We headed down the hall that ran the length of the house to a door marked PRIVATE. As we descended the interior stairs to my living quarters, I told Dani about Rafe’s strange behavior and about my run-in with the limo.
“What’d they say before they ran you down?” Danielle asked as we emerged into my sun-drenched kitchen.
Although I loved the natural light, it did tend to spotlight the worn areas in the lichen-colored linoleum that was probably laid down before the Iron Curtain went up, and the stained grout on the turquoise tiled counters, remnants of an unfortunate redecorating effort in the 1960s. As soon as I had any money to spare, I was redoing the kitchen. “Zilch.”
“Have you considered the possibility this was just some poor chauffeur waiting for his employer to finish at the day spa? He probably thought you were a celebrity stalker or something.”
I ducked into my bedroom to change, but left the door open so I could hear Dani.
“It wasn’t a celebrity,” I called, shucking off my ruined dress and reaching for a pair of green capris. “The car had diplomat plates.” I hadn’t learned much from my confrontation with the limo, but I had noticed the license plate as it sped away; the familiar blue and white bore the country code “PR.” I didn’t know what country that was offhand, but I could Google it later.
“Fine. So it was an ambassador getting a hot stone massage, not Tom Cruise.”
Pulling on a green-and-white-striped T-shirt, I slipped my feet into white espadrilles and joined Dani. She was seated at the kitchen table, watching a cardinal splash in the birdbath in my backyard. It’s not really a yard-just a ten-by-five brick patio surrounded on three sides by a three-feet-wide grass border-but I keep multiple birdfeeders and the birdbath filled and have a bunch of containers brimming with flowers and herbs, so it attracts a lot of birds and butterflies.
“Finally,” she greeted my appearance. “Let’s get going. I’m starved.”
Over a Greek salad at the Falafel Hut two blocks east, I told her about Rafe’s erratic behavior in recent weeks. The spicy scent of gyros and the sound of kitchen clinkings permeated my story.
She took her time answering when I finished, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin before saying, “Maybe you’re just a teensy bit too interested in Rafe’s activities for an ex-fiancée?”
“What? You’re saying I’m making this up? That I’m jealous?”
“Making it up-no. Jealous…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s only been a few months. You can’t expect to be over him so soon.”
“I was over him the minute I caught him in bed with Solange,” I said. I gulped some iced tea and choked, earning stares from the family standing in line to order.
“Uh-huh.” Dani took a bite of her pita-wrapped falafel.
“Don’t uh-huh me like that. Just say what you’re thinking.” I glared at her.
She gazed back calmly. “Okay. I think the most likely explanation is that Rafe has another woman on a string and you like poking at the wound. Maybe catching him with another woman would be even more vindication for you, or something. It’s not like Solange was the first time he cheated on you. It’s just that she was the first one you caught him naked with so you couldn’t ignore the evidence.”
Damn. This honesty thing didn’t have much going for it. I blinked back tears, scooping salad into my mouth so Dani wouldn’t notice. An unwelcome thought crept in: Maybe she was a teensy, weensy bit right. Maybe I was still a bit emotionally connected to Rafe. Not in a loveydovey way, but in a woman scorned way, which was almost as bad. I aspired to total indifference.
“You okay?” She lowered her head almost to table level so she could look up into my face, which I kept bent over my bowl. One red curl dipped in the tzatziki sauce.
“Sure,” I mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce. “Peachy. For a neurotic, jealous, spying ex-girlfriend.” I pushed my salad away and flashed her a crooked smile. “You have yogurt sauce in your hair.”
She straightened up, a relieved smile on her face. Using a napkin, she wiped the sauce off her hair. The curl sproinged back into place when she released it. “Good. It’s time to move on, sister-mine. Forget the dirtball. Coop’s brother is in town this weekend-maybe we could double date.”
I curled my lip. Cooper Tate, her boyfriend of four years, was not my cup of tea. He was lanky and serious and did something in security for a local university. For a wild night out, he went to a chess club. I didn’t imagine any man who sprang from the same gene pool would light my fire.
She read my expression and scowled, tossing her utensils onto the tray. “Coop’s a good man. At least he’s never cheated on me.”
That was low. “And he’s never proposed either, has he?” Sisters can push one another’s buttons like no one else in the world.
We glared at each other, then bussed the table and hit the sidewalk. The heat and humidity draped over us like a wet mohair blanket. Feeling bad about my verbal jab, I offered a half apology. “I don’t think I’m ready to go out with anyone yet, Dani.”
After a moment, she muttered, “It’s okay. But you’ve gotta get over him sooner or later. I vote for sooner.”
As we hugged good-bye, I said, “You know, just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean there’s not something fishy going on with Rafe. And if it’s something that can hurt Graysin Motion, I’m going to figure it out.”
Chapter 2
I tackled Rafe about his disappearing acts when he arrived half an hour late for our practice session Wednesday morning. This close to the Capitol Festival and to Blackpool, we were rehearsing two to three hours a day on top of our teaching schedule. Usually we practiced in the morning and taught in the afternoons and evenings. It made for a long day. Yesterday had been particularly long since Rafe hadn’t shown up to help with the evening class and I’d had to recruit Mark Downey to help teach. I was tired and achy and in no mood to put up with Rafe’s mierda del toro.
We were in the ballroom and sun flooded through the front windows. Rafe squinted against the glare and pulled the cord to close the vanilla-colored sheers. All in black-a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to display his muscled arms, and slim pants-he looked fit and elegant as he jumped in place to warm up.
And now his flaky behavior was threatening to wreck all our hard work.
“You missed the Latin class last night,” I said. “And it’s not the first time. What the hell’s going on?” I pulled up one pink legwarmer, hoping the Band-Aids on my knees held. This practice was a shorts and T-shirt affair and I had my long hair in a ponytail draped over my shoulder.
Rafe arched a dark brow. “You sound like a jealous fiancée, querida. Are you regretting-?”
I was tired of all the jealousy insinuations. First Dani, now Rafe. I straightened. “I sound like a pissed-off business partner. I can’t teach all the classes myself. Last night was the third time you’ve blown off a class in two weeks. I can’t count on you; the students have commented on your absences. What’s going on? Does it have anything to do with that limo that’s been loitering out front?”
“What are you talking about?” Rafe’s face was carefully expressionless, but his nostrils flared and I thought he paled.
“Come off it! I saw you get into the limo last week and I went down to check it out when I saw it lurking at the curb again.”
“You what?” Concern, maybe even fear, flickered in his dark eyes.
“I knocked on the window and asked for you.”
He forced a laugh, turning away from me to sort through a stack of CDs by the stereo. The jewel cases clacked. “This is sounding more and more like a jealous girlfriend trying to keep tabs on her lover. Did you expect to find me making love to an exotic woman on the backseat? What did she say?” His voice was casual, but I could tell by the way his eyes cut to me that he was interested in my answer.