to see you hobbled, just in case you have to outrun our killer.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or Ashford.”
“Peter is being a perfect gentleman.”
“Are you sure he isn’t gay?” Jack asked. “If you were in my house, you wouldn’t be sleeping across the hall.”
Carlotta angled her head. “Do you have a house, Jack?”
“We’re going to be late,” he said, easily changing the subject. “Believe it or not, my job consists of more than watching your sweet ass, as entertaining as that might be.”
“Where’s your partner?” Carlotta asked. “Getting her beauty sleep?”
“Marquez is with the Gibbies, going over the profile for The Charmed Killer.”
Carlotta harrumphed. “I thought she had decided it was someone with the last name Wren.”
“She never suspected you.”
“Right. She only suspected that I was planting those charms on the bodies after the fact.”
“She’s just doing her job.” Jack gave her a pointed look. “We all are.”
“Meaning you haven’t ruled out my father as the maniac who’s going around murdering women?”
“Personally, I think Michael Lane is a more likely suspect.”
She frowned. “I got the impression that you didn’t think it was Michael.”
He averted his gaze. “We’re still working out the time line.”
“I suppose that’s better for Randolph,” she mused.
He tapped his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Right.”
Carlotta turned off the lights, then grabbed her purse and carefully reset the alarm before stepping into the garage. Jack followed and pulled the door closed behind him, sweeping his gaze over the structure that was finished with details nicer than most home interiors. Carlotta depressed the button for the garage-door opener. As the door rose, it ushered in morning light that bounced off the mirror finish of the sleek little two-seater sports car.
Jack caught her eye and grinned. “I could take the Porsche if you’d feel safer driving the sedan.”
“Nice try. Just don’t rear-end me.”
“Gee, you didn’t mind the other day,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
Carlotta glared at him, then opened the door and swung into the Porsche, admittedly nervous. As she adjusted the seat to accommodate her shorter legs, her pulse tripped higher. What if she did do something to Peter’s car?
She put her hands on the steering wheel and forced herself to relax. As long as she was careful and drove slowly, what could go wrong? She was allowing the luxury of the car—of Peter’s life—to intimidate her. Which was ironic, considering that if she’d married him, she’d probably have a fleet of luxury vehicles to choose from on any given day. Feeling more confident, she pressed the button to lower the convertible top, determined to enjoy the car to its fullest.
She turned over the engine and held her breath as she slowly backed out of the garage into the circular driveway. Beautifully shaped pavers surrounded a tall concrete fountain that dropped sheets of crystal-clear water into a tulip-shaped basin. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Jack sitting in his sedan, waiting to pull out behind her. He gave her a wry little wave. She exhaled and shifted into Drive. So far so good. The engine purred around her like a vibrator set on low speed. The distinctive hood sloped down and away from her. She felt sexy and powerful, wrapped in leather, a light breeze lifting her ponytail. She lowered her sunglasses and sighed. She was meant for this life. Carlotta pressed the gas pedal and the car surged forward as if it had been let out of its cage. She knew how it felt.
Suddenly a screeching noise sounded and a blob of scratching, snarling fur landed in her lap. Terrified, she yanked the wheel and tried to hit the brake, but wound up hitting the gas instead. The car lurched forward.
Into something hard enough to stop it cold.
The cat, meanwhile, acted as if it was possessed and climbed her shoulder, emitting humanlike screams. Carlotta flailed at it with her hands, but it sunk its claws into her scalp. She shrieked as pain shot through her head.
Then suddenly, the attack ceased. She glanced up to see that Jack had removed the deranged cat.
“Scat! Get out of here!” he shouted. “Carlotta, are you okay?”
She pushed her hair out of her eyes and was struck with horror—she had plowed the left side of the Porsche into the fountain. She nodded, then burst into tears. “Peter’s going to kill me.”
Jack sighed. “He’s not going to kill you. It’s just a scratch down the side. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”
He reached in to help her slide to the passenger side, then she heard him curse and felt herself being ripped out of the seat. A horrific crash sounded, followed by the splintering of glass.
When Jack set her on her feet, she turned around. The top of the concrete fountain had fallen through the windshield of the Porsche and was now resting in the driver’s seat among torn metal and leather, exactly where she’d been sitting. Water from the broken fountain gushed into the open convertible.
Jack made a rueful noise. “Okay, now Peter’s going to kill you.”
7
Carlotta waved as Peter drove away in his SUV.
“Ashford took it better than I would have,” Jack admitted as he held open the door for her at the midtown APD precinct.
“It’s just a car,” Carlotta muttered, feeling like a naughty child.
“Right. It’s a good thing you’re wearing that belt you call a skirt.”
“Peter’s a reasonable man. He knows it was an accident. Besides, like he said—his insurance will pay for the car.”
“True. Now he can get next year’s model,” Jack said drily.
“See? All is well.”
“Meanwhile, what are you going to do for transportation?”
She sighed. “Peter said he could get me a rental, but for now I think I’d feel less destructive riding the train.”
“Since we still don’t know who planted that bomb under your Monte Carlo, I have to agree. But last time I checked, MARTA doesn’t run past Ashford’s subdivision.”
“I’ll figure out something,” she murmured.
He stopped to check Carlotta in at the front desk. She said hello to her friend Brooklyn and followed Jack through a secured door into the bull-pen area that housed workstations, cubicles and offices. The area hummed with voices, printers and the ringing of telephones.
Her
