Weddings Can Be Murder (6 page)

After a few minutes, Carl added, “I can’t see you
not
being good at what ever you put your mind to, Red.”

“Which is exactly why I gave it up.” She took a deep breath. “The Rays don’t fail at things. Rule number one. Actually, rule number one was to keep your pants on, but ‘Thou shalt not fail’ came right after that.”

He lowered a box. “Hard rule to follow, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t set it. My parents did.” She stared at the boxes. “My dad was a doctor. My mom was a lawyer. High achievers. Being successful was important.”

“I meant the keep-your-pants-on rule.” He chuckled.

She looked up and offered him a grin but no comment. But she thought about it. Because in her fantasies, Banderas had—

“So your parents were hard-asses, huh?”

“No,” she said, a little firmer than she intended. “They…loved me. Wanted me to be successful, hence the rules.”

“And did you always follow your parents’ rules?”

“Don’t we all?” she asked, mustering her defenses.

“No, I piss my father off every chance I get. When I was young, I would actually go out of my way to piss him off.”

“I guess we’re different.” But she hadn’t forgotten the love she’d heard in his voice when he’d spoken about his dad.

“Yeah. I’d agree on that one.” He went back to the boxes.

“It’s not like I miss painting. I get to be around art all day. I sell art. I manage the gallery. I don’t even miss it.”

“Right,” he said, but his tone scoffed.

They worked in silence for the next few minutes. The second box contained some books. “That’s how I met Tabitha,” Katie said, wanting to think positive thoughts about her wedding planner. “Tabitha loved art.” She eyed Carl. “She loved contemporary, mostly. Anything in a Picasso style turned her on. But she also loved some traditional pieces, those with a Postimpressionistic feel.”

He pulled another box down. His expression, and a completely glazed-over look, told her he seriously didn’t have a clue what Postimpressionism was, and he probably couldn’t distinguish a Picasso from a Norman Rockwell. Of course he couldn’t. He’d bought a painting that an elephant had done at a fair.

It still felt good to talk about Tabitha, so she continued. “She also had a thing for sculptures. Mostly bronzes, anything to do with the human figure.”

Glancing up, Katie saw the bottom of the box he held was about to burst open. “Watch out!” Not wanting to break any of Tabitha’s things, even if she was dead, or maybe because she was dead, Katie popped up, hoping to hold the bottom together—but it was too late. The bottom of the box gave way and its contents spilled out. Operating on instinct, she’d caught one item—a hair dryer,
maybe, she wasn’t sure—before a book, clothing, and other paraphernalia rained down to the floor by her shoes. Then she got a good look at the paraphernalia.

A pair of fur-lined handcuffs.

A whip.

A black bustier, complete with garters and fishnet panty hose.

Oh, and she hadn’t imagined the book. Its title was something like
Positions You’ve Never Tried
.

That wasn’t all.

There was also a pack of never-before-opened edible panties—in wild strawberry flavor.

And last, floating down and landing on the toe of Katie’s two-inch heels, was a pair of fire engine–red crotchless panties.

A deep husky laugh exploded. That’s when Katie noticed that the “hair dryer” she thought she’d been holding was actually a very big penis-shaped vibrator, complete with an electrical cord.

“Oh, yuck!” She dropped the vibrator. It rolled to her shoe and she kicked it away.

His laughter slacked off just enough for him to speak. “Looks like art wasn’t the only thing that turned Tabitha on.”

The house was dark, as if his sweet Katie wasn’t home. And that was okay. He’d be waiting for her. Tabitha’s killer parked down the street and moved quietly. The bitter cold ate through his black jacket, but the temperature kept everyone inside—which would make it easier.

No one to hear her pretty cries.

“Poor little Katie Ray.”

He checked again to make sure there wasn’t a car parked out front. No more mistakes. He closed his eyes and hummed to keep the laughter from ringing in his head.

He remembered her. She was beautiful. Red hair. Of course, he liked brunettes best. It was easier to pretend they were Maria.

