She opened both eyes then and stared up at him. “ Sherlock did that. Now let me get this straight. You’re worried about food? Now?”
He nodded. He’d distracted her. Her eyes were narrowed on his face, her lips were seamed into a thin line. Good.
“Of course I’m hungry. What about dinner?”
“Well then,” she said, rolling to the other side of the bed to stand and streaking her hands through her hair, “let me get my little self downstairs and see what I can whip together.”
She stalked out of the bedroom, Adam on her heels, grinning at the back of her head. She was keeping it together. Being pissed was good. He was pleased and inordinately relieved. He was afraid, though, that being an asshole was a bit too easy for him. He noticed again that the tilt of her head was just like her father’s.
“So,” Sherlock said some thirty minutes later at the kitchen table after she’d chewed a bite of tuna salad that Savich had whipped up, “this Tyler McBride seems hung up on you, Becca, and he’s wildly jealous of Adam. Could he be a problem?”
“He already is a problem,” Adam said, waving a dill pickle. “The guy attacked me. I wasn’t doing a single thing and he attacked me.”
“You held back from hurting him,” Sherlock said. “That was smart. Mr. McBride is not only very afraid for Becca, he also feels threatened because another male showed up. It’s strange. Here he knows that Becca’s in trouble. You’d think that the more folks to help, the better.”
It was just the way he should have felt the entire time, Adam thought. Bottom line, just like Tyler, he’d felt threatened. And the women knew it.
“I’m glad you didn’t hit Savich,” Sherlock said, seeing quite clearly what he was thinking. “I would have done more than clip you on the jaw if you had, Adam.” She then gave him a sunny smile, raised the plate, and said, “Anyone want another tuna sandwich?”
Becca said, “Or would you prefer raw meat?”
“That’s really quite enough, Becca,” Adam said, finally annoyed. “I’m going to take another sandwich and go talk to the guys, see how they’re doing. The moon’s nearly full tonight. It’s quiet. Don’t worry about the boyfriend being out there to shoot me. I’ll take my gun. Oh yeah, if I had attacked Savich, I would have coldcocked him before you could have hurt me, Sherlock.”
He left the kitchen.
Sherlock couldn’t help herself; she laughed. Savich looked back and forth between the two women, stood slowly, nabbed a sandwich, then said, “I think it’s a little thick in here. See you later, Sherlock. I’m going to go give my mom a call and see how she’s faring with our boy.”
“Call me when you’ve got him on the phone,” Sherlock said, then took a big bite out of an apple.
Savich walked to the living room, where the only phone in the whole house was. He heard Adam whistling outside.
He hated to lie to his mom when she asked him exactly what he and Sherlock were doing, but he did, and cleanly. “It’s a background check on someone very important who’s being considered for the Supreme Court. All very hush-hush and that’s why Jimmy Maitland asked me and Sherlock to take care of it. Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll be back in a couple of days. I met a really cute little boy today. It seems his mother abandoned him and his father over a year ago and he hasn’t said much since then. Is that Sean gurgling in the background? I’d sure like to speak to him, Mom.”
16
The phone rang sharply at midnight. Everyone heard it, but Becca was the fastest. She was on her feet, running down the front stairs to the living room by the second ring.
It was him, she knew it, and she wanted to talk to him. There wasn’t the need to keep him on for any specified length of time. The slammer was instantaneous, the identification there in a flash.
Her hand shook as she picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“I don’t know if I want to be your boyfriend anymore. You shot my dog, Rebecca.”
Shot his dog? “That’s a lie and you know it. Besides, no animal would have anything to do with you. You’re too crazy and sick.”
“His name was Gleason. He was very fat and you shot and killed him. I’m really upset, Becca. I’m coming to get you now. Not long. Hey, honey, you want to send flowers to poor Gleason’s funeral?”
“Why don’t you bury yourself with him, you murdering psycho?”
Adam heard his hitching breath, the flutter of rage. She’d gotten to him. Good.