By the time I got back to the hotel room, my hands had finally stopped shaking, my teeth were no longer chattering together like castanets and, I realized with a stab of regret, I had missed my appointment at the Regis. Not only was I being followed by a stalker and cornered by Mob goons, I was stuck with my mustache until the Fran Drescher sound-alike could fit me into her schedule again. (Apparently when Bette was in town, not only were the low-rent rooms booked, but salon appointments were also in high demand.) After setting up a four-thirty appointment for tomorrow, I flopped down on the double bed and stared at the textured ceiling again, trying to make sense of all I’d seen that day.
What had Larry gotten himself into? By now even I had to admit it looked like something just this side of legal. And from what Maurice said, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. That’s when Larry and Hank had fought, and Hank had started carrying a gun. So what was it? And what sort of “something” did Unibrow have for Larry? Had it been in the trunk? Did it have anything to do with the counterfeit shoes? Or was “I have something for you” code for “I’m gonna snuff you out execution-style”?
I wondered. In fact, I wondered so hard I fell asleep. By the time I woke up the sky had turned into a deep blue and there was a little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth.
I rolled over and looked at my cell phone. The display told me I had two new messages. Still holding out a small hope that one of them might be Larry trying to contact me again, I keyed in my pin number and listened to the recordings.
Unfortunately neither, it turned out, was from Larry. The first message was from Mom, telling me about this charming Mexican restaurant on Beach that I had to try. They served the best mojitos in Palm Springs. In fact, she said, she’d had so many of them last time she was there that she’d ended up seducing Faux Dad right there in the backseat of his Caddy in the parking lot. My mother: Queen of Too Much Information.
The second message was from Ramirez. He said he was running late and would meet me at Il Fornaio downstairs at seven. I glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:15. Yikes!
I quickly hopped in the shower, then set to rummaging through my suitcase for something suitable to wear on my very first date with Mr. I-Wanna-Sex-You-Up. The only problem was I’d packed for a father-daughter reunion, not a Vegas seduction. Unless I wanted him to end the evening with a pat on the head and a bedtime story (which, considering my dry spell was already going into extra innings, I so did not,) I needed new clothes.
I pulled open Dana’s suitcase. Lots of spandex and workout wear. All in size two. I’ve never considered myself a hefty gal, but there was no way I was going to be able to squeeze myself into her itty-bitties. I made a mental note to skip dessert tonight.
I glanced at the digital clock. 6:45. Not enough time to go buy something in the boutique downstairs. That left only one option. I stared at the matching set of leopard-print bags. I quickly pulled one open, hoping to god Marco packed as girly as he shopped.
Bingo.
I found a pink and purple chiffon scarf that was the perfect accent to the low-cut, V-neck cashmere sweater tucked into bag number three. Paired with my black leather skirt and Gucci boots, it presented a pretty decent look even if I did say so myself.
I did a smoky number on my eyes with lots of shadow and mascara. With a little blow-dry and a lot of mousse, I fluffed my hair into a sexy, just-got-out-of-bed look. (Never mind that I had, in fact, just gotten out of bed.) And, just in case, I slipped a couple of Altoids into my purse and put on my Vicky’s Secret black lace thong. If all went well, this would be a first date to remember.
Chapter Eleven
Ramirez was waiting for me at the bar. And I had to admit, as I approached him my stomach did one of those loop-de-loop things like the roller coasters at Six Flags. He was wearing gray slacks, a blazer, and a white button-down shirt open at the neck to show off just a hint of his tan skin beneath. I realized I’d never actually seen Ramirez out of his usual jeans and T-shirt uniform. (If you didn’t count that one half-naked encounter, that is.) Bad Cop cleaned up good. Really good. I was glad I wore the thong.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, planting a little kiss just above my ear. He ran one finger lightly along the arm of my sweater. “Soft.” His mouth quirked up into a wicked half smile. “I like it.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t tell him I’d stolen the outfit from my gay roommate.
With a hand at the small of my back, Ramirez steered me to a table near the back. A handful of other diners filled the cozy, intimate room, holding hands and feeding each other forkfuls of pasta. Soft instrumental music played over the sound system and small, drippy candles at every table completed the air of Northern Italian romance. All in all, the perfect restaurant for a perfect first date. Score one for Bad Cop.
The maitre d’ sat us at a table next to an older couple with silver hair and matching shirts that read “World’s Cutest Couple.” And I had to agree. The man was holding the woman’s hand in both of his and gazing at her like a newlywed. I looked across the table at Ramirez. I wondered if we had any chance of making it that far.
Ramirez caught my gaze. “You look really nice tonight,” he said, his eyes taking on that X-ray vision look as they roamed my body.
I went warm in places I’d forgotten existed.
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
That dimple made an appearance in his left cheek as he pulled out his sexy lopsided grin. He leaned forward, his eyes intent on mine. “What do you say we skip dinner…” His eyes dipped a little lower to my neckline. “…and go right to dessert?”
I gulped. I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the tiramisu. And I was one second away from agreeing when the waiter appeared at my elbow, asking for our drink order. After a quick perusal of the wine list, Ramirez picked out a bottle of Rutherford Hill merlot. Nice. I snuck a look at the price. Wow. Very nice. Score point number two for Bad Cop.
Once our waiter disappeared into the back, we both picked up our menus.
“Decided what you want yet?” Ramirez asked.
“I’m not sure.” I looked down at the list of entrees. “Everything looks so good. How about you?”
“Oh, I know what I want.” I looked up to find him staring right at me. Or more accurately, at the hint of cleavage my Wonderbra was lifting out of Marco’s sweater. I did one of those dry gulp things again and hoped I wasn’t blushing too hard.
“So,” he said, folding his cloth napkin onto his lap. “How was your shopping trip today?”
“Shopping?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, shopping. You were supposed to go shopping today, right?”
I bit my lip. Oh yeah. Right. “I, uh, kind of took in some of the local sights instead.” I quickly buried my nose in the menu, pretending I was concentrating really hard on the ingredients of the linguini marinara so he didn’t see the guilty look in my eyes.
No such luck. Ramirez put a hand over the top of my menu, slowly lowering it. “Local sights?”
“Uh huh,” I said in a tiny voice. Frighteningly like the one I used to use when my Irish Catholic grandmother caught me sneaking cookies before dinner.
He narrowed his eyes further. “Such as?”
“Um…Larry’s house and Maurice’s condo.”
“Maurice?”
“Hank’s boyfriend.”
Ramirez muttered a curse. The world’s cutest couple turned and gave us a look.
“What exactly were you doing at Hank’s boyfriend’s house?” Ramirez asked.
“Just, you know…asking a few questions.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” he asked, rubbing at his temple in exasperation.