Kicking It(72)

“Hey,” she said with a smile, “every family has its skeletons. It’s just yours are more likely to be animated super-ghouls or something.”

“I don’t think those exist.”

“You think that now,” she said, pointing at me. “But life usually proves us wrong.”

We exchanged a final hug, and she climbed into the backseat. The driver shut the door, tipped his cap at me, and the car disappeared down the street and into the darkness.

—

There weren’t many hours left before dawn, but Ethan gave Luc and me both the rest of the night off, promising he and Merit would keep an eye out for intruders. As that would require them to keep their hands off each other, I found the offer dubious. But it had been a long couple of nights, so I didn’t argue aloud.

Luc and I retreated to my room, where I offered a treat for the man who’d traveled half a continent to save me, even when I’d been sure I didn’t need saving.

He lay on the bed in boxer briefs and a smile. When I emerged from the closet, his eyes widened just as I’d hoped they would.

“You’re wearing the boots. And very little else.”

I put my hands on my hips just above the lacy undergarment that covered only what it needed to and smiled cattily.

“If we’re going to be in a real relationship, I figured we should get started on the right foot.”

“Damn right,” Luc murmured, holding out a beckoning hand.

For once in my very long life, I didn’t hesitate.





THE PARLOR





BY LUCIENNE DIVER





“Tell me again how on earth you got talked into wearing booty shorts,” Christie said, with a laugh at my expense.

“Forget the booty shorts—would you take a look at these boots? I look like a fembot alien queen.”

She eyed my knee-high boots with their three-and-a-half-inch Plexiglas stiletto heels and the rest in a silver so shiny I could blind passing motorists. The matching silver short shorts and halter top weren’t see-through, but only because they didn’t have to be. They didn’t leave anything to the imagination.

“They are kind of Hooters-meets–space brothel.”

I groaned, took a step forward, and nearly fell on my face. I should have insisted on hazard pay.

“Okay, enough fun,” I told her. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to walk in these damn things and how not to kill customers for tucking tips into inappropriate places.”

“You should have just sent me in.”

I eyed Christie—five-ten, one hundred and twelve pounds of blond, blue-eyed runway gorgeosity. She was my best friend, and she was tougher than she looked—she had to be. But patrons of The Parlor would probably eat her alive.

“Honey, I can’t afford you.”

“True,” she said without a trace of gloat. She made more in one shoot than I made in two weeks of PI work . . . or longer when times were lean, like now. It’d be a wonderful thing to get on my high horse and say I didn’t take dirty, low-down, cheating-rat-bastard cases (my client’s words), but beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially after the memorable incident a few weeks past with the singing fish possessed by Poseidon, who’d gotten pissy with me and tried his best to flood me out, doing extensive water damage to my office and leaving me with a sky-high deductible and an insurance company that would barely return my calls.

“Anyway, all I have to do is get in, get surveillance photos, and get out.”

She gave me a once-over. “Where are you going to hide your camera?” she asked dubiously.

“Hair clip.” I showed her the gaudy silver bow I’d rigged.

“Better facial recognition if you hide it in your cleavage. That’s where everyone will be looking.”

“Christie!”

“What? It’s not like I’m wrong.”

—

My client—cheating-rat-bastard’s wife, Marta—was convinced her husband was having an affair. He was smart enough to keep it off the credit cards, but his huge cash withdrawals and occasional guilt gifts had painted her a picture. Spontaneous diamond studs were almost always a dead giveaway. But in this case, I wasn’t so sure. I’d tracked her husband, Gareth, all week, and until last night his routine had been that of any other mild-mannered professor. There were no rumors of closed-door meetings with his students, and the only late nights had been spent in the lab with his myopic male research assistant . . . not that that necessarily meant anything.

But last night he’d come here, to The Parlor. He’d pulled an all-nighter, but not at the office or the lab as he’d told his wife. When several hours had passed and he hadn’t emerged, I’d followed him in, inspired by boredom and curiosity.