Dirty Thirty (Stephanie Plum, #30)(26)

“Wow. Holy cow.”

That got a rare full-on smile from Ranger. His teeth were white against his dark skin, in the dark car. The smile reached his eyes, where he had a few crinkle lines that I thought were from squinting, not smiling.

“I don’t like that you were hit in the face,” Ranger said, “but it should improve the dinner conversation.”

“I could put dark glasses on and say I had surgery.”

“It’s your story. Tell it however you want.”



* * *




The Sewards were already at the table when we arrived. They were enjoying cocktails. Dirty martinis with multiple olives. I was guessing they were in their late sixties. They were pleasantly plump with faces that reflected an excellent cosmetic dermatologist and surgeon. They were appropriately dressed for dinner at a Four Seasons–equivalent hotel. They were smiling and gracious. Ranger, in a perfectly tailored black Tom Ford suit and dress shirt open at the collar, fit right in. Me, not so much with two black eyes and a slightly swollen nose.

“Isn’t this nice,” Brenda said. “We finally get to meet Mrs. Ranger.”

“You can call me Stephanie,” I said.

Ranger looked like he was enjoying himself. He ordered a seltzer water from the waiter and a glass of champagne for me.

“You’re probably wondering about my bruises,” I said.

“Oh no,” Brenda said. “I didn’t notice them, but now that you mention it. Have you had work done?”

“No,” I said. “It was just one of those job-related incidents. I was trying to make an apprehension and I got sucker punched.”

Brenda and Ralph sucked in some air.

“Oh my gosh,” Brenda said. “I didn’t realize you were in law enforcement. Ranger is very private. We hardly know anything about you.”

“He’s very protective,” I said. “He’s such a sweetie pie.”

Brenda and Ralph looked at sweetie pie Ranger.

“Ralph is like that too,” Brenda said. “We’ve been married for forty-six years, and he still holds my hand when we go for a walk after dinner.”

“She tends to wander away,” Ralph said.

“Only that one time when I saw the squirrel,” Brenda said. “He looked injured.”

“He was rabid,” Ralph said. “Fucking rabid squirrel. Anybody could see that he was rabid.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Brenda said. “He might have been injured. Maybe he had a stroke like your brother Bill.”

“Bill didn’t look like that when he had the stroke,” Ralph said. “He couldn’t use one side. His arm just hung there. And he couldn’t talk. He kept saying rub-a-dub and bingo bango bongo. Totally different from the squirrel.”

I chugged my champagne and ordered another. Ranger’s smile was small but constant.

It was a little after nine when the valet brought Ranger’s Porsche around. We were in front of the hotel and Ranger pulled me close against him and kissed me, giving me a rush that stopped just short of orgasmic.

“I should explain about my unsealed lips,” I said. “It’s a temporary condition resulting from drinking three glasses of champagne.”

“I thought it might be because you were Mrs. Ranger.”

“That role ended when we left the table.”

His voice was soft. His lips skimmed across my ear. “Would you consider staying in the role a little longer?”

I put a couple inches of space between us and looked up at him. “You’re thinking about taking advantage of me in my three-glasses-of-champagne condition, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“It has some appeal but don’t think for too long. The amorous stage of inebriation has a short shelf life for me. I’m afraid I’ll be asleep in ten minutes. I’d hate to miss the grand finale.”

Ranger kissed me again. Long and slow and hot. He broke from the kiss and stuffed me into his Porsche, holding my head cop style so I didn’t give myself a concussion.

“I’m going to give you a rain check on the grand finale,” he said, sliding in behind the wheel. “What I want to do to you is going to take longer than ten minutes, and you’re going to want to remember all of it.”





CHAPTER EIGHT




Lula was already in the office when Bob and I walked in. She was in sneakers and gray sweats, and her hair was pulled up into a topknot ponytail that looked like a Dr. Seuss Truffula tree.

“I didn’t get any sleep again last night,” Lula said. “I could hardly pull myself together this morning. I just put on the first thing I saw. Look at me. I’m wearing sneakers. Sneakers. They aren’t even bedazzled.”

“Grendel again?” I asked.

“It’s horrible. I left the light on, but I fell asleep. I woke up at two o’clock, my light was off, and I could hear him breathing and growling. A big black blob. I just about wet myself.”

“Omigod,” I said, “what did you do?”

“I reached for my gun. It was under my pillow. I was all prepared for an incident like this. Only thing I hadn’t counted on was the adrenaline factor. When I grabbed my gun, I squeezed one off prematurely and blew my pillow apart. It was a good pillow too. It was made in America by the smiley guy on television. It was one of his generation-two pillows that keep you from getting all sweaty.”