I gave myself a couple more beats of basking, then traded my stunner for Maurice’s.38 and backed up against the far wall. Holding the gun in one hand, I grabbed a corner of the duct tape covering my mouth and ripped.
“Holy mother of god!” I cried. My eyes welled up with tears, my hands instinctively going to my throbbing upper lip. I think I ripped off a layer of skin. Or two. Well, on the up side, at least I didn’t have to worry about that mustache wax anymore.
Trying to ignore the fire smoldering on my upper lip, I quickly grabbed my real cell phone from my purse and dialed Ramirez’s number.
For once, he picked up. I tried to explain where I was and what was going on without giving him another heart attack, though I’m not sure I completely succeeded. He was quiet for a second, then let out a whole string of curses, some of which I had to give points for creativity. Once he ran out of curses, he said he’d be right there. I hung up just as Maurice began to twitch on the floor.
Shit. I grabbed the roll of duct tape and, with my own hands still stuck together, awkwardly wrapped it around Maurice’s ankles and wrists. Then, just for good measure, I smoothed a piece over his mouth too. Which, knowing how much that sucker was going to hurt to take off, was rather evil of me. But what could I say? Being duct taped put me in a vindictive mood.
Once I had him bound, I propped him against the tub, then scooted to the far wall and picked up the.38 again, pointing it straight at Maurice as his eyes flickered open in surprise.
He looked down at his bound hands, then up at the gun, his eyes going wide and weepy.
“Sorry, Maurice,” I said, keeping the gun aimed at his bald head. “I had to do it.”
As I may have mentioned before, there are two things in this world I hate more than getting shot at. Birkenstocks (which no matter what kind of pedicure you wear them with, always make a girl’s feet look like they should be drenched in patchouli at a Grateful Dead concert) and sit-ups (the cruelest form of punishment still currently legal). But, I realized as Ramirez tugged at my wrists, I had a third item to add to the list.
Duct tape.
“Owww!” I whined, watching the evil gray strips rip the peach fuzz off my arms.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Ramirez said, dropping another piece on the floor.
“But it hurts!”
“We’re almost done. Just one more piece.” He shot me one of his lopsided grins, then ripped the little sucker off.
“Owww!” I wailed.
Okay, I admit, I was playing up the baby thing just a little. But the way Ramirez had fawned over me ever since he burst through Maurice’s bathroom door, I’d be an idiot not to. The first thing he’d done was grab me in another rib-crushing hug that lasted so long I feared I’d pass out. Then he’d promised he was not letting me out of his sight again. Ever. Okay, so probably a little heat-of-the-moment and unrealistic, but it made my heart go all mushy inside anyway.
After the LVMPD had arrived and taken Maurice into custody (sobbing all the way to the squad car), Ramirez had held my hand while the paramedics checked me out, and Detective Sipowicz (who was looking a little peeved at seeing me yet again) took my statement. Then Ramirez had packed me into his SUV and driven me back to the New York, New York, where he was currently removing the last remainders of my latest encounter with the homicidal Mr. Clean.
“There,” he said, pulling one more bit of sticky tape from my arm. “All done.”
I rubbed my wrists. “It still hurts,” I whined.
Ramirez got a wicked look in his eyes and his lopsided grin grew to Big Bad Wolf proportions. “Maybe I should kiss it and make it better.”
“Seriously? I just almost get killed-again-and you’re thinking about sex?”
He grinned. “I’m male. I’m always thinking about sex.”
“Oh brother.” I rolled my eyes.
“Come on. You. Me. A quiet hotel room.” He looked down at the double. “A big bed…”
Hmmm…I had to admit, he made a persuasive argument. Which became even more persuasive when he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips, whispering a soft kiss along the inside of my wrist.
I closed my eyes, my temperature rising about fifteen degrees.
“Feeling sexy yet?” he murmured against my skin.
I shook my head. “Unh uhn,” I lied.
His mouth traveled upward, nibbling at the inside of my elbow. “How about now?”
I swallowed back a sigh as his sexy day-old stubble skimmed over my skin. “Nope.”
He wrapped one arm around my middle, pulling me flush against his rock-hard body. His mouth hovered over mine, so closely I could feel his hot breath on my lips. “Now?” he whispered.
“Okay, maybe just a little.”
He grinned, showing off that deceptively boyish dimple. “I knew you’d come around,” he growled, his deep voice vibrating against my lips. Then his mouth closed over mine. Softly, slowly, igniting an instant fire that started somewhere in my belly and quickly spread south.
I kissed him back. Hard. Okay, fine, I was female. Around Ramirez, I was always thinking about sex too. So much so that right at the moment, I didn’t care if my legs weren’t shaved, if my underwear didn’t match my bra, or that my upper lip was still red and swollen from my duct tape facial. Screw it. We were all alone, the bad guys with guns were behind bars, and Ramirez was kissing me. Oh boy, was he kissing me.
I shuddered as his hand snaked up my thigh, sliding past the hem of my denim skirt until I was praying to the gods of prophylactics that Ramirez carried protection in his wallet. I wrapped one leg around his solid body, pulling him close, my fingers seeking out his button fly. I was just popping button number two when the door to the hotel room burst open.
“Maddie, guess what,” Marco cried, prancing into the room. “Madonna got us tickets to see Bette Midler! I’m going to see the divine Miz M in person tonight. I am in heaven, dahling, absolute heaven! I am so-” He paused. “Oh. Am I interrupting something?”
I glared at him. If looks could kill, Marco would be one dead duck.
Ramirez made a primal growl that belonged on Animal Planet, then stood up, adjusting his jeans.
“Oops. Sorry,” Marco said with a sheepish grin. “My bad.” He looked down to the pile of duct tape on the floor. “What’s with the tape?” he asked, then got a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Is this something kinky?”
“No, it’s not kinky. Sticky and painful is more like it,” I reassured him. Then filled him in on my run-in with Maurice while Ramirez rebuttoned his fly. By the time I was done, Marco’s jaw was dragging on the floor.
“Oh, honey, you are amazing! You’re the shit. You are the fabbest lady I know. You totally took down a coldblooded killer!”
I hoped Ramirez was getting all this. “Well,” I said modestly, “Dana kind of helped. It was her stun gun, after all.”
“Oh no, honey, it was all you. Oh!” He clapped his hands together. “We have to celebrate. Drinks tonight after the show?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
“Fab! Well, I’m going to make like a cheap stocking and run. I’ve got to find something to wear to fawn over Bette. I’ll, uh, leave you two to your private celebration here then,” he said with a wink before skipping back out of the room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ramirez grabbed my hand and pulled me to him again, wrapping one arm around my waist, the other hand caressing the back of my neck. “Now,” he growled, “where were we?”
He didn’t give me a chance to answer as he zeroed in on my lips. This time more urgently, with purpose. Not that I minded. I had to admit, as my hands roved up to his six-pack that belonged in a Cool Water commercial, my hormones switched into urgent mode too. Ramirez groaned as my fingers moved south to that button fly again. He leaned me back on the bed, falling on top of me. Whoa. Was that a Colt.45 in his pocket or was he just happy to see me?