Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(32)

“Well?” he said.

I nodded, panting in excitement, then wondered aloud, “Well, what?”

“Are you going to drop the case?”

Oh, no, he did not.

“It’s your decision.” There was something about the way he said it, something a little too nonchalant that had dread creeping up my spine. The barest hint of a smirk crept across his sensual mouth. Then he said it, and it took me precious seconds to absorb the fact that he was blackmailing me. “Drop the case or I drop you.” Or was that extortion?

Anger exploded inside me. I narrowed my lids, gave him a second to think about what he’d just said to me, then dematerialized my hand. The one he was holding.

With a lightning-quick strike, he tried to catch me with his other hand, but I was already out of his reach.

I hit Captain Kirk before I even knew I was falling. And I hit hard. Also an end table was taking up half of him, so I landed on Captain Kirk, then my face landed on the edge of the end table, bounced off it, then flipped me over the back of the sofa. Who knew my face had been trained in Krav Maga?

“Charley!” Cookie rushed forward. Amber stayed where she was, her jaw hanging in shock, as her mother tried to help me up by dislocating my shoulder. “Charley, are you okay?”

“I’m good. I think.” I sank back to the floor. It was moving way too fast for me to try to get on at the moment, like when I was a kid and tried to time the already-spinning merry-go-round just right. It never ended well.

I heard the lyrical chime of a phone as Reyes knelt beside me. He’d clearly had no problem getting down without a ladder.

Amber checked her phone then said, “I have to get ready for school,” and hurried out.

I shook off the hand Reyes offered, then turned on him. “You could have killed me.”

He made clear his lack of concern with a deadpan. “You did that all on your own.”

“Yeah, but you threatened to.”

“Son of Satan,” he said by way of an explanation.

I scrambled to my feet, assured Cookie I was fine, then headed to our bedroom. If that doorframe hadn’t jumped out of nowhere, I would have made a grand exit. As it stood, I was stumbling on the spinning merry-go-round one second, then cradled in the arms of my husband the next.

He started to carry me to our room. I decided not to argue the point since I could barely walk without getting arrested for public intoxication.

“The file,” I said to Cookie, pointing over Reyes’s shoulder. The broad one that fit my head just right. “Ubie brought the file on the Brooks girl.”

She nodded, then asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

I gave her a thumbs-up before Reyes turned the corner into our room. He dropped my legs and let me slide down the length of him. Then he examined my eye, the one that had tried to take out our end table.

“You need ice.”

“I need a shower.”

I pushed off him and stumbled to our bathroom. It wasn’t until I stepped into George, the shower that God built—metaphorically—that it hit me. Someone in that room was not okay. I felt the remnants of anxiety. Stress. Fear. Even despair. All the things I would have felt instantly had I not been dangling from a rafter like a tea bag.

Amber. Something was very wrong with Amber.

*

George felt wonderful. I stepped out feeling completely relaxed and satisfied, which was more than I could say about my husband at the moment. He was brushing his teeth. As soon as I got out, he rinsed and got in.

I hurried to get dressed, not wanting another confrontation on the Foster front. He was not going to bully me into dropping the case, so why bother arguing about it? Honestly, between him and Uncle Bob …

Still, Ubie was really starting to worry me. In the past, he would never do something like he’d done today. He would never leave me hanging like that. He’d trapped me on purpose. Tried to get me to take the day off. To stay home. But why? Ubie and I had always been so open. So honest. Why wouldn’t he confide in me now?

I had half a mind not to unmark him for hell. If I could do that. Only one way to find out, but if he didn’t straighten up his act, it was a one-way trip to hellsville for him.

I didn’t bother drying my hair. I pulled it into a ponytail, threw on a sweater, a denim skirt, and a killer pair of ankle boots, grabbed my jacket, and headed out the door. Then I ran back in for my bag. Then I ran back in again for my keys. I was already settled inside Misery, ready to head out—Mr. Foster owned an insurance agency, and I was suddenly in dire need of life insurance on my husband—when I realized I’d left my phone on the charger.

Holy cow. When did I accumulate so much stuff I couldn’t leave home without?

I waffled back and forth on whether to go back in and risk another confrontation—I loved waffles—when a knock sounded on my window.

After jumping three feet into the air, I glared at Reyes. Then heat blossomed over my skin, partly from alarm and partly from arousal, when I noticed his attire. Or lack thereof. He stood in the parking lot in a towel. A beige towel that hung low over his hips.

Water dripped off his hair and spiked his lashes, making his dark brown irises glitter all the more. Or that could have been the anger.

I turned the key and rolled down the window, fighting the urge to chastise him. It wasn’t freezing but it was damned sure too cold to be running around wet and nigh naked. Instead, I asked, “Are you going to threaten me again?”