She grunted in disbelief. “Next time you’re going to pull a stunt like that, could you let me in on it? I almost died of embarrassment.”
“How was I supposed to know you had kinky stuff in your locker? It was the only article of clothing I could find in there besides a uniform.”
“Well, I don’t see how she could have known—unless she talked to Gina.” She narrowed her eyes. “They did smile at each other.”
Marc laughed at her display of jealousy. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s straight.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” he said, aware that he sounded very arrogant.
Lacy crossed her arms over her chest. “Not every woman is after your schlong, Marcos.”
“Well, if I stick with the ones who are,” he said lightly, taking no offense, “I still have a variety to choose from.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“What?”
“Fulfilling a badge-and-holster fantasy for jaded bimbos?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because it’s degrading.”
“Not to me.”
“To them, then.”
He shrugged, because he didn’t care.
“Sidney Morrow is not your type,” she announced, coming around to the point she really wanted to make.
“She’s not yours, either,” he retorted, starting to get pissed off.
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “She might go for it. A bottle of wine, a couple of scarves…”
Over my dead body, he almost said before he realized she was teasing. Then he scowled at his reaction. Since when had he been possessive over a woman—a suspect no less—one who was unequivocally hands-off?
Lacy was right, anyway. She wasn’t his type.
When Sidney came home, Marc and Lacy settled in for a brain-numbing evening. Stakeouts were always tedious.
From their vantage point inside the hotel room they could see Sidney’s front doorstep and the south side of her house, complete with one bedroom window, blinds closed. The street she lived on was moderately busy, as was the enticing stretch of sand beyond.
After opening the windows to let in a hint of breeze, she walked out the back door in a demure black Speedo and bare feet.
“That’s the ugliest swimsuit I’ve ever seen,” Lacy said.
He grunted in agreement.
On the beach, Sidney didn’t sunbathe or stroll along the shore but swam straight out into the Pacific and started doing vigorous laps.
After thirty minutes she came out of the waves like a wet seal, sluicing water off her arms, black bathing suit clinging to her. The Speedo was a crime against nature. It flattened her breasts and covered everything from neck to upper thigh, thoroughly disguising her shape.
As she approached the house, they switched their attention to the video monitor, which gave a view of the side yard. She turned on the outdoor shower, her back to them, and he noticed the sleek muscles in her shoulders.
Especially when she peeled down the upper half of her suit.
The shower had block walls on both sides and a pair of shuttered wooden doors in front that parted, saloon-style. It was a perfectly modest setup, except that the angle of the camera allowed them to see down into it.
“You put the camera there on purpose,” Lacy accused.
“No,” he said, his throat dry. This scenario really hadn’t occurred to him. Videotaping a subject without their knowledge, in a place where they had the reasonable assurance of privacy, was illegal. Bathrooms, locker rooms and bedrooms were off-limits. An outdoor shower was kind of a gray area.
Until now.
“I wouldn’t have…” Whatever he was about to say was lost, because she pushed the swimsuit off her hips and turned around.
“Oh my God,” Lacy murmured. “Who would’ve thought she was hiding a body like that underneath those horrible clothes?”
Marc had to admit his wild speculations hadn’t done her justice.
Her rose-tipped breasts were lush and natural, a sight he could appreciate in this age of implants. Her belly was sleek and flat, her hips flared out sensually from a slim waist and her legs…they went on forever.
“We shouldn’t be watching this,” he said hoarsely. There was a protocol for surveillance, and ogling naked women in the shower didn’t follow it.
“Definitely not,” Lacy agreed, making no move to turn off the monitor.
Hugging her arms around herself, Sidney felt the hot press of tears against her eyelids as the cool shower spray pelted her back.
She couldn’t stop the barrage of images assaulting her senses. Anika Groene’s red-marked body. Candace Hegel’s sea-ravaged face.
Yesterday, Candace had been alive. Last night, she’d been fighting for her last breath.
Sidney should have done something.
She could have done something.
Shutting off the water, she grabbed the towel hanging on the shower wall and wrapped it around her dripping body. In the kitchen, Marley was waiting expectantly for her dinner, reminding Sidney that she hadn’t eaten, either.
While her cat munched on dry food, Sidney munched on cold cereal and milk at the kitchen countertop, staring mutely at the blank television screen. When the phone rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. Hands trembling, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Sidney? Is that you, dear?”
Who else would it be? “Yes, Mama.”
“Thank goodness. I’ve been trying to get through to you all afternoon.”
“Really?” Her message machine showed no calls. “I was at work.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
Her mother had a selective memory. She often “forgot” about the kennel, and any other detail of Sidney’s life she didn’t approve of.
“I was so worried,” she continued. “Samantha called yesterday.”
Sidney
