Humph. She’d ignore that. “Don’t you have some important detective type stuff to do?”
He folded his arms over his chest and smiled. Lazily. As if he had her right where he wanted her. When he’d let go of her hands, he hadn’t stepped back. Her fingers still prickled, and his musky aftershave tickled her nose.
“Figure I won’t have to do any work at all if I just keep on your tail.”
Now why did that make her think of sex? With him? Would he fill up all the lonely places as sweetly as Cameron did?
Bad thought, very bad thought. Scary even.
“You’re very cagey, Detective. First you want me to think Lilah purposely sent me off in the wrong direction, then you hint there’s something strange about Hal and Wendy’s car, now you’re implying I’m a suspect.”
“You are.”
*
Two hours later, Max was still pissed at the detective’s attitude. “The nerve. He actually thinks I might have killed Wendy.”
Though the sun was almost down, the September evening remained hot and the mosquitoes were out. She’d ventured down the stairs to her small deck and taken up her usual seat in the shadow of the big elm that stood outside her window, a cool glass of beer sweating in her hands. She nursed it, savored the foam and the yeasty smell. The air was filled with the soft rhythm of cars whooshing by on the nearby freeway, children’s laughter as they played a game of tag, and the occasional bark of the neighbor’s dog. But in the near dark, Max felt isolated on her back porch. Her landlord wasn’t home—he lived on the main level—and the rest of the house was silent, devoid of college students for the moment. Except for Cameron, Max was alone. She liked it that way.
“He doesn’t think you killed her.” Cameron’s voice came from behind her. “And you’re just pissed because he’s the first man you haven’t been able to wrap around your little finger.”
“I never wrapped you around my little finger,” she mumbled.
He ignored her statement. “You’ve got the hots for him, don’t you?”
“First it’s Nick I’m interested in, now it’s the detective. Make up your mind.”
“With you, it’s probably both.”
Max snorted. “If you weren’t a ghost, I’d say you had your head some place where the sun don’t shine.”
“Anatomically impossible.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Cameron had that sanctimonious, holier-than-thou tone he’d used when he knew he had a defendant by the balls. She’d called it his strutting voice.
Just as quickly, the laughter disappeared. God, she missed Cameron in action. He’d been gorgeous in his three-piece courtroom suits. To die for. Her mood spiraled. She pulled herself out with a dig at Cameron. “I’d think you’d be pissed as hell he suspects me.”
His voice shifted, coming from somewhere to her left. “You wouldn’t be a suspect if you’d listened to me and told him the truth in the first place.”
“If I’d never listened to you, I wouldn’t be a suspect, because I wouldn’t have looked for Wendy’s murderer.”
“You’re looking for Wendy’s murderer because she compels you. Now admit you want the burly detective, and I’ll shut up.”
“I don’t want him.”
“Liar. You were thinking about doing him. You really perked up at that ‘tail’ comment.”
Cretin. She chose to ignore the double entendre. “You’re my husband. You’re not supposed to push me at other men.”
“I’m your dead husband, and I’m just pointing out facts. You liked what we did last night, and you’d like to do it with him.”
God, there he went using that bad word again. Dead, dead, dead. She hated that word. Even if sometimes she used it herself.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Let me go down on you and you can pretend I’m whoever you want me to be.”
“You’re sick.” But she turned hot and moist between her legs.
“You know you want a man’s tongue on you.”
Or a cock inside her. Yes, she wanted it. Badly. “What would the neighbors think?”
“All they’ll see is you basking in the late afternoon sun with a beatific smile on your face. Just don’t scream when you come.”
Upstairs, the phone rang before she could beg him to stop talking and just do it.
She set the beer on the decking and dashed up the stairs to her room. Her answering machine would come on after six rings. Most people never made it past four. Most of the time she was just as happy missing their call.
Except this time, when she’d almost spread her legs in broad daylight. In her own goddamn backyard. Jesus. Saved by the bell had never been more apt.
“Hello.” Her voice was husky, out of breath.
“Max Starr?”
“Yes.”
“Hal Gregory.”
“Hal?” She almost choked on her own excitement.