Normally, he didn’t feel the urge so soon. It had only been a couple of weeks since he’d taken his last bride. But the whole thing with Tabitha getting suspicious had made him antsy. And when he got antsy, he remembered. Remembered how beautiful Maria had looked in her wedding dress. Remembered how she’d walked down the aisle. How she’d stood in front of everyone he knew and started laughing. Then, trying to control herself, she’d leaned in and said, “I can’t do this.”

He’d known she laughed when she got nervous, but right then it had felt so personal. No one at the church could have heard what she’d said to him; they’d only heard her laughter. And before long someone else was laughing. And he had stood there humiliated in front of everyone, listening to them laugh. Just as they’d laughed when he was a kid.

Then Maria had run out of the church.

Fighting off the past, Tabitha’s killer shook from the cold. He pushed open the wooden gate that led to Katie’s backyard. He needed a bride. Needed to hear them cry the way Maria should have cried. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths before he started humming again.

“Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.”

In the distance, a dog barked. Then a spray of headlights danced through the slats of the wooden fence. Was that her? “Welcome home,” he whispered, and went to hide in the shadows. As he leaned against the house, he smelled smoke from the neighbor’s fireplace. That’s when he realized what he’d do with the cop and woman locked in at Tabitha’s place.

He’d always been fond of fires.

Settled in, he pulled out his cell phone and a small tape recorder. He always liked to let them hear the music before he moved in. It was, after all, their song.

Les parked in front of Katie’s patio and frowned when she didn’t see any lights on in the house. Where was Katie? Les had waited another half hour at the restaurant and had called her cell phone and her home phone, but had only gotten voice mail and the message machine.

Still sitting in her car, Les noticed the storm had passed, but tiny balls of sleet clicked against the windshield. Had Katie gotten caught in the storm and held up by traffic?

Finding the key, Les darted for the front door. The cold sent shivers down her back, and she wished she’d
brought some real winter clothes with her. But Houston wasn’t supposed to get this cold. Freak of nature, the news had called it.

She stepped into the dark entryway. The heater kicked in, groaning like an old house. Katie’s place was too young to groan. But it still groaned. A spooky kind of groan, too.

Locking the door, she scanned the darkness for a light switch. Her mind shot to the stranger who’d held her hand when the lights had gone out. A simple touch, but she’d had sex that felt less intimate. Which meant one thing.

She needed to get laid.

Her mind accepted the idea, but her heart rolled over laughing that she even thought she was ready. Her hormones and heart didn’t see eye to eye.

She found the switch. Light flooded the room at the same time as the phone rang.
Katie?
She darted into the dark living room.

She found the receiver. “Hello?” No one answered. “Katie?”

Still nothing, but she could hear someone breathing. “I’m wearing a red bra and a thong. What are you wearing?” she snapped. Short intakes of air filled the line and then she heard…music. “Hello?” The line clicked off.

Les collapsed on the sofa. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stared at the ceiling. What if Katie had been in an accident?

No. Not Katie, too
.

Her chest tightened.

Looking at the phone she still held, she dialed Katie’s cell number again. It rang, then went to the recording. “Katie, I’m getting worried. Call me. I’m back at your house. I’m…”

The heater clicked off, replaced by a scary-movie kind of silence. “I’m sure you’re fine. Traffic, right?” Les popped up and went to the back door to make sure it was
locked. It was. “I’m going to shower—a long hot shower—and we’ll have a pajama party when you get home. And I’ll tell you about this hot guy I met to night. He made my wow voice go off, Katie. Of course, I’m not ready yet. Okay, call me.”

She had no sooner hung up when a sudden clatter came from outside. Swinging back to the door, she hit the light switches. Light flooded both the living room and outside on the patio.

With her nose pressed to the cold, glass panel of the back door, she cut her eyes left. Nothing.

Right. Nothing.

Of course, nothing. Just the wind.

