Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

“I was in Atlantic City looking for Maxine tonight, and while I was gone someone pitched a firebomb through my bedroom window. The whole apartment went up. Fortunately, Mrs. Karwatt had a key and managed to rescue Rex.”

Morelli stared at me for a beat with his unreadable cop face. “Remember those purple shoes you bought last year?”

“Reduced to ashes.”

“Damn. I had plans for those shoes. I've spent a few sleepless nights thinking about you wearing those shoes and nothing else.”

I helped myself to a cookie. “You need a life.”

“Tell me about it. I spent last weekend laying linoleum.” He took a second cookie. “I notice you're driving the Buick. What happened to the CRX?”

“Remember I told you about how someone soaked it with gasoline? Well, it sort of exploded.”

“It exploded?”

“Actually, it caught fire first. Then it exploded.”

“Hmm,” Morelli said, eating the top half of the Oreo.

A tear slid down my cheek.

Morelli stopped eating. “Wait a minute. Is this for real? You aren't making this up?”

“Of course this is for real. Why else do you think I'm here?”

“Well, I thought . . .”

I jumped up, and my chair crashed to the floor. “You thought I made this up so I could come over here in the middle of the night and crawl into your bed!”

The line to Morelli's mouth tightened. “Let me get this straight. Yesterday, someone actually blew up your car and your apartment. And now you want to move in with me? What, do you hate me? You're a walking disaster! You're Calamity Jane in fucking spandex!”

“I am not a walking disaster!” But he was right. I was a walking disaster. I was an accident waiting to happen. And I was going to cry. My chest ached and my throat felt like I'd swallowed a baseball and tears gushed out of my eyes. “Shit,” I said, swiping the tears away.

Morelli grimaced and reached out to me. “Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Don't touch me!” I shrieked. “You're right. I'm a disaster. Look at me. I'm homeless. I'm carless. And I'm hysterical. What kind of a bounty hunter gets hysterical? A loser bounty hunter, that's what kind. A l-?l-?loser.”

“Maybe milk wasn't the right choice here,” Morelli said. “Maybe you could use some brandy.”

“And there's more,” I sobbed. “I lost forty bucks on craps, and I was the only one who didn't have a gun tonight!”

Morelli pulled me into his arms and held me close to him.

“That's okay, Steph. Forty dollars isn't so much. And lots of people don't have guns.”

“Not in New Jersey. Not bounty hunters.”

“There are some people in Jersey who don't have a gun.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

He held me at arm's length and grinned. “I think we should get you up to bed. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“About the bed . . .”

He pushed me toward the stairs. “I have a spare bedroom made up.”

“Thanks.”