sitting on my shoulder. Tonight it came on the heels of a full body scan, and I was pretty sure it suggested he liked my dress.
Ranger slipped an arm around me, leaned close, and kissed me. The kiss was a further indicator that he liked the dress. In fact, the kiss suggested that while he liked the dress a lot, he wouldn’t mind getting me out of the dress as soon as possible. And I was thinking that was a great idea. Fortunately we were in Princeton, and my apartment was at least a half hour away if the traffic was moving. I was going to need that time to talk myself out of sleeping with Ranger.
Ranger keeps me safe from everyone but himself. He’s the panther stalking the gazelle, keeping all other predators away. He enjoys the hunt. And I enjoy being the gazelle, although truth is I’m more prairie chicken than gazelle.
Ranger’s reflexes are quicker, his brain engages faster, his instincts are far superior than the average man’s. My skin heats under his touch, and his kiss sets delicious things in motion in my body. I know from past experience he’s magic in bed. I also know he has dark secrets that take precedence over personal relationships. And I know it’s in my best interests to keep him at arm’s length.
Plus, I sort of have a boyfriend.
Ranger pulled out of the restaurant lot, stopped for a light, and his hand went to my knee and traveled north.
“Um,” I said.
He cut his eyes to me. “Is there a problem?”
“Your hand is moving up my leg.”
“And?”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“Not lately,” Ranger said.
“Has anything changed?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
“Is that a definite ‘Well, then’?”
“Afraid it is.”
“Too bad,” Ranger said.
Thirty minutes later, Ranger parked behind my apartment building and walked me to my door.
“Call me if you get lonely,” he said.
“I have you on speed dial,” I told him.
A barely perceptible smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, he gave me a light kiss, and he left.
Truth is, I would have liked to invite him in, but that wouldn’t have been the smart thing to do. Not that I always do the smart thing, but tonight I’d managed to keep from grabbing him and ripping his clothes off. Two points for Plum.
I let myself into my apartment and went to the kitchen to say hello to my hamster, Rex. Rex lives in an aquarium on my kitchen counter and sleeps in a soup can. He was running on his wheel when I looked in on him.
“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”
Rex blinked his round black eyes at me and twitched his whiskers. That’s about as complicated as our conversations ever get. I dropped a peanut into his cage and he jumped off his wheel, shoved the peanut into his cheek, and scurried into his soup can with it.
My cousin Vinnie’s bail bonds office is on Hamilton Avenue. It’s a one-story storefront building with some parking spots by the back door. Vinnie has an inner office where he hides from people he’s stiffed, pissed off, infected with herpes, or previously incarcerated. Vinnie looks like a weasel in a pimp suit. His wife, Lucille, is a saint. His father-in-law, Harry the Hammer, owns the agency and didn’t get his nickname because he was a carpenter.
Connie Rosolli, the office manager and guard dog, was at her desk when I walked in.
“How’d it go last night?” she asked.
“It was good. Ranger walked up to Gardi, yanked him out of his chair, and cuffed him. Very smooth.”
“And?”
“That was it.”
“No naked Ranger in your bed?”
“Nope.”
“Disappointing,” Connie said.
Tell me about it. “Anything new come in for me?”
“I have a failure-to-appear. High money bond. Jimmy Poletti.”
“He owns all those car dealerships, right? He shoots his own commercials. ‘Make a deal with Jimmy!’ ”
“Yeah, turned out some of the deals were taking place in the back room and involved underage girls imported from Mexico.”
I took the file from Connie and paged through it, stopping to look at Poletti’s mugshot. Very respectable. Sixty-two years old. Face a little doughy. Thinning gray hair. Crisp white dress shirt and striped tie. Nice dark blue suit jacket. Looked more like a banker than a car dealer.
“Boy,” I said, “you never know from looking at someone.”
The front door banged open, and Lula stomped in. At 5′ 5″, Lula is a couple inches too short for her weight. She’s a black woman who changes her hair color like other women change their underwear, and her fashion preferences run to