Telling herself Katie was fine and it was only the storm outside, Les went into the bedroom. Yep, a hot shower sounded good. She turned on the radio so she wouldn’t have to hear the heater bitch about spewing warmth. Her clothes came off, landing here and there. Yeah, she was a bit of a slob. A slob compared to Katie, who was, well…perfect.

Naked, but realizing Katie might call, she did the streak into the living room and grabbed her cell phone to take with her into the bathroom. Katie would call or come home soon. Surely.

Katie reached for a new box. She’d confiscated some packing paper to clean up the mess they had both left on the floor. Just like a man, Carl hadn’t offered to help, but at least he’d said thank you.

So far they’d found books and dishes. And in a big box, she’d found a foldout bed—just one—and oh yeah, that one box of sex toys. Which Carl, aka Mr. Banderas, hadn’t stopped snickering over.

He let out another chuckle.

“You can stop laughing now,” Katie snapped. “It’s rude to laugh at someone who—”

“Whoa!” He held up his hands. “I’m not laughing at Tabitha. I’m laughing at you.”

“Me?” she asked.
Well, that’s much better then. Not!

“Yeah. The look on your face was pretty funny.”

“It’s still rude. They were her things.” She didn’t want to get into her feelings about him laughing at her.

“And I don’t see a thing wrong with them either,” he said. “I mean…” One of his eyebrows shot up. “I figure most of you women have toys. All the girls I hang out with do.”

“And what kind of girls do you hang out with?” She opened another box and feigned disinterest in his answer. But actually, she waited with an on-the-edge-of-your-seat anticipation.

“No, this isn’t about me. I simply wonder if you have toys.”

She could feel his gaze, could feel her cheeks brighten. Of course she had toys. Okay, a toy. She was almost twenty-nine and she wasn’t a prude. But her toy wasn’t penis shaped. She’d bought the kind over which, if she accidentally died, whoever cleaned out her things and stumbled upon it wouldn’t have a heart attack. Her battery-operated device could be used as a foot massager, or to soothe aching necks.

However, she was not going to start talking sex toys with Carl. Not when every time she’d used the uh…foot massager, the imaginary lover had been a man who looked just like him.

She stiffened. “I think we need to change the subject.”

“And just when it was getting interesting, too,” he said. There was a pause, some rattling of paper, then he spoke again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

“Why do we have to talk at all?” She looked up.

“Because you get nervous when it gets quiet.”

Okay, it was true, but she didn’t like him pointing it out. “Oh, I know a subject. How about the dog you lied about?”

The look on his face made her laugh.

“How do you know I lied?” His dark brow creased.

“I heard it in your voice. Like you heard it in mine, when I said I didn’t paint.” She glanced down at the array of dishes in the box. “You don’t even have a dog, do you?”

“I have a dog,” he said indignantly.

She tried to remember what he’d said about the dog that made her think it was a lie. “But it isn’t a big dog, is it?”

The surprise lit his eyes and she chuckled. “What? He’s not a manly dog? Is that why you lied?”

When he didn’t answer, she laughed harder. “What is it? A little Yorkshire terrier?”

He stared at her, then answered. “A poodle.”

Oh, this was too rich. “That tells me a lot about you, Carl.”

“It tells you what?” His eyes stayed on her.

“It tells me that you’re the macho kind of guy who thinks he has to have macho things or he’s embarrassed.” She leaned against the wall and watched him watch her. “So, what happened? Some girlfriend stick you with the dog?” She laughed again.

The sound of her laugher washed over Carl. Never had he heard a more beautiful sound. He didn’t give a rat’s ass that he was the cause of her laughter. She could poke fun at him all day because…Damn, but she was beautiful when she laughed. Her eyes lit up and her mouth—a full mouth perfect for all sorts of bedroom things—melted into the most beautiful smile.

“Well?” she asked. “Is that it? A girlfriend left the dog?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to lie. Her comment about old girlfriends should have had him laying bricks to rebuild his guard. Should have had him backing away from this playful place they’d arrived at. But blast it if he didn’t like this place.

“So you think I’m macho, huh?” He grinned.

