Janet Evanovich - Naughty Neighbor

Her voice sobered. “This is important to me. I’ve had my car trashed, I’ve been rolled down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night, and I’ve lost my job. I want to know why.”

“You want to get revenge?”

“Nothing that dramatic. I just want to stay clean. I don’t know the extent of Nolan’s involvement. I don’t want to turn out to be an unwitting accomplice to something ugly.”

And while she didn’t want to articulate it to Pete, other emotions were gnawing at her. The disappointment in Nolan was almost crushing. She’d believed in him, trusted him to do the right thing, had faith in his abilities. She’d put herself on the line for him, touting his potential with next-to-religious fervor. Even if he wasn’t directly involved in whatever was rotten, he’d dismissed her too easily.

Her sense of betrayal was strong. She was an idealist, she realized. She suspected it was a term synonymous with young and foolish, but she was stuck with it all the same. Her moral and political indignation was aroused.

Pete’s reasons for pursuing the pig cover-up had little to do with moral or political indignation. Simple curiosity had turned to certain knowledge that he’d stumbled onto a scandal of some sort. It was grist for his creative mill. It was a potential screenplay. It had also piqued his male ego. He had inadvertently opened up a can of worms, and the folks holding the can had misjudged him.

He wasn’t the sort of person who yielded to pressure. He resented being threatened, and he was furious he’d been attacked in his sleep. The most serious mistake made was in firing Louisa. He hated to admit it, but he felt intensely protective of her. Not that she seemed to need protection-if she needed anything, it was restraint, Pete thought. If left to her own devices, she’d probably end up in a homicide lineup for death by broom handle.

“Okay,” Pete said, “let’s see what we have here. We know Maislin was the pig shipper. We know someone doesn’t want questions asked about the little porker. And we know Nolan Bishop fired you because of your association with me. From this overwhelmingly damning evidence we’re concluding that both Maislin and Bishop are involved in something nasty.”

“Doesn’t sound incredibly conclusive, does it?”

He made a noncommittal shrug. “What do Maislin and Nolan Bishop have in common?”

“They both belong to the same party.”

“What else?”

Louisa thought about it. They were from different states. Maislin was from Pennsylvania. Nolan was from Maryland. Both lived in Potomac when Congress was in session. Maislin was a blue-color success story. Nolan was Harvard Law. On the surface they didn’t have much in common, but both men were extremely ambitious. Both cared a great deal about public opinion.

“Are they buddies?”

“Not that I know of. Maislin’s been around longer. Carries a lot more clout. He travels with the Big Boys.”

“You ever have to sit on any bad publicity for Nolan?”

“Nope.”

“Any sexual indiscretions?”

“Nothing past the leering stage since I’ve been with him.”

Conversation momentarily stopped while the food was served.

“How about Maislin?” Pete asked.

Louisa picked at her sandwich, eating the bacon first. “I don’t know much about Maislin. As far as I know he keeps himself clean. He’s on some powerful committees, his constituents are fond of him, and he’s not too bright.”

“There has to be more of a connection,” Pete said.

“After lunch I’ll go back to my office and clean out my desk. I’ll get a profile on Maislin while I’m there.”

It was dark when Louisa staggered up the porch stairs, carrying a large cardboard box filled with personal belongings, daily calenders, her Rolodex, and as much information as she’d been able to gather on both Maislin and Nolan Bishop. She fumbled in her purse for the key and let herself into the empty apartment. She slid the bolt on the lock, turned the light on with her elbow, and collapsed into an overstuffed chair with the box on her lap.

Her heart stopped beating at the sound of a key turning in her lock, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream when the door opened. It was Pete. She closed her eyes, clapped her hand to her chest, and sunk deeper into the chair. “Good Lord.”

“Did I scare you?”

“Hell no. I always scream like that when people come into my apartment.” She looked up at him. “How did you do that? How did you unlock my door?”

“I have a key. I own this place.”

“Wonderful. That makes me feel so much safer. Not only do I have to worry about the pig people; now I have to worry about my sneaky landlord.”

He took the box and tucked it under his arm. “Good thing I have a healthy ego. You’re not the most supportive girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door. “Whatever.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place. We’ll brainstorm over dinner.”

She followed him up the stairs to the kitchen area, and gaped at the big orange cat sprawled across the butcher-block table. It had one ear half chewed off and a pronounced kink in its tail. “You have a cat on your table,” Louisa said.

“Yeah. That’s Spike.”

Spike opened one eye and looked at Louisa. The eye was yellow and unblinking. It stared at Louisa for thirty seconds and closed, leaving Louisa with the impression she’d been less than interesting.

Pete set the cardboard box next to the sleeping cat. “Ten years ago Spike sort of adopted me, and we’ve been together ever since.” He scratched the cat’s head, but the cat didn’t move. “He’s very demonstrative,” Pete said.

“I can see that.”

Pete took a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, filled a crystal wineglass half full, and handed the glass to Louisa. “Were you able to get much on Maislin?”

She sipped her wine. “The usual whitewashed press release.”

Pete slid three steaks under the broiler and threw two potatoes into the microwave. He accepted a blue folder from Louisa, flipped it open, and began reading.

“I can’t see anything in here to help us,” he finally said.

He scooped Spike off the table and replaced him with a tossed salad he took from the refrigerator. Spike dangled bonelessly from the crook of Pete’s arm. He slowly opened his eyes, yawned, and yowled. Pete speared one of the steaks from the broiler, flopped it onto a plate, and set cat and steak on the floor.

