Chapter 1 Page 11

  I tried to imagine myself with Internet Joe, but my thoughts kept straying back to Nick. I leaned back in the chair, remembering the touch of his lips. That’s when I saw it, wedged in a cubbyhole of the armoire—the cardboard box from New Orleans Nick had picked up for Carmen. I stood up and looked around to make sure I was alone. The flaps on top of the box were loose. What could it hurt to peek? I leaned over and pulled it out, surprised at its weight. Peeling back one of the flaps, I peered inside, almost dropping the box when I saw the contents. Lying on some tissue paper was a gun, black and ominous, like Berto’s BMW. My hands trembled as I quickly crammed the box back in the cubbyhole and sank into the chair.

  “Doing a little Web surfing, I see.”

  I screamed so loud my eardrums rang. As I screamed, I leaped from the chair, lost my balance, and toppled onto the floor.

  “Whoa, are you all right?” Nick laughed nervously as he leaned over to help me up. “You scared me.”

  “I scared you! What are you doing sneaking up behind me like that? Don’t you know better? How would you like it? How long have you been there, lurking behind me?” My face grew hot. Had he seen me trolling for a mate? Or worse, seen me looking inside the box? As he helped me to my feet, his hands were warm, his face close enough to kiss.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you spooked so easily.”

  I twisted out of his arms and scrabbled for the cordless mouse so I could close the muchas-dates window, but the little bugger had fallen to the floor and slid under a nearby table. I could tell from the gleam in Nick’s eyes, he’d already seen plenty.

  “I was just browsing,” I said, pretending to smooth my pants while I regained my composure. My heart pounded so hard I wondered if he could hear it.

  “Umm, I noticed,” Nick murmured, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “What would Philip think of your…browsing?”

  “None of your business,” I sputtered. Good. He hadn’t seen me looking at the gun.

  Home from the hairdresser, Carmen picked that moment to walk in. “Julie, hey. I see you went back to muchas-dates after all.”

  I clenched my teeth. “I was just looking.”

  “Julie is trying to find a husband,” Carmen said. She might as well have held a blowtorch to my face. It was that hot. I could only hope she wouldn’t tell Nick about the trust fund. No need making him think I was desperate. Besides, it sounded mercenary.

  Nick cocked his head, unwilling to let the moment pass. “I thought Philip was your main man.” His eyes glittered with amusement. “So it is out of sight, out of—”

  “Philip isn’t the marrying kind,” I said curtly. I wanted out, now, but Nick and Carmen stood in my way.

  Nick had moved to the door and leaned against the jamb. From the grin on his face, he seemed to be enjoying every minute of my discomfort. “So it’s marriage you’re after? The ring. The white dress. The church wedding. That’s typical.”

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t like being called typical.

  Nick shrugged. “It’s what most women want, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know about most women. But I know this woman doesn’t like to be spied on.”

  “Hey.” He laughed and grabbed my arm as I tried to get past him, sending a current of heat through me. “I wasn’t spying. Berto sent me in here to get some papers.” Nick walked to the armoire where muchas-dates Joe watched us from the screen. “See, I’m getting them out of this drawer right now. You go ahead and continue your browsing.”

  “I’m done,” I snapped, as Nick left the room, humming. Good riddance.

  But the feel of his hand on my arm lingered, and the pulsing between my thighs didn’t subside until I was back in my apartment and I thought about the gun.

  Chapter Eight

  Carmen handed me the keys to her Lexus. “It’s time for mis niños’ checkup with Dr. Julie, and it’s tomorrow at nine…in the morning.” She shuddered. “I’ll write down directions.”

  Another “Julie,” I thought, ready to identify with this vet-woman because we had names and dogs in common. Though I knew Carmen didn’t do mornings, I also suspected she didn’t want to see the poodles’ nether regions poked and prodded, needles injected, and blood drawn.

  Carmen checked off instructions from a hand-written list. “Rosa will have them ready at the back door at eight-fifteen. Be sure they go big time and little time before you leave. And drive carefully. Don’t speed. Berto says traffic is heavy in the morning. Don’t forget to fasten their seat belts. And give them treats when they leave the doctor’s office. Can you remember all that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll take care of them as if they were my own.”

