Unplugged by Lois Greiman Page A

had a chance to look at.
    I glanced longingly toward the door, but I was pretty sure Rivera would notice if I tried to dash past him, so I tidied the papers on my desk and gave him a dignified glance.
    “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” I asked.
    A hint of amusement frolicked around his eyes. He wore a soft burgundy sweater tucked into black pants. They were cuffed at the ankle and rode low on his hips. He looked good—a forbidden cross between Antonio Banderas’s smoldering sensuality and Colin Farrell’s lawless magnetism. But I didn’t care. I had dignity. Screw magnetism. Please.
    “Shall I assume you look so tired because your little geek has finally returned?” he asked.
    I straightened my back and entwined my fingers on the top of my desk. “By my little geek, I assume you mean Solberg?” I said.
    He sat down across from me and stretched his legs out in front of him. His eyes were half-masked and his mouth lifted slightly at the scarred corner.
    “Kind of an impersonal form of address for the love of your life, isn’t it?” he asked.
    I gave him a gritted smile, letting him guess whether I wanted to kill him or laugh at him. “No,” I said.
    “No, it’s not impersonal, or no he hasn’t returned?”
    “You’re the investigator,” I said. “Doesn’t that make it your job to investigate?”
    He shrugged. The movement was slow and languid. His eyes were the color of Scotch whiskey. I’d discovered early in life that I could get smashed on about two tablespoons of Scotch whiskey. I felt a little dizzy already. “So you haven’t been looking for him?” he asked.
    I shifted my gaze back to my desk and shuffled a few more papers into companionable piles. I had reports to file. Clients to see. A heart attack to schedule. Busy me. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I said. “But unlike some people . . .” I paused and gave him a Sweet’n Low kind of smile. “I have real work to do here. Unless you’ve come to accuse me of murder . . . again, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to do my job.”
    He lifted one hand as if to indicate peace. “I don’t think you murdered anyone.”
    “Whew.” I made a delicate swiping motion with my knuckles across my brow. “What a relief. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
    “Just breaking and entering this time. Maybe burglary.”
    My heart jolted to a stop. “And what far-flung fantasy are you living out now, Rivera?”
    Something dark and perilous sparked in his eyes. Temper flexed his jaw. He straightened abruptly, leaning over my desk. “Someone broke into Solberg’s house last night.”
    “Really?” I felt my heart bump to life like a Chinese gong. “That’s terrible. He wasn’t home, I hope.”
    “You tell me.”
    I forced myself to stay in my chair and meet his eyes. “I know you have some strange delusions about Solberg and myself,” I said, “but believe me, he’s not my type.”
    “Really?” His eyes were like lasers. Scotch whiskey lasers. “Last time I checked, he was still breathing.”
    I jerked to my feet. “You f—” I snarled, but I lowered my hackles and tried again. “Excuse me,” I said. My tone was stunningly gracious. My teeth ached with the Herculean effort. “I have clients to see.”
    Rivera rose, too, slowly, holding my gaze the whole time. “What the hell were you doing in Solberg’s house, McMullen?”
    I pressed my hands against the desk to keep the world from tipping me onto the floor like rotting sushi. “I wasn’t in Solberg’s house.”
    “My sources say you were.”
    Jesus God! Sources! He had sources? I wanted sources. “Well then . . .” I gave him a smile. Could be only half of my mouth still functioned. Maybe the heart attack would have to wait until I was done having a stroke. “Your sources are as deluded as you are, Lieutenant.”
    “My sources are his next-door neighbors, who got a close-up view of you scrambling over their fence at threefifteen in the morning.”
    I held my