wall,
and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Her smile made me uneasy. I couldn’t decide whether to worry about ending up in jail
for the second time in two days or what Charlie would say if she heard someone refer
to her as Montgomery’s girlfriend.
12
“‘Girlfriend’ is a revolting term,” Charlie said some hours later, pointing the business
end of her grout trowel at Detective Connor Montgomery to emphasize her point. “It’s
Barbie and Ken. Middle school.” She slapped more grout onto the tile and smoothed
it with rapid, angry strokes.
“Would you rather I referred to you as my lover?” He was behind her, but she could
hear the lazy smile in his voice.
“But I’m not.”
“Yet.”
His certainty sent tingly warmth from her midsection to her extremities, and she had
to re-grip the trowel after a moment’s pause. “Don’t count your chickens,” she recommended.
He laughed. Glad that the hair falling around her face hid her expression, Charlie
pretended to concentrate on her tiling, deliberately not looking up to see how his
lean face lit up when he laughed, how his brown eyes warmed. With his dark hair and
tall, athletic body, he reminded her of the actor Clive Owen, only with a better sense
of humor.
When he spoke again, his voice was serious. “It’s not looking good for Gigi.”
Charlie swiveled her head to stare at him. “You can’t seriously believe that Gigi
would—could—plan and carry off a murder.”
Montgomery helped himself to a beer from the fridge; surprisingly, Charlie didn’t
resent his familiarity. Her lack of resentment worried her.
“Plan? Probably not. Strangle her in the heat of the moment … The woman stole Gigi’s
husband, Charlie. That sounds like a pretty good motive to me. Gigi’s a large woman,
strong; she could have overpowered Pawlusik physically.”
“I don’t think it’s Pawlusik,” Charlie said, standing, rubbing her ass absently, and
crossing to the sink to wash grout off her hands. When Montgomery arched his eyebrows,
she explained how she’d tried to check out Heather-Anne’s background and come up with
a blank. “When I called her on it—”
“Why am I not surprised?” The hiss of air escaping the bottle as he twisted the cap
accompanied his comment.
“—she said her name was really Lucinda Cheney and she was on the run from an abusive
husband. She wouldn’t give me his name or tell me where she’d been living, although
she mentioned traveling through the South. My guess? Cheney isn’t her real name, either.”
“Lorrimore will track down her real identity through fingerprints,” he said. At Charlie’s
questioning look, he said, “It’s not my case. Conflict of interest. Everyone knows
you and I are—” Charlie’s baleful look made him reconsider his word choice—“whatever
we are. Gigi works for you—with you—so I’m out of the loop.”
“You must still know—”
“Uh-uh. It’s strictly by the book on this one, Charlie. I can’t give you anything.
No lab results, no autopsy findings, no hints about what Lorrimore’s thinking. She’s
a good cop. She’ll get to the truth without your help.”
He gave the final word an ironic twist, and Charlie stuck out her tongue. His hand
flashed out, snagged her around the waist, and pulled her hard against the length
of him. Before she could even think about breaking free, he’d pressed a hard kiss
on her lips. When he would have pulled back, she stopped him with her hands on his
face, and the kiss deepened. It was several minutes before they broke apart, both
breathing heavily. Montgomery’s gaze fell to Charlie’s swollen lips, and his eyes
glittered. “We could—”
“Uh-uh.” She turned away, trying to regain her composure as she tucked her T-shirt
back into her painter’s overalls. “There’s work to do.”
“You don’t even have a case anymore,”
and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Her smile made me uneasy. I couldn’t decide whether to worry about ending up in jail
for the second time in two days or what Charlie would say if she heard someone refer
to her as Montgomery’s girlfriend.
12
“‘Girlfriend’ is a revolting term,” Charlie said some hours later, pointing the business
end of her grout trowel at Detective Connor Montgomery to emphasize her point. “It’s
Barbie and Ken. Middle school.” She slapped more grout onto the tile and smoothed
it with rapid, angry strokes.
“Would you rather I referred to you as my lover?” He was behind her, but she could
hear the lazy smile in his voice.
“But I’m not.”
“Yet.”
His certainty sent tingly warmth from her midsection to her extremities, and she had
to re-grip the trowel after a moment’s pause. “Don’t count your chickens,” she recommended.
He laughed. Glad that the hair falling around her face hid her expression, Charlie
pretended to concentrate on her tiling, deliberately not looking up to see how his
lean face lit up when he laughed, how his brown eyes warmed. With his dark hair and
tall, athletic body, he reminded her of the actor Clive Owen, only with a better sense
of humor.
When he spoke again, his voice was serious. “It’s not looking good for Gigi.”
Charlie swiveled her head to stare at him. “You can’t seriously believe that Gigi
would—could—plan and carry off a murder.”
Montgomery helped himself to a beer from the fridge; surprisingly, Charlie didn’t
resent his familiarity. Her lack of resentment worried her.
“Plan? Probably not. Strangle her in the heat of the moment … The woman stole Gigi’s
husband, Charlie. That sounds like a pretty good motive to me. Gigi’s a large woman,
strong; she could have overpowered Pawlusik physically.”
“I don’t think it’s Pawlusik,” Charlie said, standing, rubbing her ass absently, and
crossing to the sink to wash grout off her hands. When Montgomery arched his eyebrows,
she explained how she’d tried to check out Heather-Anne’s background and come up with
a blank. “When I called her on it—”
“Why am I not surprised?” The hiss of air escaping the bottle as he twisted the cap
accompanied his comment.
“—she said her name was really Lucinda Cheney and she was on the run from an abusive
husband. She wouldn’t give me his name or tell me where she’d been living, although
she mentioned traveling through the South. My guess? Cheney isn’t her real name, either.”
“Lorrimore will track down her real identity through fingerprints,” he said. At Charlie’s
questioning look, he said, “It’s not my case. Conflict of interest. Everyone knows
you and I are—” Charlie’s baleful look made him reconsider his word choice—“whatever
we are. Gigi works for you—with you—so I’m out of the loop.”
“You must still know—”
“Uh-uh. It’s strictly by the book on this one, Charlie. I can’t give you anything.
No lab results, no autopsy findings, no hints about what Lorrimore’s thinking. She’s
a good cop. She’ll get to the truth without your help.”
He gave the final word an ironic twist, and Charlie stuck out her tongue. His hand
flashed out, snagged her around the waist, and pulled her hard against the length
of him. Before she could even think about breaking free, he’d pressed a hard kiss
on her lips. When he would have pulled back, she stopped him with her hands on his
face, and the kiss deepened. It was several minutes before they broke apart, both
breathing heavily. Montgomery’s gaze fell to Charlie’s swollen lips, and his eyes
glittered. “We could—”
“Uh-uh.” She turned away, trying to regain her composure as she tucked her T-shirt
back into her painter’s overalls. “There’s work to do.”
“You don’t even have a case anymore,”
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