  The next morning, as soon as the dogs pooped and peed, we were off.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” I said, as we pulled out of the garage. “You’ll get a treat.” I turned around to make sure they were securely strapped into their doggy seat-belt harnesses. Blanco quivered with excitement. Noche looked at me and gave a low bark, no doubt remembering our discussion of Neuticles and wondering if his bark would soon be higher pitched.

  “Just a little checkup,” I said, hoping my voice would pacify them. “Think of it as a grand smelling adventure. You don’t get to go bye-bye in the car all that often.”

  Neither did I. For once, I’d have a chance to see something of the town. Other than my trip to New Orleans with Nick, I’d hardly left the lake house.

  Carmen’s white Lexus glided easily down the hill. I looped around, and soon we were cruising down Lakeshore Drive, aptly named because it wound around Lake Waco before turning into Valley Mills, one of the busiest streets in town. Eight lanes of traffic in places. They should have named it Death Valley Mills considering its fatality rate.

  Traffic in and around Waco was twice as heavy as that in Abilene. Drivers wove in and out at high speeds, jockeying for positions, ignoring red lights and stop signs. They reminded me of taxi drivers in Mexico and Moscow. From fender-benders to major smash-ups, Waco had them. If you really had a death wish, you could always get on I-35 and head for Austin to the south or Dallas-Fort Worth to the north, each only ninety miles away.

  Though Waco and Abilene both had populations over a hundred thousand, Waco seemed twice as big, thanks to all the contiguous communities. One was called Beverly Hills, but it was short on the Beverly, long on hillbillies.

  When we reached the top of a rise just past the water treatment plant, even my excitement mounted. Just ahead of us was supposedly one of the most magnificent views in Waco. I slowed, ready to take in the splendor I’d only read about, anticipating that precise moment when the lake became visible. Suddenly, it appeared in bright blue brilliance. I gulped and my stomach lurched with the sensation we were about to plunge headfirst into the water. Then, the road surprised me, taking a sweeping curve to the left.

  “Hang on, guys.” As we rounded the bend, I peered into the rearview mirror to see how the dogs were doing. Noche leaned sideways and whined. “It’s okay,” I said, using my high-pitched voice. “Almost there.”

  At thirty miles per hour, the thrill was brief, but for those few seconds, all seemed right with the world. I felt free.

  A few minutes later, we pulled into a parking spot in front of the vet’s office. I grabbed both leashes, unbuckled their seat belts, and held on tight. No way were they going to get loose.

  When we entered the waiting room, heads turned to watch the two beauties trot in, sporting fresh puppy clips from the mobile groomer. When Noche heard the “oohs” and “ahhs” and “beautiful dogs,” he preened as if he’d been awarded Best in Show at Westminster.

  I gave the receptionist their names and took a seat. Noche and Blanco sat on either side of me, politely ignoring the yapping of a five-pound Yorkie, who seemed intent on ridding the room of any competition.

  About fifteen minutes later, a pretty young woman in scrubs opened a door and popped her head out. “Esposito?” I jumped up, the dogs shook t
hemselves, and she led us into the examining room. Her navy top bore illustrations of various dog breeds. I looked for poodles and finally found one under her arm.

  “Good morning, I’m Dr. Julie.” I started at the deep voice and hoped the surprise wasn’t apparent on my face—Carmen had failed to mention Dr. Julie was a man.

  “Julie Shields,” I said, reaching out to give his hand a firm shake.

  That’s when I heard my biological clock ticking. I performed a quick examination of Dr. Julie, checking him out as husband material. No wedding ring, though that was no sure sign of availability. Yes, the thought did cross my mind that if we married, my name would be “Julie Julie,” but I could live with that. I added him to my list of possibilities.

  The list now had one entry. I wasn’t counting on Internet Joe just yet.

