Under Suspicion

Chapter Twenty-One

I wrestled myself into an oversized San Francisco Giants sweatshirt and whistled for ChaCha; then both of us flopped into my bed. ChaCha started snoring immediately—small, puppy pants of kibble-scented air. I clicked off the overhead light and stared at the pattern the streetlights flashed on my ceiling. Finally I clamped my eyes shut and willed myself to fall asleep.

All I could see was Bettina’s face, tormented, bruised; then Kale, lying lifeless on the wet cement, her head flopping like a rag doll.

I wasn’t going to let that happen to my best friend.

I wouldn’t.

I kicked off my covers and tiptoed to my bedroom door, inching it open a crack. Nina was stretched out on the couch, the silvery light from the television glowing ominously on her marble skin.

I slid into a pair of yoga pants, socks, and tucked my Reebok EasyTone sneakers under one arm. Hey, crime fighters need good glutes, too, right?

I peeled open the door again and dropped down to my knees, crawling from my bedroom doorway to dive behind our side table. If I could just get out the door, I could do in Harley myself, and Nina would never have to know. My heart was pounding in my throat, and sweat started to prick at my upper lip. I crawled from behind the side table to behind the couch; my hands and knees moving silently on the carpet.

Sophie Lawson, Savior, I thought with satisfaction as I crawled toward the front door.

“Can I help you?”

I stopped—rather, Nina stopped me—when my forehead banged against her shins. She was blocking the front door, hands on hips; her charcoal eyes glaring down at me.

“Um,” I said, sitting back on my bum, “I was looking for one of ChaCha’s chew toys.” I felt a smile of relief pushing up to my earlobes. Yes! A chew toy! That’s right!

Sophie Lawson, Incognito.

Nina cocked a single eyebrow; her smile was wry. “A chew toy?”

I nodded spastically. “Yep.”

Nina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Oh, I know what this is about.”

I gulped. “You do?”

“Uh-huh. You’re sneaking out to meet a boy, you little minx. Now, who is it? Alex ... or Will?”

“You caught me, Nina. Nothing gets past you.” I forced a tittering laugh. “Yeah, I’m going to meet Alex. He just got back from Buffalo. Tonight. I would have told you, but—”

“But you knew that I would never let you leave the house looking like that?”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? You look like—like ... Well, I can’t even come up with a funny retort. But you look awful. Yoga pants, no makeup? I know Alex is all good angel and stuff, but trust me, Sophie, looks matter.” A wide grin spread across her face. “Wait here. Just give me two minutes and Alex will not be able to resist you.”

Nina hopped cleanly over me. Once I could see that she was in her room, knee deep in lace and see-through camis, I continued on my hands and knees out into the hallway.

“Did I mention how much I love this country?” Will said, grinning down at me from his doorway. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of faded jeans, which hung in all the right places. His naked chest was slim, but every single muscle was brilliantly well defined, a la David Beckham or one of those anatomy posters.

I felt myself start to salivate—the last hint of male chest I had been privy to had been gray, lichen covered, and dripping with gold chains.

Screaming hormones or not, I was a woman with a mission.

“You’re pretty,” I heard myself say.

Sophie Lawson, Quivering Puddle of Undersexed Jelly.

“I mean, pretty ... jerky,” I corrected in an uncertain cadence. I stood up, brushing off my already achy knees. “I’m sneaking out of my apartment.”

“Nice strategy. Where you headed?”

I pushed Will’s chest until we were both in his apartment; then I slammed the door. “To the Mark Hopkins hotel. I need to go find Harley. He’s the one who’s responsible for all this. He’s the one who tried to kill me.” My eyes drifted from Will’s brilliantly hazel eyes to his broad shoulders ... those ropey muscles ... the two-inch tuft of hair that led from his navel to the top button of his Lucky Brand jeans.

Will seemed amused, his eyes following mine.

“Harley. Yes. Bad,” I said, pulling out all the stops in my impressive vocabulary.

“Harley’s responsible. Are you sure about that, love?”

“Of course I’m sure! I read his book! And besides, who else would want to pick off demons?”

Will bit his lip. “How about Alex? You said yourself it could be a fallen angel picking people off to make you crazy. What happened to that theory?”

I blew out a sigh. “It’s not Alex. Alex wouldn’t hurt a fly. He won’t even go to the circus because of the way they treat the animals.”

“Are you sure he’s not just afraid of clowns?”

I was about to fire back my own witty retort, when there was a quick rap at the door.

“Is that—”

“No!” I pantomimed silently. “She can hear you!”

Will yanked the door open and I dove behind the selection of lawn chairs and Wii games, which passed as Will’s living-room set.

“Nina! What an unexpected surprise! Come round for a spot of plasma, did you?” I could hear the absolute glee in Will’s voice and it made me growl.

“That’s very sweet of you, Will, but I’m looking for Sophie. By the way, nice outfit.”

I peered out from behind two slats of tan lawn chair and caught a glimpse of Nina, eyes doing that incredibly sexy-smoldering thing, the tip of her tongue feeling her fang. A surprising surge of anger started to simmer low in my belly. She wouldn’t ...

