Page 61 of What About Love

Chapter 14

INCESSANT BEEPING FOLLOWEDby the clanging and banging of metal against metal was her wake-up call the next morning. Forcing her lids open, she peered in confusion at the four decades out-of-style popcorn ceiling and recessed lighting over her bed.

Rolling her head to the side, she surveyed the unfamiliar room. Drab walls, ugly green curtains, and dated furniture came straight out of a TV Land rerun ofDragnet. She squinted at the digital clock on the dresser across the room. Making out the first digit, she grunted and dropped her head on the pillow.

Six o’clock was too early to be up. And it was way too damn early for a garbage truck—the cause of the beeping and banging outside her window—to be making its rounds.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, she closed her eyes again, wanting nothing more than to roll over and sleep the day away. This case was taking its toll, both physically and emotionally, so much that after leaving the club past midnight, she’d barely kept her eyes open as she’d driven the borrowed sedan the fifteen miles to nearby Venice and her lonely, unfamiliar apartment.

Slogging up three flights of stairs in heels hadn’t helped and had zapped the last of her energy reserves. Without bothering to look around, let alone change into a T-shirt or nightgown, she’d collapsed into bed in her bra and panties and fell immediately asleep.

Afraid to wonder what surprises today would bring, she allowed herself the luxury of another few moments to doze. At another loud crash and more irritating beeping, her eyes popped back open.

Resigned to starting her day at the butt crack of dawn, she scooted out of bed, doing so gingerly, in consideration of her backside, which had taken two consecutive nights of tenderizing. Moving to the window, she pulled back the green drapes—butt-ugly, olive green to be exact—and peered outside.

The sun was trying to cut through the smog that greeted nearly every summer morning in LA. Through narrowed eyes, she determined some of the haze was dirt on a window that hadn’t seen a good cleaning since the 70s whenDragnethad actually been on in prime time.

“This is the city: Los Angeles, California. I work here. I’m a cop.” Her Sergeant Joe Friday impersonation needed work. “Well, maybe not a cop anymore, but I bet Joe Friday never went undercover and had his ass flogged by a sadist.”

She snickered at her own silliness as her phone rang. Turning, she scanned the crappy room until she spied it on the nightstand. She hurried toward it, scooping it up before it went to voice mail, but hesitant to answer with an unfamiliar number on the screen.

“Hello.”

“Morning, lass. Kieran Finnegan.” As if he needed to say. That Irish brogue washing over her first thing in the morning—like hot coffee, brown sugar, and heavy cream—was as soothing as it was unforgettable.

“Good morning.”

“I’d prefer you stay away from the windows, considering the neighborhood.”

That was an odd greeting and an even odder request, seeing that her aim was to lure in the killer.

“There’s a difference between luring in one predator,” he explained, as though he’d read her mind, “and an invitation to many in your exquisite black lace lingerie.”

“You’re watching me,” she whispered, stepping back from the dingy window. That was as comforting as it was disconcerting, as was the collective hope that the killer would come after her next.

“Always, sweets,” he assured unreservedly. “Better put on a robe. You’ve got a visitor on the way up.”

His disconnect coincided with a knock on her door.

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