Lanny is my vet and my cousin’s husband. He loves Mia but thinks I overindulge her with treats, which is true. I overindulge Mia in about everything.
I walk to my room with Mia at my feet, picking up my heels on my way as the phone rings. Rounding my bed to get to the phone I look at the caller ID, sigh, and hesitantly answer.
“Lilly, what’s up?” I ask.
“Yoga is what’s up. Five o’clock. I have reservations for both of us, it should be a semi-private class, she has two others signed up. You in?”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes. “It’s Friday and you wouldn’t believe my day if I gave you a thousand guesses. I’m beat and was going to curl up with wine and a movie.”
“Gabby, get your ass up and going. You can do your wine and movie afterwards,” she says, planning my night. “It’s only an hour, you’ll have the rest of the night to veg.”
I guess I could use some stress release and I’ve been so busy I’ve barely hit my treadmill all week. “Fine, I’ll be there. I need to swing by the grocery store anyway, I’ll do that on my way home.”
“Perfect. See ya there,” she says, way too excited for yoga.
Hanging up the phone, I head to my closet to change, try to center my head or whatever it is we do in yoga that I can never seem to concentrate on enough to do. I put all thoughts of Jude Ortiz out of my head, I’ll never see him again anyway.
Chapter Three
You Ask A Lot Of Questions
I should call her. Really, I should have Mac call her. I have enough to do with the case I’ve been working on for seven months going to shit yesterday.
Reading the transcripts from the wire taps from the few phones that haven’t been dropped after the round-up has been frustrating as hell. Harper’s cell pinged from his house thirty minutes before we hit his door, we were sure he was there. Since yesterday morning we’ve figured out he’d been tipped that warrants were being served and skipped town as fast as he could, leaving his cell behind, not to mention his wife and kids.
This should all be enough to monopolize my time, but what’s about to make my fucking head explode is what I’ve read on the transcripts regarding Gabrielle Carpino.
She was not exaggerating yesterday when she said she got a bad vibe from Trevor Harper. She doesn’t even know the half of it, and from the attention she’s receiving on the wire taps since yesterday’s raid, she needs to take extra precautions in a big way. Extra precautions that include a hell of a lot more than carrying around her little S and W 380.
I’ve seen a lot in my job, but she surprised the hell out of me yesterday when she threw her mass of long, thick blonde hair over her shoulder informing us she was carrying and had a C and C. I’d never expect a woman in a fancy-ass getup like that to be carrying, especially just going to a friend’s house, even if she was working, which leads me to believe she carries most of the time.
But when I had her smoking hot body up against the wall and handcuffed, I did what I’ve never done before—something against policy—and that’s pat down a woman. We’re supposed to call in a female officer to pat down another female, but fuck me, I did it before I thought twice. And fuck me again if I didn’t feel it in my dick when she shivered under my hands. Mac had a few choice words for me later, but after interviewing her, I doubt she’ll do or say anything unless her attorney cousin makes an issue out of it. I could tell that even though Mac knew it was against policy, on some level he knew why I couldn’t resist. He might be twenty years my senior, but he’s a man and not blind by a long shot. And demanding to call an attorney? She’s gotta to be familiar with the process, most people don’t have their attorney on speed dial unless they are loaded or are already in trouble with the law and have needed one in the past.
Yeah, Gabrielle Carpino was full of surprises.
She’s not tall but not short with the perfect amount of curves. Ever since yesterday, feeling her body under my hands and her looking up at me with her clear blue eyes, scared shitless at what she found herself in the middle of, I can’t get her out of my fucking mind. It pissed me off enough during the interview to learn how Harper’s comments made her uncomfortable in the past, but I’m fucking infuriated about what’s been said about her on the wire taps. There’s been talk of retribution against her now that she knows what little she does from yesterday.
I need to let her know there’s a threat, tell her as much as she needs to know, and get the hell away from Gabrielle Carpino. I need to get my mind back on my case where it should be.
As I turn down her street and look for the address, I’m surprised again. She owns her home—I learned this last night as I ran her background. Not only does she own her home, she owns it outright, there’s no loan or note listed on the property and this is an upper income neighborhood with big lots and large houses. She drives a top of the line Chevy Tahoe that’s only a year-and-half old—again, no note. Her background didn’t say she was married or divorced for that matter and she’s still pretty young, not quite twenty-eight. How in the hell does an accountant slash decorator set herself up like this at the age of twenty-seven? We must have missed something on her.
I pull into the circle drive and park in front of a huge ass house, complete with an enormous porch on the front with limestone pillars. There are a shit load of pots overflowing with flowers and vines that clearly states a woman lives here and gives a shit. As I exit my truck and walk up to her door, I can’t help but think that Gabrielle Carpino is on the take and somehow, we fucking missed it. Or maybe she’s a damn trust fund brat that walks through life with a gun in her purse.
I press the doorbell, step back so she can see me through the sidelight windows and wait. Moments go by and nothing. I try one more time. All of a sudden I hear a small dog yappin’ and Gabrielle yell, “Hang on. I’m coming, I’m coming.”
She flings open the door without even a glance at the sidelight—which pisses me off—and she’s standing there in the wide-open doorway looking like a college girl in a tiny blue Creighton t-shirt tight across her chest and cut off jean shorts. Her long legs that look so good they should be illegal. She’s barefoot, her hair is pulled into a mess at the back of her head and her makeup-free face is wearing a shocked as shit look staring up at me. Her hair and blue eyes are freaking gorgeous against her olive skin tone and I find myself staring at her pink lips, full and slightly parted with her surprised look.
As I stand here wondering what those lips would feel like on different parts of my body, I finally snap out of it as her yappin’ dog starts attacking my ankles and whining for attention, which I ignore. I look back up to her eyes and wait for her to say something, which she doesn’t.
“Miss Carpino?” I start, as she still hasn’t uttered a word.
She finally gives her head a small shake. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to you about yesterday. Can I come in?”
“Yesterday?” She acts as if it was ten fucking years ago and can’t remember what I’m talking about. Now I’m beginning to lose my patience.