body." His lips skimmed my mouth. "Dangerous lips."
This wasn't supposed to be happening. I had decided against this. "Listen, Morelli, I appreciate the meatball sub and all, but . . ."
"Shut-up, Stephanie."
And then he kissed me. His tongue touched mine, and I thought, Well, what the hell, maybe I am dangerous. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea. After all, there was a time when I'd wanted nothing more than a Morelli-induced orgasm. Well, here was my chance. It wasn't as if we were strangers. It wasn't as if I didn't deserve it.
"Maybe we should go into the bedroom," I said. Get away from sharp knives in case something goes wrong and I'm tempted to stab him.
Morelli was wearing jeans with a navy T-shirt. Under the drape of the T-shirt he was wearing a pager and a .38. He unclipped his pager and put it in the refrigerator. He threw the bolt on the front door and kicked his shoes off in the hall.
"What about the gun?" I asked.
"The gun stays. Nothing's stopping me this time. You change your mind, and I'll shoot you."
"Um, there's the issue of safety."
He had his hand on his zipper. "Okay, I'll leave it on the nightstand."
"I wasn't talking about the gun."
Morelli stopped the progress of the zipper. "You're not on the pill?"
"No." I didn't think sex once a millennium warranted it.
"What about . . ."
"I haven't got any of them, either."
"Shit," Morelli said.
"Nothing in your wallet?"
"You're going to find this hard to believe, but cops aren't required to carry emergency condoms."
"Yes, but . . ."
"I'm not eighteen years old. I no longer score with nine out of ten women I meet."
That was encouraging. "I don't suppose you'd want to tell me the current ratio?"
"Right now, it's zero for zero."
"We could try a plastic sandwich bag."
Morelli grinned. "You want me bad."
"Temporary insanity."
The grin widened. "I don't think so. You've wanted me for years. You've never gotten over having me touch you when you were six."
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.
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 made 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