He stood under the hot water for a long time, watching the suds from a bar of Irish Spring foam from his skin and swirl down the drain. The foam was always white, and he wondered what reaction caused the green variegations in the bar of soap to disappear when they hit water. His degree was in electrical engineering, not chemical, so he was content to let it remain a mystery.
He shaved the good half of his face blindly, then dried off and dressed in jeans and the requisite logo T-shirt for his lunch shift. Was Pearl Club the only cocktail lounge in Los Angeles that could boast a bar back with an engineering degree? Sadly, probably not.
Chapter Two
MARGARET NOLAN WASN’T ANTISOCIAL; SHE JUST didn’t like human beings as a general rule. She especially didn’t like them in her private space, which was sanctuary from the world at large and especially from her work. The irony wasn’t lost on her that the only two people outside of family she’d invited to see her new house also happened to be colleagues: Detective Al Crawford, her partner in Los Angeles PD’s Homicide Special Section; and Detective Remy Beaudreau, also of Homicide Special Section, and a man she was probably going to sleep with soon, against her better judgment. So much for balance in life.
It wasn’t a housewarming party—to call two guests a party was pitiable. But whatever it was, it had been a stupid idea from conception, and in a moment of weakness, she’d allowed herself to be bullied into it by Al.
Come on, Mags, it’s not like donating a kidney.
How the hell did he know? He still had all his organs.
With the imminent arrival of Al and Remy, she was suddenly seeing her Woodland Hills rental from a different, hypercritical perspective, which really pissed her off. It didn’t seem so enchanting now; it just seemed like an outdated cube perched on a tuft of crab grass. There was no back yard, just a skinny strip of concrete walkway, shadowed by a vaulting, scrubby hillside that provided superior habitat for pet-devouring coyotes. The front yard wasn’t much better, the prominent feature being an overgrown clump of bird of paradise. The agent had told her it was the official flower of Los Angeles, which was news to her, but this one didn’t have any flowers. From the dismal appearance of the foliage, she doubted it ever would. Maybe she should fertilize it.
It’s really lovely, honey, so much better than that tiny apartment in Echo Park. Let me help you unpack the rest of these boxes and then I’ll take you to lunch.
Mom had seemed to approve in her usual reticent way. When she liked something, or pretended to, there was always a qualifier, always a reminder of something negative that killed some of the joy. Even so, it had been a nice morning spent together, drinking coffee and assembling a house. Until Mom had excavated photos of Max.
After ten minutes of crying in the bathroom, she’d declared a migraine and fled the scene like Satan himself was chasing her. Two days later, she’d dragged Daddy to Hawaii for an extended stay. Everybody dealt with grief in their own way, but she hadn’t realized until that day her mother chose not to deal with it at all.
She sighed and kept an eye on the front window as she fussed with the placement of the cocktail napkins, stemware, and plates on the dining room table—the vase of freesias in the middle. She shouldn’t have gone with the freesias. They were too small to be a proper centerpiece, and their aggressive fragrance competed with the funk of the cheese board she’d spent a fortune on at the Beverly Hills Cheese Store.
Why do you care? What is your problem?
The problem was, Nolan was an unrelenting perfectionist, even if she was doing something contrary to her misanthropic nature. She had no skills in this milieu, couldn’t even comprehend the desire to acquire them. Her transient military family, always exhausted from ricocheting from country to country, had never developed any yen to entertain, so she had no example to emulate or work from. Her former, hateful apartment in Echo Park certainly hadn’t been inspiration to start exploring the art of hosting, and her job didn’t allow her much time to even consider it because people were constantly killing one another in this city.
The throaty rumble of a Porsche engine announced the first arrival. Remy pulled into the driveway and climbed out of his sleek, sapphire-blue car carrying an obscenely large bouquet of white lilies and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket. He was wearing casual linen instead of a suit, and it was disconcerting to see him out of his work clothes for the first time, one step closer to nudity.
Maybe it would be equally jarring to him, seeing her one step closer to nudity in a dress, her arms and legs exposed. But she didn’t think so. Aside from the fact that he was probably accustomed to imagining her naked, nothing seemed to faze him, not even the most horrific crime scene. He was either a sociopath or had a titanium shell protecting his soft spots.
She held the door open for him, noticing its clunky paint job for the first time. “Wow. Is this all for me?”
“It’s a housewarming, right? Or am I at the wrong place?”
She smirked and took the flowers and champagne. “Not a housewarming, but thanks, this is really nice of you.”
He was tall and thin, with black, indecipherable eyes, a terrific head of curly hair, a sauntering walk. She’d never been able to ascertain if his gait was out of arrogance or a result of his physique.
He looked around and nodded his approval. “This is a great place, Maggie.”
“It’s better than where I was.”
“Your enthusiasm is infectious.”
It suddenly struck her that she knew very little about this man on her threshold, this man bearing lavish gifts. The extent of her knowledge was that he came from a wealthy Louisiana family and had graduated from Tulane before signing up for the police academy in Los Angeles. He was affable enough, but there was a secretive, chilling darkness surrounding him that precluded the usual small talk that was a normal part of getting to know someone. It was definitely a factor in the attraction, maybe the sole source of it. How disappointing it would be to learn mundane details of Remy’s life, like he brushed his teeth in the morning along with everybody else.
She frowned, discomfited by the realization that she was hot for a human version of a redacted document, which said more about her than him. The fact that he hadn’t commented on her dress or how great she looked in it said more about him than her. She appreciated a grown-up who didn’t slobber for sex. Gratuitous flattery was repellent.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Yeah. I’m a terrible hostess because we’re still standing in the foyer. Come in.” She gestured him into the dining room and stuffed his flowers into the vase along with the freesia. “They’re beautiful, Remy.”
“White is a representation of death in some cultures, so it seemed particularly appropriate given our mutual vocation.”
“I’m truly touched by the macabre symbolism. Interesting that brides wear white in Western culture, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s appropriate.”
He raised a brow at her. “You’re wearing a lovely shade of pessimism this evening. If it makes you feel any better, when I asked you out for a drink, I wasn’t talking about marriage.”
Her cheeks flared and Remy noticed. It was the bane of the fair complexion that accompanied strawberry blond hair. She’d been avoiding The Drink for weeks because she didn’t trust herself or Remy. They were both on the summit of the same hormonal slippery slope that led to regret and ruin. Life was dangerous in so many ways.