Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(94)

She swerved at the next corner, onto Linden Street. Porky’s house was famous for how garish it was in a town full of fussy Victorians. She peeked at her watch, buzzing with excitement. She could do this and still have time to spiff up for her gig with the Rumors tonight. They were opening for Bonnie Blair, at the Paramount. A super important gig. She had to look stunning, and that took some time.

Speaking of which. She glanced down at her skimpy attire, and concluded that she was perfectly dressed for this little adventure.

She leaned her bike on the stone wall that bordered the lawn, and walked down the drive towards the house, trying to ignore fluttering in her belly. An attractive Hispanic lady in her fifties dressed in the uniform of domestic staff answered the doorbell. She looked Cindy up and down, and gave her the Death Star look. “Yes?”

“Is Professor Beck at home?” Cindy attempted a friendly smile.

The lady’s mouth tightened to a grim line. “What’s it about?”

“I’m a former student,” she explained. “I wanted to ask some questions about a project of mine.”

“Wait here.” The door closed smartly in her face.

Cindy shrugged inwardly. No point in getting uptight about it. Dress like a devil slut, get treated like a devil slut. Simple.

Her musings were cut short when the door was yanked open again. This time, Porky was behind it. His initial puzzlement quickly warmed into an appreciative leer, but there was no recognition in it.

Just as well. She didn’t really want him to remember her D+.

She zapped him with her incandescent bubblehead smile, and he waved her right on in. He flung a fleshy arm around her shoulders, fingers in position to start their sneaky downward creep, and led her through a series of luxurious rooms. She wondered how a place could stink of money and still be so butt-ugly. The place had a cold, professional vibe that suggested a decorator’s high concept design, not a home. Like the lobby of a wealthy lawyer’s office.

He led her down broad marble steps into a sunken living room, and plunked her down on one of several plushy, cream-colored leather couches, grouped around a low, gleaming ebony table which was longer and wider than a queen-sized bed. A stark, spiky red flower arrangement was perched in the exact middle of it.

“So, my dear, what can I help you with? And would you refresh my memory again? I have so many students, you see. I remember your lovely face, of course, that’s unforgettable.”

“I’m Cynthia Riggs.” The eyelash treatment, a tit-enhancing tilt to the rib cage, and a slow, deliberate recrossing of the legs, a la Sharon Stone. “I just graduated this June. I took your course two years ago. It was totally great,” she gushed. “I’m not a science type, but you made it so interesting somehow. Even kind of beautiful. That may sound dumb to you, but I just don’t know how else to describe it.”

“Thank you.” He sat down close to her so their legs almost touched. “But you didn’t come here just to give me compliments.”

She giggled. “Um, no. It’s about a personal project of mine.”

His knee made contact. “I love personal projects.” His eyes glowed with fascinated curiosity, lit up from behind by plain old lust.

“I could probably have asked other people these questions, but I decided to come to you, first.” She gave him a fluttery sidelong glance. “You’re so, like, approachable, you know?”

His arm shifted so that it touched her bare shoulders. “You can’t imagine how much pleasure it gives me to hear that, Cynthia.”

She let her lashes sweep down. “I’ve been doing some writing lately, and I’m getting really into, like, biographical projects? And I got to thinking I could, um, write a biography of a local person?”

He frowned. “A historical personage, you mean?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Modern day.”

“That’s fascinating, but it’s not my field,” he said regretfully. “If you like, the director of the Young Writers’ Workshop at the Arts Center is a personal friend of mine. I would be delighted to introduce him to such an attractive, well-spoken young woman.”

“Oh, thanks!” she burbled. “That would be fabulous! But actually, I didn’t want to ask about writing. I wanted to ask about the person I mean to write about, because you actually, like, knew him.”

Porky’s eyes widened. “You tease me. Who is this mystery man?”

Here it was. The deep end of the pool. She took a deep breath, and dove. “Kevin McCloud.”

Everything changed. The temperature of the room plummeted. The smile on Porky’s face flash-froze in the meat locker chill.

Suddenly, his fingers weren’t inching down below her collarbone anymore. His arm was up on the back of the couch. His knee was a full two inches from hers. His mask of fascinated curiosity was gone, along with the lust that had animated it. His eyes had gone totally blank.

She was spooked. She felt very young, and very alone, and very stupid to mess with stuff that wasn’t her goddamn business.

He cleared his throat. “You might be mistaken about my knowing this person, Cynthia. That name doesn’t ring any bells in my mind.”

Yeah, right. Liar, liar, pants on fire. It rang car alarms in his mind. She widened her eyes. “I heard you guys knew each other,” she said earnestly. “Back when you were doing research at University of Washington? And he was student teaching for you for a while, right?”