“Yeah. So much that owning a poodle offends you enough that you lie about it.” She made another cute face.

“I’m not offended. It’s just not the kind of dog I’d get if I went to get one. Besides, I don’t own it. He was abandoned. I’m probably going to take him to the shelter.”

“Bull. You love the dog. You just won’t admit it.”

“Why wouldn’t I admit it?”

“Because you’re macho,” she repeated with a smirk.

It was the smirk that clued him in. What a second ago had sounded like a compliment, now didn’t ring that way anymore. “And macho doesn’t do it for you, huh?”

Okay, he should cut this crap out. He was flirting, flirting with danger and with a woman so unlike his type. Hell, the type of woman he’d dated, before he’d stopped dating, didn’t blush, didn’t hesitate to fill him in on their do-it-yourself toys. The women he’d dated hadn’t been engaged to someone else.

Plain and simply, he didn’t date the marrying kind. And perhaps that was why she intrigued him. She was just so damn refreshing. And he was having more fun right now than he’d had in years. Never mind that they were locked up in a room cold enough to be a morgue and, appropriately enough, that there was a dead body a few rooms away. Fun, in spite of the cold that dug into his gut.

“Macho isn’t
in
anymore,” she answered.

“What’s in?” He forced his attention to the box’s contents. Doodads. He picked up a figurine. Dust catchers. And women wanted to set them all around a house for
what
reason? He had a box in the attic that Amy had left along with her dog.

“Women want metro men,” she said.

“Metro?” He looked up and watched her shiver. “Men who use public transportation?”

She grinned again. “Metrosexual men aren’t afraid to be in touch with their feminine side.”

He closed the box. “So women want gay men? When did this happen? Don’t tell me, it was the movie.
Broken
Mountain
.”

“
Brokeback Mountain
.”

“Well, something was broken for someone to make that film. Not that I got anything against it.”

Her sexy mouth twisted into another smile. “Metro isn’t gay. Just men who aren’t afraid of being sensitive. Men who aren’t afraid to cry, or admit they like quiche. They may even know how to cook it. Men who put up with overbearing moms. Or”—she pointed at him—“who admit they could like a poodle.”

He set another box down beside her. “I’m not afraid of being sensitive. Hey, I donate blood.” Her expression drew his gaze and kept him talking. “I didn’t actually cry, but giving blood almost brought a tear to my eye.”

She laughed again and he wanted to lose himself in that sound. “I wouldn’t know how to cook quiche—not sure I’d know a quiche if I ran over one—but I’ll eat just about anything that doesn’t bite back. And not to brag, but I cook a mean scrambled egg and can grill burgers and steaks better than any man this side of the Houston Ship Channel.”

Lifting the box lid, he discovered more knickknacks, but his eye quickly went back to her. “I’ll admit I’m not proud of having a sissy dog following me around, but I haven’t used his fuzzy butt for target practice. Doesn’t that make me part metro?”

She studied him. “You can’t admit you like him, can you?”

“I don’t hate him. And hey, I feel bad when I step on him. Which I don’t do on purpose. The damn thing has a foot fetish.”

She shook her head and her red hair shimmered. He let his mind drift to what it would be like to feel it on his naked chest. To feel that mouth moving south. His gaze
cut to the door. They were locked up, it was colder than a witch’s tit, what better way to stay warm than have a few rounds of hot sex?

She brushed her hair back. “Poor dog.”

His dick started reacting to his wayward thoughts. Then he remembered all the reasons getting it on with her wouldn’t be smart. Ahh, but he’d always been more brawn than brains.

Silence fell, and he let it linger before asking, “Your fiancé, is he metro?”

Her attention lifted from the box, and he could swear he spotted half of a frown. “Joe’s a very nice man.”

“But does he cry, cook you quiche, and own a sissy dog and admit to the world that he loves it?”

“He doesn’t cry.”

She pulled the jacket tighter. Carl liked seeing her in it. He’d love seeing her out of it, too. “Does he cook?” The cold made his shoulder ache.