Unplugged by Lois Greiman Page B

breath. In my mind I was blubbering apologies and confessions like a white guy on the soul train. But the truth dawned on me like a flash of glorious light. No one could have identified me. It had been as dark as hell in the Georges’ backyard, despite the stupid security lights. I’d been sprinting like a Kentucky Thoroughbred, and my car was parked well out of sight.
    Rivera was just yanking my chain. Even if Tiffany Georges had pressed night goggles up to her patio door, she couldn’t possibly have known it was me. Could she?
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Rivera.” I gave him a prim smile. “But you must be mistaken, because I’m not the scrambling type.”
    He stepped closer and leaned across my desk again. He smelled like bedroom. “I hate to disagree,” he said, “but I distinctly remember you scrambling.”
    Memories of a night not so long past trilled along my frazzled nerve endings.
    “I had to put my hand on your ass to . . . assist you,” he said.
    The memory came tumbling back at me. We’d been in Bomstad’s backyard and Rivera had boosted me over the security fence. It had taken all my considerable fortitude to slide down on the opposite side instead of falling on him like a love-starved retriever.
    And despite the fact that he irritated the hell out of me, I was having a smidgeon of the same trouble now.
    “I could have gotten over the fence by myself,” I said. My voice was not the least bit breathless.
    His eyes never shifted from mine. “What fence?” he asked. “I was talking about the night at your place.”
    I felt my throat grow dry and my tongue wooden.
    “You remember it,” he said. “The time you tore my shirt all to hell. You were scrambling like a wild—”
    “I wasn’t in anybody’s stupid yard!” I snapped.
    He raised a slow eyebrow. “Then, where were you last night?”
    “In bed.” I swallowed, wishing to hell I were there now. Or anywhere. Anywhere but here, with him reading my mind like a black-eyed gypsy. “ My bed. All night.”
    His eyes smoldered. Honest to God, like a fire that wouldn’t be doused no matter how much Kool-Aid you pour on it. “So you weren’t dressed like a cat burglar and slinking through Solberg’s sprinkler system?”
    Jesus. Oh Jesus, save me from myself.
    “You have a rich fantasy life, Lieutenant,” I said.
    His gaze burned into mine. “You’ve no idea, McMullen.”
    My lips felt parched. Really. That’s why I licked them. Rivera dropped his gaze to watch the movement.
    Silence screamed around us. He leaned toward me a little farther.
    “Ms. McMullen?”
    I almost shrieked at the sound of Elaine’s voice. I jerked away from Rivera, heart thumping and hands sweating.
    “Yes!” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried for a more restrained tone. “Yes? What is it, Elaine?”
    “Susan Abrams is here for her one o’clock appointment,” she said, but all the while she was giving me her “Is everything all right or should I squirt him in the eye with my mace” look.
    “Thank you, Elaine.” My voice was now coolly melodious. I found that I wanted quite badly to swoon like a Southern belle, but I’ve never perfected the art, and Rivera was staring into my shuddering soul like the devil come to retrieve the damned. “You can send her in in a few minutes. The lieutenant will be leaving momentarily.”
    “Very well,” she said, and paused, giving me one more chance to go for the mace. I declined. She left, closing the door behind her.
    “So you were home last night?” Rivera asked.
    “All night,” I repeated, and found that my hands had gone inexplicably numb. If I was lucky, my tongue would follow suit.
    “Got anyone to collaborate your story?”
    I gritted my teeth. “It is not a story .”
    His eyes crinkled a little at the corners, as if amused that I had skirted the issue. “What time did you go to bed?”
    “You concerned with my sleeping habits, Lieutenant?”
    His nostrils flared slightly. “What time?” he