"You're not dead."
He grinned at her over the rim of his cup. "Nope, but I appreciate you sleeping guard beside me all night. You know what might be fun, Sherlock? We could strip naked and have a bruise-off contest. I just might be catching up with you. How's your left side?"
"Hardly any bruising at all. How could Marlin Jones have rented the car, Dillon?''
"Obviously someone else did, using his name. You and I are going to California tomorrow, okay?''
"No, not until you're back to your full strength. I'm not going to take any more chances with you."
"That sounds nice."
She walked to him, lightly kissed his mouth, then pulled up his shirt. "I'll be objective. Now, I think my ribs looked more like the Italian flag than yours do." He felt her fingers on his flesh, light, so light, not hurting him at all, just skimming over his flesh, and to his own blessed wonder, he got hard. He didn't mean to say it, but the words just came right out of his mouth. "Do you think you could go a bit lower?"
Her fingers stopped cold. Then, she laughed, "Dillon, I'm going to have us fly First Class, all right?''
"Yeah, that's fine. I'll be okay by day after tomorrow, I swear it. We'll have a day to make some plans with Quinlan." He sucked in his breath and stared at her.
Her fingers had gone beneath the waistband of his slacks, tangling in the hair at his groin. He didn't know about this, didn't know if he was going to start crying or shouting or just moaning, and not from any pain in his ribs. Her fingers touched him, then he was enclosed against her palm. He was going to die, lose it, be premature, the whole thing. But then it was academic. Marvin came into the house, singing at the top of his lungs.
"Sorry," Sherlock said and kissed his ear. He sighed deeply. "Do you think maybe I did something really bad in a former lifetime?''
"You're breathing awfully hard, Dillon." "Hey, Chicky, what'd you do to our boy here?" "I was just checking him out. Just like you did, Marvin." "I doubt that, Chicky. I surely doubt that. More like you tortured the poor man but good."
27
LACEY STARED AT THE doorbell for a long time before she rang it. Savich didn't say a word, just looked beyond the Art Deco three-story mansion to the incredible view of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and the stark Marin Headlands in the distance. The day was sharp and cool, so clear and vivid it made your eyes sting. There were dozens of sailboats on the Bay. The air was crisp and sharp.
A middle-aged black woman, plump, very pretty, her eyes bright with intelligence, opened the door, gasped, and grabbed Lacey into her arms. "My baby, it's you, it's really you. Thank God you're home. They've been telling me for weeks that you'd come home and now you're here. But I'd begun to believe that you'd finally turned your back."
Lacey hugged her back. Isabelle had been more her mother than the woman upstairs in her elegant bedroom had ever been. She'd been the Sherlock housekeeper and cook since before Lacey was born. "It's good to see you, Isabelle. You all right? Your kids okay?''
Lacey drew back and looked carefully at the fine-boned black face, a beloved face that radiated warmth and humor.
"Things are fine with my family, but they aren't too good here, Lacey, no, not too good at all. Your daddy's all quiet and keeps to himself. Your mama never comes out of her room now, just stays there and looks at those ridiculous talk shows, best I can tell. She says she wants to write a book and send it to Oprah so Oprah will recommend it and your mama will become really rich and leave your papa. Hey, who's this guy with you?"
"This is Dillon Savich. He's also with the FBI. Dillion, this is Isabelle Tanner. She's the one who told me how wicked boys were just after my sixteenth birthday. She's the one who told me to keep out of Bobby Wellman's Jaguar."
"You should have listened to her."
"Oh, Lordie. You mean you let that boy crawl all over you in that little Jaguar, Lacey? Oh goodness, I thought I'd won that one."
Savich shook her hand. "Ms. Isabelle, I promise you that Sherlock here hasn't gotten into any more cars since the Jaguar. You taught her well."
"You call her Sherlock," said Isabelle, clasping her arms beneath her ample breasts. "That sounds funny, but cute too. Well, come on in. I'll get you some fine tea and some scones that just came out of the oven."
"Who is it, Isabelle?"
Isabelle's face grew very still. Slowly, she turned and called out, "It's your daughter, Mrs. Sherlock."