Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)
I felt my mouth drop open and instantly closed it with a snap, leaning forward, hands fisted to keep from strangling him. “You are such a jerk!”
“I know,” Morelli said. “It's genetic. Good thing I'm so cute.” Morelli was many things. Cute wasn't one of them. Cocker spaniels were cute. Baby shoes were cute. Morelli wasn't cute. Morelli could look at water and make it boil. Cute was much too mild an adjective to describe Morelli.
He reached out and tugged at my hair. “I'd run to the store, but I'm guessing your door would be locked when I got back.”
“It's a good possibility.”
“Well, then I guess there's only one thing to do.”
I braced myself.
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
Stephanie Plum 4 - Four To Score
4
MORELLI PADDED into the living room and picked up the channel changer. “We can watch the ball game. The Yankees are playing. You got any ice cream?”
It took me a full sixty seconds to find my voice. “Raspberry Popsicles.”
“Perfect.”
I'd been replaced by a raspberry Popsicle, and Morelli didn't look all that unhappy. I, on the other hand, wanted to smash something. Morelli was right . . . I wanted him bad. He might have been right about the curtains too, but I didn't want to dwell on the curtains. Lust I could manage, but the very thought of wanting a relationship with Morelli made my blood run cold.
I handed him his Popsicle and sat in the overstuffed armchair, not trusting myself to share the couch, half afraid I'd go after his leg like a dog in heat.
Around nine-?thirty I started looking at my watch. I was thinking about the clue under Mrs. Nowicki's porch, and I was wondering how I was going to get it. I could borrow a rake from my parents. Then I could extend the handle with something. I'd probably have to use a flashlight, and I'd have to work fast because people were bound to see the light. If I waited until two in the morning the chances of someone being up to see me were greatly reduced. On the other hand, a flashlight beam at two in the morning was much more suspicious than a flashlight beam at ten at night.
“Okay,” Morelli said, “what's going on? Why do you keep looking at your watch?”
I yawned and stretched. “Getting late.”
“It's nine-?thirty.”
“I go to bed early.”
Morelli mad
e tsk, tsk, tsk sounds. “You shouldn't fib to a cop.”
“I have things to do.”
“What sort of things?”
“Nothing special. Just . . . things.”
There was a knock at the door, and we both glanced in the direction of the sound.
Morelli looked at me speculatively. “You expecting someone?”
“It's probably old Mrs. Bestler from the third floor. Sometimes she forgets where she lives.” I put my eye to the security peephole. “Nope. Not Mrs. Bestler.” Mrs. Bestler didn't have big red hair like Little Orphan Annie. Mrs. Bestler didn't wear skin-?tight black leather. Mrs. Bestler's breasts weren't in the shape of icecream cones.
I turned back to Morelli. “I don't suppose I could get you to wait in the bedroom for a moment or two . . .”
“Not on your life,” Morelli said. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”