fighter-pilot ex-husband who had too much
in common with a certain gorgeous four-years-younger-than-her homicide detective whose
kisses lit her up like every star in the Milky Way compressed into a snow globe. Maybe
Montgomery wasn’t working—
“Did you hear me, Charlie? I said Dexter could drive you.”
That jolted Charlie out of her reverie. “Dexter? Your son?” She tried not to sound
appalled but wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. She’d only met the seventeen-year-old Dexter
twice, but on both occasions she’d had to restrain herself from slapping the kid or
pulling a gun on him because of his air of entitlement and the way he treated Gigi.
“Of course my son,” Gigi said, sounding so relieved to have come up with a solution
for Charlie’s transportation difficulties that Charlie didn’t have the heart to tell
her she’d rather walk to Aspen. “I’ll call him and have him pick you up at your house.
If you leave right now, maybe you can get me out before I have to spend the night
in jail. I’m not cut out for prison life, Charlie.”
Charlie had no trouble believing that and did her best to reassure Gigi before driving
home to pack an overnight bag. She’d barely tossed her toothbrush in when a honk from
out front made her peer out the window. A shiny red BMW 325i sat in her gravel driveway,
the lanky blond Dexter leaning on the horn. With a growl, Charlie finished packing,
locked the house, and stalked to the car. Rap music with an insistent bass beat vibrated
the Beemer and was probably scaring away every bird, bunny, bobcat, and bear in earshot,
Charlie thought sourly. Dexter didn’t emerge as she approached and yanked open the
back door to toss her bag in. “You’ve never heard of knocking?” she asked as she opened
the front door and slid into the passenger seat.
Dexter Goldman gave her a sullen look. Wearing a ratty T-shirt advertising a band
Charlie had never heard of but was sure she would hate, he slouched in the driver’s
seat. His streaky blond hair brushed his earlobes. Psychedelic jams hit just below
his knee, the lime and puce and orange reminding Charlie of some of Gigi’s more lurid
clothing combinations. The poor kid had inherited his mom’s fashion gene. Despite
the near-freezing temperatures, he had flip-flops on his feet. He was handsome in
a way Charlie was sure appealed to foolish teenaged girls; he reminded her of a young
Brad Pitt, à la Thelma & Louise . She reached over to click off the stereo.
“My tunes!”
“Drive,” Charlie ordered.
The teen put the car in gear and stomped on the gas, spewing gravel as he tore out
of Charlie’s driveway. Charlie shut her eyes briefly; it was going to be a long trip.
* * *
Dexter’s passion for speed and his total lack of consideration for other drivers made
the drive shorter than Charlie had anticipated. She spent the trip on her cell phone
and laptop, trying to locate Gigi’s friends in Singapore. It seemed to her that the
quickest way to get Gigi out of jail was to have the Fitzwaters tell the police she
had their permission to be in the house. Accordingly, Charlie had dialed their home
number to hear their message for herself and then the cell phone number Gigi had given
her for them, without much hope. She was right; apparently the Fitzwaters’ cell plan
didn’t include coverage in Southeast Asia. She was reduced to Googling hotels in Singapore
and calling them to see if Cherry and Moss were staying there. Since the time difference
made it early morning in Singapore, she dealt with a variety of sleepy desk clerks
who took a long time to deliver the news that the Fitzwaters weren’t registered at
Hotel X or Y or Z. She didn’t even want to consider the possibility that they were
staying in a private home or rented condo. She shifted uncomfortably in the seat,
her wound complaining.
It wasn’t until they approached the outskirts
in common with a certain gorgeous four-years-younger-than-her homicide detective whose
kisses lit her up like every star in the Milky Way compressed into a snow globe. Maybe
Montgomery wasn’t working—
“Did you hear me, Charlie? I said Dexter could drive you.”
That jolted Charlie out of her reverie. “Dexter? Your son?” She tried not to sound
appalled but wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. She’d only met the seventeen-year-old Dexter
twice, but on both occasions she’d had to restrain herself from slapping the kid or
pulling a gun on him because of his air of entitlement and the way he treated Gigi.
“Of course my son,” Gigi said, sounding so relieved to have come up with a solution
for Charlie’s transportation difficulties that Charlie didn’t have the heart to tell
her she’d rather walk to Aspen. “I’ll call him and have him pick you up at your house.
If you leave right now, maybe you can get me out before I have to spend the night
in jail. I’m not cut out for prison life, Charlie.”
Charlie had no trouble believing that and did her best to reassure Gigi before driving
home to pack an overnight bag. She’d barely tossed her toothbrush in when a honk from
out front made her peer out the window. A shiny red BMW 325i sat in her gravel driveway,
the lanky blond Dexter leaning on the horn. With a growl, Charlie finished packing,
locked the house, and stalked to the car. Rap music with an insistent bass beat vibrated
the Beemer and was probably scaring away every bird, bunny, bobcat, and bear in earshot,
Charlie thought sourly. Dexter didn’t emerge as she approached and yanked open the
back door to toss her bag in. “You’ve never heard of knocking?” she asked as she opened
the front door and slid into the passenger seat.
Dexter Goldman gave her a sullen look. Wearing a ratty T-shirt advertising a band
Charlie had never heard of but was sure she would hate, he slouched in the driver’s
seat. His streaky blond hair brushed his earlobes. Psychedelic jams hit just below
his knee, the lime and puce and orange reminding Charlie of some of Gigi’s more lurid
clothing combinations. The poor kid had inherited his mom’s fashion gene. Despite
the near-freezing temperatures, he had flip-flops on his feet. He was handsome in
a way Charlie was sure appealed to foolish teenaged girls; he reminded her of a young
Brad Pitt, à la Thelma & Louise . She reached over to click off the stereo.
“My tunes!”
“Drive,” Charlie ordered.
The teen put the car in gear and stomped on the gas, spewing gravel as he tore out
of Charlie’s driveway. Charlie shut her eyes briefly; it was going to be a long trip.
* * *
Dexter’s passion for speed and his total lack of consideration for other drivers made
the drive shorter than Charlie had anticipated. She spent the trip on her cell phone
and laptop, trying to locate Gigi’s friends in Singapore. It seemed to her that the
quickest way to get Gigi out of jail was to have the Fitzwaters tell the police she
had their permission to be in the house. Accordingly, Charlie had dialed their home
number to hear their message for herself and then the cell phone number Gigi had given
her for them, without much hope. She was right; apparently the Fitzwaters’ cell plan
didn’t include coverage in Southeast Asia. She was reduced to Googling hotels in Singapore
and calling them to see if Cherry and Moss were staying there. Since the time difference
made it early morning in Singapore, she dealt with a variety of sleepy desk clerks
who took a long time to deliver the news that the Fitzwaters weren’t registered at
Hotel X or Y or Z. She didn’t even want to consider the possibility that they were
staying in a private home or rented condo. She shifted uncomfortably in the seat,
her wound complaining.
It wasn’t until they approached the outskirts
Similar Books
