Cuff Me(27)

Vincent stared at her. “Do I look like I would know that?”

Elena rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Tom and Jill. “Vincent here thinks that if he doesn’t grunt and scowl eighty times a day, we’ll all forget he’s a man.”

He lifted the glass to his face. Sniffed. It smelled like booze. That was promising. Vincent studied it more carefully, curious if there was a way to avoid the sugar rim. Nope.

He took a tentative sip.

“Well?” Elena asked, finally ripping her glare away from Tom. “What do you think?”

“It’s terrible,” he said.

Although, it wasn’t really. A little sweeter than he would have liked, and he’d have preferred a beer or a glass of red wine, but it was alcohol.

Tom’s hand found Jill’s back, and Vincent took another sip. Bigger this time.

“You do like the drink!” Elena said.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

The smell of familiar flowery perfume drew Vin’s attention to his grandmother, who materialized at his side with surprising speed considering her advanced years.

“Your mother got the wrong kind of prosciutto.”

“Nonna, there is no wrong kind of prosciutto,” Elena explained gently.

Vincent nodded, inclined for once to agree with his sister.

Nonna shook her head stubbornly. “No, she got it from that dodgy butcher on Staten Island when I specifically told her—”

Elena held up her hand. “Wait, why are either of you bringing prosciutto? I told you I was getting this catered.”

Nonna gave a furtive look over her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve seen your caterer. Wouldn’t know al dente pasta if it bit her in the ass.”

“Which is fine,” Elena explained through gritted teeth. “Because we’re not having Italian food.”

Nonna puffed up. “But we’re Italian.”

“Yes, but they’re not,” Elena said, gesturing at Jill and Tom. “And it’s their night, so I wanted to do something more traditionally American.”

“I’m sure we’ll love whatever you serve, Italian or not,” Tom said, earning beaming smiles from both Nonna and Elena.

“Vin, you got a sec?” Jill interrupted, dragging Vincent toward the kitchen. “I had a thought on the case.”

“What’s up?” he asked. “Tell me you’ve figured out who the hell killed Lenora Birch, because the higher-ups are starting to get—”

“No, I don’t have a freaking clue,” she said. “I just need a drink. I need a minute.”

“Need a minute from… the man you’re going to marry?”

“Mmm,” she murmured distractedly as she glanced over her shoulder and then dumped her drink down the drain.

Jill reached for his drink and followed suit.

“I thought you liked sweet stuff,” he said.

“I do, but that drink was just wrong,” she muttered as she rummaged through Elena’s fridge.

She pulled out a bottle of white wine, which wasn’t Vincent’s preferred beverage, but at least it was flower-free.

“Come here often?” he said dryly, watching as she located Elena’s corkscrew and wineglasses without having to search.

“She hosts a lot of our girls’ nights,” she said, defiantly opening the bottle and pouring them two generous portions.

“Where you talk about boys and lipstick?” he asked, accepting the glass she handed him.

“God no,” she replied. “Mostly we talk about the kind of sex we’re not getting.”

Vincent choked on his wine. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What kind of sex is that?”

He’d asked.

Jill merely looked at him over the rim of her wineglass before giving a little shrug. “You know. Hot. Raunchy. Often.”

He opened his mouth to respond, only to realize there was no response to that.

None.

Jill was already skipping out of the kitchen to rejoin the party.

Vin almost followed her, then stopped, jerked open the freezer door, and put his head in.

A few moments later, the frigid air of the freezer had helped cool his body.

But not his mind.

Raunchy sex. Jill Henley wanted hot, raunchy sex.

There wasn’t enough cold air on the planet to cool his mind from that visual.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


As far as leads went, a retired actress who lived three hours away from the scene of the crime wasn’t much to go on.

But Jill and Vincent were officially out of suspects.

Every last one of Lenora Birch’s current and former lovers either had alibis or lacked motivation.

Jealous family members? None.

Bitter friends? None.

Disgruntled employees? None.

The latest lead—and it was a weak one—was Holly Adams, an actress whose career had revved to life about the same time as Lenora’s fifty years earlier.

But whereas Lenora’s career and reputation continued to grow over the years, Holly’s fizzled almost as quickly as it had taken off. Not because she’d lacked talent.

But the combination of a couple bad movie choices plus more than a few cheating scandals, and Holly had been toppled—no, thrown—off the America’s Sweetheart pedestal.