“Do you have siblings?” he asked.

“Not unless you count brothers,” I said.

“Boys can be cruel,” he said, voice soft.

I shrugged.

“So this is why you became a therapist.”

“Cocktail waitresses are on their feet too much.”

“And such lovely feet they are,” he said, sketching a circle in my sole. “You are tense, Christina. You should hire a masseuse to help you relax.”

“Yeah? What do you charge?”

He had a laugh sexy enough to make a lesser woman cry. I just sniffled a little and felt my inhibitions waver.

“For you it is free,” he said.

Good God, he was pretty.

I cleared my throat. “And what if I wanted more?”

He frowned, stared at me, absolutely still. “I beg your pardon?”

Holy shit! I’d read him entirely wrong. “I’ll have more,” I sputtered, and lifted my empty glass, covering for my smutty mouth. If I had still been thinking, I would have crawled under the couch at that point, but I’m pretty much toast after one drink. Add a foot massage and you might just as well use me for plant food. “If…if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” He set my legs carefully aside, rose to his feet, and took my glass with a slight bow. “It is an honor to service you.”

My mouth dropped open, but he had already turned away. Oh, crap! Service me? Service…

But he had returned before I could figure out if “service” meant the same thing in his native language that it meant in mine.

I took the new drink and considered dumping it into my lap. “Thank you.” He sat back down and pulled my feet onto his thigh once again. “Is this your specialty…”

He slid his hand up my shin, massaging gently. I barely retained consciousness.

“…drink?” I finished, flushed and stupid and so damned horny I thought I might burst into spontaneous flames.

“Specially for you,” he said.

Was he trying to seduce me? I wondered hazily. But that was ridiculous. If he’d been trying, he’d already be calling a cab and I’d be lighting up a cigarette.

“So you…just guessed what I would like?” I asked.

“I understand women quite well, Christina. It is my job.”

I remembered back to the first time I’d met him. He had had close ties to Salina Martinez, Rivera’s ex-fiancée.
Really
close ties, maybe literally. “How well do you know men?”

He shook his head and kneaded my arch. I held the orgasm at bay. “Men are animals.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “But why do you suppose they keep trying to kill me?”

His expression was sad as he smoothed his hand up my heel and along my ankle. Yikes. “How are you certain that this Will Swanson wanted you dead?”

“He was a hired killer. Rivera said so.”

“But is there any reason to believe he wished to kill
you
?”

“He was here.”

“As am I?”

Was that a warning? A come-on? A threat? The gun felt hard and cool against my thigh. “He didn’t give me a foot massage,” I said.

His smile was slow and sweet. “Maybe he hoped to.”

I blinked.

“I said men are animals, Christina,” he said. “Not all animals kill. But they all survive on their instincts.”

Should it worry me that a male stripper/prostitute was stretching my philosophical sensibilities? “What?”

“Perhaps…” He rolled my calf between both his palms. “…perhaps this Will Swanson wanted nothing more than to spend a bit of time with a beautiful woman.”

“Beautiful—Oh.” I forced my gaze from his dark, magical hands. “You mean me.”

He laughed and slid closer, pulling my legs across his lap. My knee bumped his chest. My heart did a funny little flopping motion. His lips were mere inches from mine, but just then my front door opened and Lieutenant Jack Rivera stalked into view.