  Dr. Julie didn’t have Nick’s dark good looks, but he was attractive. Clean cut. No outstanding features, but no outstanding flaws. Another average guy. Certainly not my usual type, but I had to keep reminding myself I wasn’t looking for my usual type. I envisioned our offspring as healthy, outdoorsy kids who would make good grades and not get into too much mischief. Dr. Julie and I would live outside Waco on a ten-acre ranch with some horses and chickens. I’d make fresh omelets for the crew every morning before sending them off to work and school, and then I’d…what would I do? Well, I could worry about that part later.

  First, I had to win him over using my feminine wiles. Since my range was limited, I’d have to rely on my observations of Carmen. She was a pro. When Dr. Julie looked my way, I licked my lips, just as I’d seen Carmen do.

  Dr. Julie took one look and said, “Don’t be nervous.”

  It dawned on me too late that lip licking was not a good technique to use on someone familiar with dogs. It signaled anxiety.

  “Oh, I’m not nervous,” I said, batting my eyes at him instead. He looked away, probably thinking I had a nervous tic. This stuff worked for other women. Why didn’t it work for me? What was I doing wrong? I needed training, that’s what. Someone should open a flirt school for people like me.

  I shifted to Bill-Clinton eyes, the kind that glinted with amusement and said, You’re the sexiest creature alive. Bill had used those eyes on me several times. Not that I knew him personally, but whenever I saw him on TV, he had those eyes, even during his State of the Union addresses. Those eyes, with that look, even lurked behind the seriousness when he said he did not have sex with that woman. Those eyes could make women salivate like Pavlov’s dog. But even my Bill-Clinton eyes didn’t help me. Dr. Julie was avoiding all eye contact.

  After hoisting Blanco onto the examining table, Dr. Julie had no qualms about looking into her eyes, her ears, or feeling her up for lumps. I tried to imagine it was me on the table, but I felt nary a tingle.

  “Do you plan to breed these dogs?” Dr. Julie finally asked.

  Nick asking me that question would have brought on a hot flash. Dr. Julie might as well have asked me what brand of dog food they ate.

  “Oh, they aren’t mine. I’m just helping the owner train them.” Then I added, “I’m a vet tech…from Abilene.” Maybe I could impress him with my credentials.

  If he was impressed, he hid it well.

  “Wait, I remember these two now,” he said. “The owner…kind of high-strung and overly protective?”

  “She loves these dogs and wants the best care available,” I said. I swear I saw a beach in Tahiti reflected in his eyes. With routine testing, X-rays, shots, dental care, sundry illnesses—these dogs were a gold mine.

  Dr. Julie sucked on one of his incisors. “She needs to spay and neuter them. And have their teeth cleaned.”

  “We brush their teeth every day. With their favorite toothpaste, the poultry-flavored.”

  “Seeing some tartar build-up here,” he said, holding up Blanco’s lip.

  “I’ll pass that along,” I said, tired of trying to look cute for someone as oblivious as Dr. Julie.

  “Hand me a cover,” he said to the assistant.

  Did Dr. Julie think I didn’t know that this so-called cloth “cover” was really a muzzle? “Is that necessary? My boss never uses them.”

  A haughty look crossed Dr. Julie’s face. “He’ll wish he had if he ever gets slapped with a lawsuit. Doesn’t matter who they bite. Even if they bite the owner, I can get sued.”

  As she handed him the “cover,” his assistant looked me straight in the eye and said to him, “Here you are, hon.”

  Something sparkly caught my eye, and I glanced toward its source. When the assistant saw me eyeing her big engagement ring, she gave me a smug smile. I scratched Dr. Julie’s name off my lottery ticket of prospective husbands.

  Back in the car, I gave the dogs a drink from their travel bottles. Before I could strap them in, Blanco pushed Noche out of his original seat and took over his side of the car. I waited for them to get settled, then fastened their seat belt-harnesses and looped the car’s seat belt through the strap. Then I split a Pup-Peroni between them, which they gulped down.

  When we stopped at a red light, I felt vibrations from a boom box on wheels. The car beside us had its windows down, and the teenage driver was slapping the door in time to the music, a misnomer if I ever heard one. Noche and Blanco whined, so I turned up the volume on the Lexus’s CD player, hoping the Mexican music would drown out the racket beside us. The light changed and I goosed it, wanting to put as much distance as possible between us and the rap-mobile.

