Blind Date(51)

        

I wasn't about to go anywhere. I stand for a few minutes, gathering myself, and then I turn towards Ace, who has the phone to his ear. I realize when he starts speaking that he's talking to the Chinese place the food arrived from.

"Yes, I'm a detective. You had someone in the last half an hour order two orders of cashew chicken and a fried rice."

He listens.

"Yes, correct. Can you tell me anything about that person?"

He listens some more.

"Was it a male or a female? Did that person come and pick it up?"

He curses.

"Right, and you're sure?"

A mumble and then an exhale. He hangs up the phone and turns to me. "She told me a homeless-looking man came in and ordered the food, then came back to pick it up. She doesn't know who he was. This man isn't stupid-he made sure this couldn't be traced back to him. He must've paid the homeless guy money to do his dirty work."

God.

This just keeps getting worse. "How did he know I was here, Ace?"

Ace rubs a hand over his face, clearly as frustrated and confused as I am with the whole situation. "I'm not sure. He could have been watching the building, he could have seen through my windows. It isn't hard, we face the main road. There could be many reasons. For all we know, he walked down the hall and heard our voices."

I shiver, thinking that he might have been that close. "What do we do now?"

Ace shakes his head. "Nothing we can do. There is absolutely no lead. He made sure of it. Don't stress, we'll throw this food out and wait for our real order. You're safe here."

"I'm starting to think I'm not safe anywhere."

He gives me a look that says he understands. "Sit down. We'll eat when the order arrives, and try to figure out where to go from here."

"Ace," I say, walking over and sitting on his couch. "Do you think you could set him up?"

Ace looks to me, contemplating that. "It's something we could probably look into."

"I mean, if he's playing games, I wonder if we could set him up and trap him somehow … "

"Wouldn't be easy. He's smart, he's probably onto every trick in the book, but it is something I'll think about."

"It was just an idea," I say, crossing my legs. "I don't know much about any of this, all I know is that I want it to go the hell away. I don't sleep anymore."

"I have sleeping pills, if you want one."

I study him as he shuts his laptop down, then joins me on the sofa. It's only then I really pay attention to his attire. Or lack of. He's wearing those long pajama bottoms again, and nothing else. His bronze chest is bare, and shining from his recent shower. He looks  …  God, he looks amazing. I swing my eyes away and stare at the television that he's just turned on. Suddenly more than aware that we're alone together. I wonder if he can feel the tension I feel? 

"I don't think I'll take any pills," I finally manage. "Thank you, though."

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. "Breathe."

"What?" I say. "I am."

"You're holding your breath."

He's right, I am. I exhale in a rush. "How do you pick up on so much?"

"I'm a detective. It's my job to not only watch how people react and behave, but also to work fully off my instinct. I'm good at it. I pick up on tiny little things people do when they're nervous, or anxious, or scared, whatever it might be."

"So you're like a body language expert?"

He snorts. "Wouldn't go that far. I just know when people are feeling certain things by the way they act."

"Really?" I challenge. "What am I feeling right now then?"

"You're nervous because I'm sitting here without a shirt. You've looked at my body three times now. I'd bet any money your heart is racing. You're also terrified by what just happened. You've rubbed your hands over your shorts twice, before fumbling them together in your lap."

I blink, and then glance down to where my hands are indeed fumbling together in my lap.

"I didn't look at you three times!"

I did. I really did.

"Yes you did," he says, eyes still on the television. "You just looked again."

I clamp my eyes shut. "You're starting to freak me out now."

He makes a sound that almost could be passed off as a chuckle. "I'm not the one staring at you. I'm starting to think you have a problem when it comes to staring."

"I don't," I point out. "I just  …  I pay attention."

He grunts.

Whatever.

"Just put something on the television and stop talking."

He glances at me again, this time with a brow raised. "You're a bossy thing, aren't you?"