“Is that a charcuterie board?” she asked as she noticed a cheese and cracker display that was right out of Gourmet magazine.
When had that magically appeared?
“Fritz,” he replied.
As they began a hobble over to the sitting area, she muttered, “Is that ‘yes’ in a foreign language I’m not familiar with?”
“It’s a butler.”
Erika lost the rhythm of their stilted walk. “Butler? As in the Windsor Castle kind of thing?”
“You got it. Penguin suit and perfect timing, there’s no one else like him. He must have delivered it while—well, when some extra help came in.”
“Yeah, I would have noticed it before.”
There were so many more questions to be asked, but as she glanced at his white-as-an-envelope face, she knew that he was hurting badly and trying to cover it up.
“Almost there,” she murmured.
The armchairs were mismatched in terms of color, but equally f-ugly, their patterns floral and bright, yet blessedly faded. Totally man cave decor—which made sense. Did she think there was a knitting circle hanging out in this fortified-but-not-like-kids’-cereal bolt-hole?
“You’re going to have to help me sit,” the man said. Balthazar said.
“Sure. Just lean on—”
“Here, I think I can—”
Crash! He landed like something that had been thrown down a flight of stairs, the chair screeching back, his arms flopping on the—well, arms. And then his head dropped onto his collarbones like he was exhausted—
“Shit, I’m naked.”
He slapped his hands over his private area and blushed like he’d never been unclothed in the presence of anything remotely female before. And what were the chances of that.
“Here.” She doubled back and picked the sheet up off the cold concrete floor. “This’ll work.”
As she came over, she kept her eyes up and focused on the garage door that had just shut, and he took the lead on the awkward handoff. While he covered his lap, she parked herself next door, in the armchair that was the color of an eggplant and had little paisleys all over it.
“I think Prince left this here a decade ago,” she murmured.
He chuckled a little. “You want to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Still, she helped herself to a slice of what looked like brie and some kind of whole-grained cracker. As she bit down, her stomach woke up.
“Oh, my God. Wait, I think I’m starved.”
“Help yourself. I think there’s wine here in this cooler—”
“No wine,” she said as she chewed. “I’ll never get out of this chair.”
He whispered something under his breath, something like, “That would be okay with me.”
And that’s when things got really weird. Which considering what she’d seen earlier in the night was saying something.
But the thing was, as she nibbled, and tried not to enjoy the view of his pecs and his shoulders, and those arms, and that stomach—
“What was the question?” she blurted.
“I wasn’t aware I’d asked one.” He smiled a little. “How’s the cheese going down?”
“Amazing.”
“I like watching you eat,” he said with a sigh. When she froze and glanced at him, he looked away. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
Because suddenly things felt like a date to her, too. Which, yes, was weirder than the glowing guy, and that brunette, and the shadow—
“Your burns,” she said, “or whatever they are, it’s like they’re healing in front of my very eyes.”
He lifted an elbow and rolled his forearm over. The raised welt on the underside was red as a strawberry and looked like the cable in a cable-knit sweater. But both the swelling and the discoloration were decreasing as she stared at his injuries.
“You really got hurt from fighting that thing,” she murmured.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Maybe this was better, she thought. As much as her brain struggled to think about what had happened, maybe it was better to remind herself why they were sitting together. Because this was not a swipe-right-meet-up situation, fantastic cheese board aside.
“I am a thief,” he said absently as he glanced down at a similar wound across his chest. “You’re right about that.”
Yup, this is good, she emphasized. Even though she hated the reminder that he was a criminal. A suspect, actually, in one of her very own open cases.
“So you did steal those watches from the triplex.” She pushed the board away, no longer feeling the food. “From Herb Cambourg.”
“Yes, and I’m not sorry.”
Erika cocked an eyebrow. “Well, if you had a problem with your conscience, you wouldn’t be stealing in the first place, would you.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
When he went quiet, she shook her head. “Can we please stop bullshitting now? I’m exhausted and confused, and there’s no reason for you to go through some big confessional if I’m not going to remember it. That’s like hanging up the phone before leaving a message. Or erasing the message.” She went back to rubbing her temples. “I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I have no business making metaphors.”
“Technically, I think the first one was a simile.”