Janet Evanovich - Smokin Seventeen

“Dugan and Lucarelli were involved in something bad.”

“That’s a given,” Morelli said. “The question is which bad activity got them killed. Dugan had a laundry list of bad activities.”

I was having a hard time concentrating on Dugan’s activities, because I was thinking Morelli looked unusually hot. He was in jeans and sweat socks and a T-shirt that wasn’t tucked in. And he was developing a nice five o’clock shadow. I mentally undressed him, my eyes lingering over critical areas, my body heat notching up a couple degrees.

Morelli grinned over at me. “Cupcake, that is such a dirty smile.”

I dropped my gaze to his feet. “It’s the socks. Very sexy.”

“I’ll leave them on next time. The way my schedule is looking that’ll be next month. These bonds office murders are attracting attention. I have to be at a press conference tonight at seven. After the press conference I have a meeting with the mayor.”

“Wow, the mayor.”

“I’m one of many attending, and I’m not one of the more important. I’m cannon fodder. Someone to throw under the bus if it becomes necessary.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. At least Terry Gilman will be there. This time I’m going to get a better seat.”

I punched him in the chest, kissed him, and left.

RANGEMAN HAS UNDERGROUND PARKINGfor private and fleet vehicles, all of which are black and immaculate. All are equipped with GPS tracking. Ranger has personal space at the back of the garage, directly in front of the elevator. His cars are also black and immaculate. He has four spaces, and he currently has three vehicles — a Porsche 911 Turbo, a tricked-out Ford F150, and a Porsche Cayenne. I parked my filthy, dented Escort in the fourth spot.

I entered the elevator, waved hello to the hidden camera and went to the fifth floor. Every part of Rangeman is monitored with the exception of the restrooms off the lobby on the ground floor, employees’ private apartments, and Ranger’s apartment on the seventh floor. The fifth floor is Rangeman command central. The monitoring station is here, plus Ranger’s office. The elevator door opened on five, and Ranger stepped in and pressed the seven button.

“The plans are upstairs,” he said. “I thought we could go over them while we ate. I’m sure Ella left enough for two.”

Ella and her husband manage the Rangeman building, and Ella personally manages Ranger. She keeps his apartment pristine, ensures that his clothes are perfect, delivers two gourmet meals a day, and attempts to humanize a space that without her would be sterile. Ranger isn’t a man who sets up family photos on the coffee table.

The elevator opened to a small marble-floored vestibule with one door. Ranger fobbed the door open, and I stepped into his apartment. It had been professionally decorated with little help from Ranger, but it felt right for him. It was calm without being enervating. And it was masculine but not overbearing. The furniture was contemporary and comfortable with clean lines. The color palette was all earth tones. Upholstered pieces were cream with chocolate accents. Wood was dark and glossy. Lighting was subdued. The front door opened to a short hall with nondescript art on one side and a cherry sideboard on the other. Ella kept fresh flowers on the sideboard alongside a silver tray with the day’s mail, and a second tray for keys.

Ranger dropped his keys into the key tray, leafed through his mail, and returned it to the mail tray unopened. For as many times as I’ve been in his apartment I’ve never once caught him looking at the art. I suspect he didn’t know it was there.

The hall led to an open-floor-plan living room and dining room with a small, but state-of-the-art kitchen to the right. Appliances were stainless steel, counters were black granite, dishes were white, stemware was crystal. Ranger lived well, not by his choice, but by Ella’s. She’d left a large spinach salad on the counter, a breadbasket in the warming drawer, and a casserole in the oven. I set the bread and casserole on the counter next to the salad, and Ranger opened a bottle of pinot noir. We fixed plates and took our dinner to the dining room table.

I buttered a dinner roll. “Tell me about the security system.”

“Large house. Twelve thousand square feet. Wealthy, politically ambitious client with a young second wife. Two teenage daughters and one teenage son by the first marriage. He wants maximum security. The teenagers want no security. Not sure what the wife wants.”

“So security can’t be intrusive.”

“It can’t be intrusive, but more than that it shouldn’t be in places a woman would find objectionable.”

“Like a camera in the bathroom.”

Ranger nodded. “I have photographs and preliminary floor plans. You can take a look at them later.”

“If you employed a woman you wouldn’t need to bring me in like this.”

“If I could find a woman with the right qualifications I’d hire her. In the meantime, you’re it.”

“Have you asked Ella to help with this?”

“Yes. She thought my client made bad choices on kitchen appliances. And she’d change the carpet color in the master bedroom.”

The photos were stacked at the end of the table. I finished eating and shuffled through them. I got to the bedroom photos and grimaced. “Ella’s right about the rug in the bedroom.”

Ranger cleared the plates and spread the blueprint out on the table. He stood behind me, leaning over my shoulder, pointing out security cameras. “Every exterior door is under surveillance, plus there are roof-mounted cameras scanning the yard and driveway. The windows are impact glass but they maintain security only if they’re closed and properly locked. With three teenagers in a house that size it’s likely there will be security breaches. My client would like more interior cameras, but I’m worried I’ll be catching his daughters sneaking down to the kitchen for a midnight snack in their underwear.”

“That’s very sensitive of you.”

“Sensitivity doesn’t have much to do with it. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen if one of those kids thinks their right to privacy has been violated. I don’t want my technicians accused of spying on a thirteen-year-old.”

“Does the video feed into your monitoring station?”

“No. It records for a set amount of time and recycles, but a technician could have access to it on a service call. The client can also have select locations available to him for monitoring.”

I was trying to concentrate on the security system, but I was already a little buzzed from the wine. Ranger was close, and I wanted him even closer. He was warm, and he smelled faintly of something unbelievably appealing.

“Babe?”

His face was inches from mine. “Mmmm?”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.” No.

My relationship with Ranger is well defined. We both acknowledge the desire existing between us. Ranger’s made it clear he’ll take advantage of any opening given. And I’ve struggled to keep my openings closed. My position has more to do with self-preservation than my allegiance to Morelli. Morelli chose to back off on commitment, and I agreed. Maybe some day that will change, but for now we have a comfortable working arrangement. My arrangement with Ranger isn’t nearly so comfortable. It’s frustrating at best and borderline scary at its worst. Ranger lives by his own code of conduct. He’s an honorable guy … just not by normal standards.

“What did I just say?” he asked. And the corners of his mouth almost smiled.

I leaned into him a little. “I love the way you smell. It’s sweet and citrusy and clean and very sexy.” My lips accidentally skimmed across his ear when I spoke, and I think I might have sighed a little.