Louisa couldn’t keep the astonishment from her voice. “You’re giving him an entire steak?”

“Hey, this guy’s a stud. He has to keep his strength up.”

“Is that good for him? I mean, shouldn’t he be eating cat food? You know, a balanced cat diet?”

Pete put a potato and a steak on a plate for Louisa. “We don’t eat steak every night. Sometimes we eat fish. Sometimes we order out for pizza. His favorite is hamburger with a lot of fried onions. We eat that a lot.”

Tell me about it, Louisa thought. Everything in her apartment smelled like Pete’s fried onions. The odor had permeated her wallpaper. His apartment, she noticed, had no such problem. His apartment smelled fresh and clean, slightly of coffee. She glanced at the vent over the stove. It was busy sucking away the broiler smoke, no doubt sending it directly down to her kitchen.

He put a container of sour cream on the table and topped her wine. “How about Maislin’s staff? Do we have any information on them?”

Louisa pulled another folder from the cardboard box. She gave the folder to Pete and attacked her steak.

Pete read while he ate, but he didn’t find anything useful.

“That was great,” Louisa said. She looked at her wineglass and wondered how it had gotten empty.

Pete took a quart of chocolate ice cream from the freezer and set it in the middle of the table. He gave Louisa a sterling silver iced-tea spoon and kept one for himself.

“Let’s go over this again,” he said, digging into the ice cream. “Why is everyone so touchy about this pig?”

Louisa took a spoonful of ice cream and let it melt on her tongue. It was smooth and rich. It was the brand she couldn’t afford, the one that clogged arteries with butterfat. Already, she could feel her thighs expanding. She took another spoonful, closed her eyes, and murmured approval. “This is wonnnnderful ice cream,” she said, her eyes slightly glazed.

Pete stared at her. She was practically orgasmic. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Couldn’t be better. I lovvvvve ice cream.” She had a large mound of ice cream on her spoon. She aimed it at her mouth, but it fell onto the table. “Oops,” she said. “I think it’s the wine. It sneaked up on me.”

Pete smiled. She was snockered. “You’re not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Am I acting silly?”

“Not yet.”

“I tend to get uninhibited when I drink,” she said.

“Oh boy.”

“And then I get tired. Wine always makes me tired.”

“How long would you say we’ve got between uninhibited and tired?”

“Not long. Minutes, actually.”

“Is there anything you’d especially like to do while you’re in the uninhibited stage?”

“Eat more ice cream.”

He spooned ice cream into her. “Anything else?”

“We could talk. There are some things I should say to you.”

“You really know how to bust loose when you’re uninhibited, don’t you?”

She smiled at him. “I have my moments.”

“Is this one of them?”

Louisa waved her iced-tea spoon. “I was a late bloomer.”

He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. He had a feeling this was going to be interesting.

“In fact, I didn’t bloom at all until I was in college. And even then…” She sighed and dabbled in the ice cream carton. “I had this silly idea that I should be in love before I…you know.”

“It’s not a silly idea.”

They both paused, each surprised he’d said such a thing.

“Do you make love to women you don’t love?” she asked.

“Only if it’s an emergency.”

She made an effort to focus her eyes on him. “That’s not a serious answer.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. He turned it palm up and kissed the soft center. “I don’t think either of us would like the serious answer.”

Heat radiated outward at the touch of his lips on her flesh. “Have you ever been in love?”

It was a complicated question. Certainly, there’d been women about whom he’d felt deeply. And there were a few voluptuous females early on who turned him inside out and left him flopping around like a beached flounder, struggling to survive. But he couldn’t honestly say he’d ever been in love. Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he was capable of loving someone.

“No,” he told her. “I’ve never been in love.”

“Me, either,” she said, yawning. “I thought I was once, but it was just wishful thinking.” She rested her head on the table and fell asleep.

Pete stared at her. He’d never seen anyone nod off on a glass and a half of wine before. He scooped her up and carried her to the couch. She was dressed in a soft pink suit and heels. He didn’t know what to do with her. He had a strong temptation to loosen her clothes in the interest of comfort, but he resisted. She’d probably get the wrong idea and think he’d done it just to fondle her. She’d probably be right.

He covered her with a quilt and went about the job of cleaning the kitchen. When he was done, he sat across from her on the coffee table and watched her sleep. She looked like a little girl, he thought. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth soft and pouty, black lashes curved against her fine translucent skin. Her hair curled around her face in casual disarray. His throat felt tight and his heart ached with an emotion he couldn’t identify. The ache in his groin was less confusing. He knew what was causing that. And he knew it was a lost cause.

Louisa awakened to the aroma of bacon frying and the unpleasant sensation of having a crushing weight on her chest. The weight turned out to be Spike. He opened his yellow cat eyes and stared at her for several seconds before his lids dropped closed. Louisa shifted under him, and he growled low in his throat. Two masculine hands reached over Louisa’s head and lifted the cat off her.

“Morning,” Pete said.

Louisa tilted her head back to see him. “What happened?”

“You had a glass and a half of wine and fell asleep.”

She took a fast survey of her condition. She was on his couch, fully clothed, under a quilt. “Have I slept here all night?”

“Yup.”

She sighed. “I’m not very good at drinking.”

She tugged at her skirt and swung her feet onto the floor, still swaddled in the quilt. “I make up for my alcohol intolerance with my temper. I inherited the belligerent gene.”