“Can you just tell Sophie, when you see her”—Nina peered around Harley and looked directly at Fort Lawn Chair—“that these are for her?”

I gaped as Nina piled a selection of black lacy things—topped with a pair of stiletto heels that would have been better suited for a Playboy pictorial than for anything I would ever do—into Will’s outstretched arms.

“Sure.”

Nina leaned up on her tiptoes, caught my eye, and gave Will a slightly sensual peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Will,” she said coyly.

Will slammed the door and I stood up, raging. “You know, Will, we’re going to have to get you some big-boy furniture!”

Will shrugged and shook the heap of garments out of his arms—save for some shimmery black dental floss or possibly a thong. (My lingerie IQ was woefully low.)

“Aren’t you supposed to put these on?” he asked, grinning. The dental floss/thong was hooked around one finger.

I snatched it. “No. She was just doing this for—for ...”

Will’s eyebrows went up expectantly. I made up my mind to stop Harley and then kill Nina myself. “I’ve got to go stop Harley.”

Will pointed to the heap of satin and lace. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

I shrugged. “Donate it. This city is full of needy people.”

“Needy sexy people?”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

Will held up a finger. “Wait one second.” He disappeared into his bedroom—what I assumed was his bedroom, as I had never been in and would not be going in, I told myself sternly. He came back out, sliding a red football jersey over his head.

“Don’t you have anything that can’t be worn on a soccer field?”

“It’s called football, love, and you should talk.”

I looked down at my Giants ensemble. “Baseball is America’s pastime.”

“Ditto football in the UK. Hold this, please?”

I put my hands out. “Ew!” I shouted, dropping Will’s socks onto the floor.

“What’d you do that for?”

“They’re socks!”

Will rolled his eyes, beelining for the kitchen. “They’re clean.” I watched as he selected a pair of long barbecue tongs, then pulled open the oven door.

“What are you cooking?” I asked, rolling up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder.

Will extracted a single sneaker, held between the tongs. He touched the sneaker delicately and grinned. “Perfect.”

“You’re baking your shoes?” I gaped.

Will extracted the other sneaker and set both on the counter. “I’m drying my shoes. We had a game in Golden Gate Park today.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a Guardian Intramural League.”

He flashed a grin. “Lucky for you, there is.”

“There is?”

“No. Now, would you hand me my socks, please?”

I picked up his socks between forefinger and thumb. Not that I’m that delicate a flower, I just didn’t have a lot of experience holding men’s underclothes. Even their ... lowest ... underclothes.

“What are you suiting up for?” I asked as Will yanked on a sock and tried to tie his shoelaces with a pair of oven mitts.

“I’m coming with you.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Why?”

“I’m your Guardian, remember?” He slipped on his second shoe and shook out of the oven mitts. “Ready?”

“Yeah, but when did you suddenly get all Guardian-y?”

Will grabbed his keys off the rack and spun them around one finger. “I thought I was pretty Guardian-y not getting you shot in the alley.” He flashed me a grin that was part admonishment, part “I told you so.”

“Yeah,” I harrumphed, “barely.”

“You know, I only work in fallen angels. That’s all I’m contracted to guard you from,” Will murmured, holding the door open for me. He locked the door behind us and we continued down the stairs and out into the frigid night.

I crossed my arms and stopped dead on the sidewalk. “What does that mean?”

“That means, love”—Will sank his keys into his car lock—“that if you wish to take your life into your own hands hunting writers, I don’t necessarily have to help you.” He opened the car door with a flourish. “Get in.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So what are you coming along for?”

“I’m not the kind of guy who lets a girl go to her doom all by herself.”

I offered Will a sarcastic smile. “What a gentleman.”

“And I got nothing better to do.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I dug a crushed bag of popchips out of my shoulder bag. I saw Will eye the bag with unrestrained horror.

“You want?” I asked tentatively.

Will grabbed the bag, wound the window down, and tossed out my chips.

“Hey!”

“You do not snack in a 1958 vintage Porsche 365.”

“When did the Boring Police make you their huffy English master?” I grumbled.

Will rolled his eyes and gunned it up California Street, his little car huffing as we rounded Nob Hill. “This it?”

I looked up at the hotel, stately in a uniquely San Francisco way. “Yup.”

Will yanked the car toward the curb, and a white-gloved bellman, who kindly opened my door, offered me a hand.

I made a mental note to hire myself a bellman, once I became filthy rich.

The valet came around and opened Will’s door. Will gave him a quick once-over before handing him the keys, holding his eye.

“She’s precious, you know.”

“I assure you we’ll take the best care of”—the valet eyed Will’s rust-colored clunker—“her.”

“What was that about?” I hissed as Will threaded his arm through mine, guiding me into the lobby.

“Have you not been paying attention, love? I’m your Guardian, and people—things, whatever—are after you.”

“And you think the valet was going to get to me through what? The giant rust stains on the side of your car?”

Will whirled to face me. “Nigella is a vintage 19—”

“I know!” I groaned.

“She just needs a little TLC to be restored back to her former grandeur.”

I rolled my eyes. “So how are we going to find Harley?”