  Finally, I was out of heavy traffic and back on Lakeshore Drive, almost home. We slowly wended our way up the busy street, driving defensively. According to the newspaper, city officials had recently discovered a weakness in the earth under a hill that sloped down toward the lake. At some future time that no one could predict, the ground underneath would give way to a landslide, which would manifest itself as a large wall of earth rising up in the middle of the road. As I got closer to the spot, I felt a surge of excitement tinged with fear, wondering if today would be the day.

  When I saw the police car in my rearview mirror, I didn’t think much of it. According to a local magazine, Waco had no traffic patrol. The police department was too busy fighting crime to worry about minor issues like speeding and running stop signs. Drive-by shooters, burglars, and all kinds of molesters and abusers made the daily news. In the short time I’d been here, police had pulled two bodies from the Brazos River—one still behind the wheel of his car. And yesterday, police had arrested a seventy-year-old constable for indecent exposure in a grocery store parking lot. He claimed he was merely sitting in his car shaking a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Made me grateful the Espositos lived high on a hill in an isolated area.

  I looked in my rearview mirror again. The police car was still behind me. I checked my speedometer. It read thirty, and I was in a forty mile-per-hour zone. I slowed down anyway, feeling guilty for nothing. Soon as I did, I heard the short bleep of a siren and saw the flashing light.

  I turned into a side street rather than stop on the Waco autobahn. Better the policeman think I wasn’t going to stop at all than get smeared all over the street like grackle guano.

  I quickly rolled down my window, shut off the ignition, and dug my license out of my purse. Knowing he would ask, I reached into the glove box for proof of insurance but found only gummy bears, a makeup bag, and a package of dog treats. That’s when I panicked. I rummaged in the side panel, pulling out maps and magazines, but found nothing. Carmen surely had insurance. It was state law, and she couldn’t get license plates without it. I hoped like hell she had plates. I hadn’t thought to look.

  Blanco and Noche heard the officer approach before I did and strained against their seat belts, barking feverishly.

  Heavy footsteps grew louder as I continued my search. A male voice bellowed out. “Hands on the wheel!”

  Did he think I was reaching for a gun?

  “I don’t—”

  “On the wheel! Now.”

  Two run-ins with the law
in less than two weeks. Did I look like a criminal?

  I grasped the wheel as he instructed and stared straight ahead. No need letting some overly zealous rookie snuff me out right here on a quiet, residential street. If I was going to get killed, I wanted it to be a video moment. Jimmy Cagney always made a run for it.

  The officer’s voice rang out again like a shot. “Your license, please.”

  Blanco’s and Noche’s barking grew louder and more ferocious.

  “Ma’am, your license and—”

  “May I take my hands off the wheel?” I sat stiffly, still facing straight ahead.

  “Do it slowly.”

  Very, very slowly, I removed my hands from the wheel. My fingers left a wet impression. I wanted to wipe the sweat off my forehead but was too afraid. I reached over and gingerly retrieved my license from the pile of maps and magazines I’d thrown onto the seat beside me. Without looking at the patrolman, I handed it through the window, then slowly placed my hands back on the steering wheel, hoping he’d forget about the insurance.

  “Ms. Shields, do you still reside at 33 Peasant, uh, Pleasant Place in Abilene?”

  “Pheasant Place.” I tried not to grimace. “Like the bird.”

  “Do you still reside there?” Blanco and Noche were snarling and barking so loud I could barely hear him.

  “Yes. Well, not right now. I’m living here in—” Blanco interrupted with a snarl the Wolf Man would have envied. I tried to swallow and couldn’t, wondering if the cop’s gun was pointed at my head. “I’m living here in Waco at Casa del Lago. Just for the month,” I managed to squeak.

  When Blanco and Noche launched another round of barking, I decided this had gone far enough. “I’m getting out of the car so I can hear you!” If he’d had any sense, he’d have already said, “Step from the car please.”

  “Okay, but do it slowly.” His notebook quivered slightly when I reached for the door handle, and I wondered if I should put my hands in the air for safety’s sake. I turned my head toward the window. As I opened the door, he shouted. “Don’t let those dogs out!”