Well, okay, not in so many words. (She didn’t say please.)
“Go see Dylan tonight, Dix,” she said. “You two have to solve this thing before whoever is committing the crimes and planting this evidence plants more on your mother. I packed you a bag: toothbrush and stuff, cozy pajamas and a housecoat.”
My initial reaction? I couldn’t picture me ‘sleeping over’. But the possibly that Dylan and I would be working into the wee hours of the morning was not a remote one. Best to be prepared.
I took the bag from her. “You be all right here alone, Mrs. P?”
In response, she steered me to the kitchen and loaded my free arm down with the basket of food.
“Always.”
I followed her into the living room. “You could always come with me to the Goosebump to see Dylan.”
She gave me a ‘what-are-you-nuts?’ look.
Why do I get those so often?
“Don’t worry about me, Dix. I’m cozy as can be. You and Dylan just get to the bottom of this.” She started flipping through the channels — numbers getting higher and higher. What was that science fiction channel you were watching the other night? Maybe they’ll play that big monkey-man movie again. King Dong wasn’t it, Dix? Wasn’t that what you hollered out?”
I locked the doors, checked them, twice and made a hasty exit.
And now here I was at the Goosebump.
As I stood there waiting for Dylan to answer the door, the smell of spaghetti sauce wafting around me, hungry dogs were starting to show up. They were looking at my basket with … well, puppy-dog eyes. One particularly pushy Labradoodle was sniffing around my purse. Apparently the Goosebump Inn was pet friendly.
“No way, doggie.”
Lifting my cheesecake-containing purse up out of reach, I knocked on Dylan’s door again, this time a little more desperately. Damn it, he should be around. It was after 9:00 p.m. Surely he wasn’t working at the Wildoh at this hour.
Just as I saw a pair of particularly menacing toy poodles tripping their way along the stone walk heading in my direction, Dylan swung the door open to let me in.
He was barefoot. Wearing jeans. No shirt. Just a towel draped around his neck. His hair was tousled and wet, and he racked a hand through it as he stepped back.
“Sorry Dix, just got out of the shower.”
“No … no problem.”
His room was a hundred and forty degrees. Okay, maybe not quite that hot, but I was fanning myself nevertheless.
He reached for my goodies. I mean the basket of goodies.
But rather than digging in to see what Mrs. P had packed, he set it on the dresser.
I tossed my overnight bag besides it. I doffed my little jacket and flopped myself on the bed. I kicked off my heels one at a time and the thump thump of them hitting the floor was somehow satisfying. But it did serve to remind me of my attire. I was still dressed in Mother’s finest. Which meant I probably looked as good as I was ever going to. Which seemed appropriate, seeing as Dylan was looking positively edible.
I shook the thought away. “Thanks for organizing the lawyer, Dylan.”
“Welcome. From what I hear, he’s the best.”
He bent his head and gave it a quick once over, then tossed the damp towel onto a chair. And, dayum, he made a nice picture. Shirtless, jeans riding low enough to give me a clear glimpse of the iliac furrows that stand out so well on a lean man. Dylan was lean but lightly muscled. And God help me, I badly wanted to trace each of those furrows from hipbone to groin.
With my tongue.
Jesus.
I raised my gaze to the ceiling. Cotton. We’d been talking about Cotton Caron.
“How did you manage to get him?” I asked. “I mean, anyone could have gotten his name, but for him to accept my mother’s case and rearrange his schedule? To be personally available for the bail hearing in the morning? That must have taken some doing.”
“Pulled some strings.”
I lifted my head and gave him an arched eyebrow.
Dylan shrugged. “What’s the point of having a mother in public office if I don’t use that pull once in awhile?”
Well, he had me on that one. Dylan’s mother, Marjorie Foreman, a prominent lawyer herself back in Ontario, was very politically active in Marport City. It was strongly rumored that she’d be a candidate for Member of Parliament in the next federal election. She was hellishly tough on crime. Pro-women and pro-equality. She was also very pro-environment. She had those who loved her for it, and those who hated her just as passionately for it. Hell, she’d probably made as many enemies in the course of her career as I had. But apparently, Dylan’s mother had made a few friends along the way too. Powerful and influential ones.
I sat up on the bed. “And your mom knows Cotton Carson?”
“No, she knows Cotton’s political affiliations.” He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a t-shirt. With eyes I knew were way too hungry, I watched him tug it on. “They have mutual friends who have, well….”
“More mutual friends?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
I rubbed my eyes. From somewhere outside a dog howled. “Oh, Mrs. Presley sent spaghetti for you. I think she fears you’re fading away here without a good home cooked meal.”
“Well, she just might be right.”
I somehow doubted Dylan was starving to death. The pizza box in the corner attested to it. He had that young-man metabolism. The guy could eat enough for a lumberjack and still wouldn’t gain an ounce. Damn him.
Well, kind of damn him. Just a little. I watched him walk across the room.
“You having any, Dix?” Dylan asked, digging out the spaghetti and silverware Mrs. P had packed.
I reached for my purse. “No, it’s a cheesecake night.”
“Hey, any night where the sun goes down is a cheesecake night.”
I saluted him with my own fork (a fork lifted from the restaurant/charge it to the Deputy/thank you very much).
Leave it to Dylan. Five minutes in his presence and I was already feeling better. Why did this guy have that effect on me?
I bit into cheesecake and gave an I’ll-have-what-she’s-having moan. Oh God, that was good.
“Now where have I heard that before?”
Oh boy. I set the cheesecake down on the nightstand. He was, of course, referring to our little rendezvous at mother’s condo last night. When he’d kissed me. When I’d kissed him back. When he’d lifted my shirt and touched me with a thousand promises of more.
“Sorry,” Dylan said. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t. It’s just that … just that….”
“Just that it’s complicated right now. Right?”
He was right of course. About it being complicated. About the timing. But more. I’d checked my heart at the door. Every door. Yes, I felt for Dylan. In every way — physically, emotionally. Holy crap, how could I not care about him? But there was a fine line in life between loving with abandon and being abandoned in love. Between wrapping your arms around someone and having them squeeze the life out of you. Between a tug on the heart and a sharp-bladed knife slowly twisting right through it.
So how could I argue with Dylan’s ‘complicated’ remark?
I couldn’t, didn’t want to. So, I changed the subject.
“So how is security at the Wildoh these days?”
Dylan answered by stabbing his spaghetti with his fork with a little more punch than normal. “Oh great. Just great. I’m thinking of changing careers.”
I shot up a skeptical eyebrow.