Free Unmanned by Lois Greiman Page B

kissed my cheek. I didn’t turn to see Rivera’s reaction.
    “I’m sorry,” I said instead, but Julio laughed and leaned close, lips nearly touching my ear.
    “You need not apologize for a man in love,” he said quietly, and bidding Rivera adieu, stepped onto my stoop and shut the door.
    I gaped after him. A man in…What?
    “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Rivera snarled.
    I turned on him in a haze.
A man in…where?
    “Fuck it! Why don’t you just put a gun to your damn head?”
    I felt a little dizzy. “What are you talking about?”
    “Shit!” He paced, jaw flexing. “He come to check out your garage, too?”
    My brain shifted, ground gears, started spinning. “He’s a friend.”
    “A friend!” He barked a laugh, jabbed a finger toward the door. “He’s a fucking gigolo.”
    I felt my temper start to fume. “What other kind would there be?”
    “You so desperate you’re willing to pay for it now, McMullen?”
    I stopped the words about to spill from my mouth and took a cleansing breath. “Why are you here?”
    “Why the hell was
he
here?”
    “I told you. He’s a—”
    “He’s a damn murder suspect!”
    My hands went numb. “What?”
    He glared at me. “He was at Salina’s house the night she died.”
    I blinked, paused. Feeling was already tinkling back to my extremities. “So were you. So was I, for that matter.”
    He held my gaze for another second, then jerked it away, pacing again. “He’s a damn whore,” he said, but he sounded sullen now, seething.
    “He’s a—”
    “And my old man’s gopher,” he snarled. I couldn’t tell which term he found more distasteful.
    “What does that have to do with—”
    “What was he doing here? What does he want? Maybe the good senator
was
innocent of Salina’s death, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe from him.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Murder!” he growled, and stormed across the room toward me. “Death. Stupid-ass gigolos who think my father’s a fucking saint. Why was he here?”
    “Is it so hard to believe a man would be interested in me just for me?”
    “Damn right, it is,” he growled. “You know things. About my father. The real him. The shitty him.”
    I felt strangely relaxed now, cool under fire. “So you think Julio Manderos came to my business, gave me a ride home, fixed me a drink, and planned to kill me so that I wouldn’t reveal the fact that he has doubled as your father.”
    Rivera shifted his gaze away and back. “It’s possible.”
    “Really?”
    He fisted his hands and gritted his teeth, steadying himself. “Maybe you think his eyes are too fucking soulful for him to be dangerous.”
    “You noticed.”
    Control was seeping in by careful measures. “Oh, yeah. He’s dreamy.”
    “Isn’t he just?”
    “So tell me, McMullen, do you become fast friends with everyone who gives you a foot massage, or is it just men who look like my old man?”
    “He’s not as old as—” I began, but stopped abruptly. “How the hell did you know about the massage?”
    The room went silent, his jaw flexed. “It looked like he’d found your G spot. I assumed it was a massage. You want to enlighten me?”
    I searched for one of those witty zingers I had contemplated moments before and snatched up the best one. “You’re an idiot,” I said.
    The doorbell rang simultaneously. I jerked. “Who’s that?”
    “Could be Charles Manson,” Rivera said. “Should I let him in?”
    I gave him a glare and headed for the vestibule, but not too fast. With my luck, Manson would have been a pleasant surprise. “Who is it?” I called. “Sophie,” came the response.
    The voice was trilling and feminine with a lilting foreign accent, but my pulse was still racing. Just because no woman had tried to kill me lately didn’t mean one wouldn’t soon. Maybe it just meant that my good luck was coming to a screaming halt.
    Rivera eased up beside me, nudged me away from the door. Maybe I let him do