One Hot Mess Read Free

good-natured laugh. “Surely you did not think that I was… that I was propositioning you, Christina.”
    It took me a moment to catch my breath, longer still to zap my brain waves back on track. “Of course not,” I said, and stomped down my politically incorrect irritation. I mean, apparently I'm bright and beautiful and all that other crap, so why the hell
wasn't
he coming on to me? “Why
are
you here, exactly?” I asked, managing—quite successfully, I believe—to disguise my annoyance.
    “I came to beg your help,” he said, and stood. Suddenlyhis voice was darkly dramatic and as enticing as hidden calories.
    Sometimes my late-night conversations with François began similarly but I didn't think this was going to be that kind of interlude. “My help?”
    He held my gaze. “There has been a death.”
    I flinched. My own life had been threatened on more than one occasion during the past year. It tends to make a person a little squirrelly.
    “The police have not determined the cause, and I feel in here”—he placed a perfectly manicured hand on his chest—”that the mystery must be solved or there will be dire consequences.”
    “What kind of consequences?”
    “Unthinkable ones.”
    The hair at the back of my neck crept upward like tiny fingers. “Such as?”
    He watched me in silence as if wondering how much to say then: “I, too, am intuitive, Christina,” he said. “It is a gift from my mother's side.”
    “Uh-huh. But what does this have to do with me?” I was trying pretty hard to act casual, but my heart seemed to be a little bit stuttery in my chest.
    He gave a brief shrug. “Perhaps nothing.”
    “Perhaps?”
    Stepping forward, he took my hand in both of his. They felt warm and strong. “I did not mean to frighten you. It is simply that…” He paused. Emotion flashed through his ever-earnest eyes. Regret, sorrow, fear. Or maybe he was just a really first-rate actor. “I, too, am fearful.”
    “Of…”
    He drew a fortifying breath. “The truth is this: Last night I was visited by a dream,” he said.
    I waited, but he failed to continue. “Is this a version of Dr. King's speech or…”
    “About Gerald.”
    “Oh?”
    “As you know, he and I have had our difficulties.”
    In fact, “Gerald” had at one time accused his old man of murdering the woman whom they'd shared as a fiancée— a long, twisted, and somewhat perverted story.
    “But he is my only son. My heir,” he said, and fisted his hand against his chest. “The produce of my loins.”
    Whoa
, I thought, and wondered if it was time to swoon like a wilted lily.
    “I have no wish to see him hurt.”
    I shook my head.
    “In my dream…” He spread his fingers and swept his hand in the air between us, as if seeing the scene in panoramic color. “He was lying on the concrete. Eyes open, face pressed against the cold cement.”
    Despite the theatrics, I felt my heart slow dramatically. My own dream last night had been similar, although in mine, there had been another body beside Rivera's—an unidentified woman. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “What does this death have to do with Jack?” I asked.
    “As of yet… nothing.”
    “Then why—” I began, but he pulled a Polaroid from his breast pocket.
    I reached for the photo with some misgiving, peered at the image, then turned it right side up and looked again. It took me a minute to determine the logistics. Longer stillto realize that the thing I was looking at had once been human. “Holy shit!” I rasped, and, jerking back, dropped the snapshot.
    There was a moment of silence, then the senator stepped forward to retrieve the photograph. “I am sorry,” he said.
    My hands were shaking. “What was that?”
    “At one time that was a woman. Her name, I believe, was Kathleen Baltimore.”
    I pulled my gaze from the picture to his face. “Why are you telling me this? Showing me this?”
    “Because my dream also revealed
her.”
    The shattered images of