The Stiff and the Dead (24 page)

With that she clicked some kind of lock on the other side of the door. “You mice are doomed when I set my traps tomorrow.”

Jagger looked up at me. “Jesus. You really swallowed a Viagra?”

And now I'm stuck in here with you.

I tried to vomit back up the Viagra in a very ladylike, very silent manner.

No such luck.

I made a mental note to carry syrup of ipecac from now on.

Not that the Viagra had been able to work in those few seconds, but I sure as hell felt my skin burning while Jagger looked at me—grinning.

Sophie had mumbled some more and apparently left.

Jagger shined his light around the room. No window. No other door.

I was locked in Mr. Wisnowski's shed with my fantasy man—and I'd just swallowed a drug used for sexual dysfunction.

I knew it also worked on women, enhancing their “feelings.” And it worked in thirty minutes—and lasted up to four hours.

This could be a long night.

But a fun one.

“How soon can we get out of here?” I asked when my mind snapped back to reality.

Jagger looked at me. “We're probably locked in till daybreak when the kid comes back, Sherlock.”

Locked in.

Oh, boy. All of a sudden my heart started to pound and beneath my gloves my palms sweated. Locked in. This was not good for my claustrophobia.

Jagger must have noticed. “Oh shit. You're not going to pass out like that time on the elevator.”

“Pass out? Very funny.” I became woozy. “I'm fine.” The room spun. “No problem.” My knees wobbled like a rubber band.

I ordered my brain to ignore the fact that we were locked in.

“Good.” He grabbed a few burlap sacks from a pile and laid them out on the floor near the door. “Then make yourself comfortable.” He sat down and patted the floor next to him.

I stood like a freaking mannequin.

“Oh,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you want separate sleeping arrangements after you swallowed that . . . bug?”

I could try to sleep somewhere else, but the shed was only about six feet by eight feet, and filled with tools, shovels, a lawnmower and a snow thrower.

And, besides, if I tried to sleep somewhere else, Jagger would never let me live it down.

Or I'd have a full-blown anxiety attack if I couldn't be near the door.

“Move over.” I flopped down, scrunched up a few burlap bags for a pillow. “Good night.” I turned with my back toward him.

I knew he was still grinning.

For several minutes I laid there, telling myself that one silly Viagra wouldn't affect me.

Then Jagger shifted.

Only a little. A tiny little amount, but his leg brushed the back of my knee.

Viagra was like adding gasoline to my already detonated Jagger explosion.

Okay, time to pull out the Pauline Sokol, RN, ammo. I had to reach into my already confused brain to tell myself that the Viagra didn't do anything to increase desire in women. I'd read a study that said when Viagra was used on women, it increased the blood flow to involved parts and did help, but that one tiny “bug” pill I'd swallowed shouldn't do a damn thing to me—unless we “did it,” and I doubted it—especially because Jagger was snoring softly against my back.

I'd never sleep a wink tonight, I said to myself.

My eyes burned from being so overtired. My back ached from not being able—no, not daring—to turn around. If I faced Jagger, I would see him, watch him, ogle him and drool over him—that'd be my undoing.

He shifted again.

“Damn it,” I mumbled.

He turned over!

Now his arm had taken the liberty of resting on my shoulder. He moved closer.

I didn't know much about Jagger, but now I knew without a doubt that he was a “cuddler.”

He started making some kind of moaning sounds. Not as if he were in any kind of pain, but more sexual in nature. More as if he were having a darn good time while he slept. At least that's how I heard them in my Viagra-induced state.

Yes, my Viagra had kicked in.

I felt heat tear through my body, landing in the most important area that Jagger could ever affect. It wasn't easy not to spin around, grab him, tear off his clothes, make mad love and keep kissing him until the damned medicine wore off.

But I was a professional and told myself that I could withstand this torture—for the case.

And, admittedly, for me to keep face in front of Jagger.

So, I stayed put, ignored my traitorous body, now enhanced by some chemical, and shut my eyes.

I felt as if I were being smothered after I realized we couldn't get out. Phobias were not life threatening, I reminded myself. So, a little sweat. A rapid heartbeat. No one ever died from being locked in an old shed.

I had to fall asleep to ignore my phobia—and Jagger.

After a gazillion novenas to Saint Theresa, I felt my eyes start to shut.

My nose was freezing. I opened my eyes to see Jagger's face, inches away from mine. The cold night had seeped into the tiny, unheated shed. Shivering took over my body, and I tried to turn back. Obviously in my sleep, I'd shifted toward Jagger.

This was not good.

His hold tightened.

I tried to ease free by sliding down toward our feet. It wasn't easy by the way he held me, but I kept moving inch by inch.

But for every inch I'd gain, his hold would shift, tighten or his legs would move closer, pinning me in. I took a deep breath, told myself the Viagra had to be out of my system now, when, in fact, I knew it must be at its peak.

I made it down past his waistline, ready to pull free and turn. Shutting my eyes, I paused.

“Viagra kicking in, Sherlock?”

My eyes flew open to come face to “fly” with Jagger's jeans—with him still in them.

Oh . . . my . . . God.

This didn't look good at all.

For a second, I couldn't move. Then, thinking as fast as I could, I started to mumble. I mumbled and shifted, praying my acting abilities would have Jagger thinking I was still asleep and wriggled up until opposite his neck.

Then my chin lifted toward his face.

His lips touched mine.

And my world would never be the same.

My eyelids fluttered open. I looked around and felt my forehead wrinkle. What a dream. This place was freezing, dirty and . . . Jagger stood near the door.

It wasn't a dream.

More a nightmare.

The last thing I remembered was Jagger's lips on mine. I looked under the burlap to see that I had all my clothes on—but no jacket. I know I went to sleep with my jacket on.

Did that really mean we had . . .

Knowing Jagger, he would have helped me back into my clothes after . . .

Then I remembered the Viagra and said a silent prayer that it hadn't gotten out of hand last night. I felt pretty tired, but that could be since this wasn't the Ritz, and I hadn't slept much.

If I'd made love to Jagger—surely I'd be floating on a cloud right now—not lying here on a dirty floor.

And Lord knows, if we really had sex, I'd want to have lived through every tiny second of
that
experience with him.

I decided I'd go with the theory we hadn't and never breach the subject with him.

He turned toward me. “Hey.”

“Morning.” My voice came out a raspy tone. Sounded a bit sexier than it had last night, but I knew my breath needed some help. First thing I always did in the morning, no matter who I was with, was brush my teeth and tongue.

Pauline Sokol, creature of habit.

With my hand over my mouth, I asked, “Did you get it unlocked?”

He gave me one of those looks.

“Okay. How are we going to get out if the yard boy doesn't come back?” I sat up and ran my hand through my hair. Medusa, look out. Trying to tame the strands, I said, “Should we call someone?”

“We've never been here.”

“Oh, right.” I got up, brushed myself off and touched my lips. They felt a bit swollen. Maybe we had shared more than one kiss? And why was my jacket off?

Damn, how I wished I could remember.

Not only to know whether I should be properly embarrassed, but there was that thing of if I'd had sex with Jagger, I'd want to relive it moment by moment, or maybe even have video—for my own use only.

I couldn't be that unlucky to have done “it” and not remember.

Goldie's jacket hung from a hook above my head. Not a good sign. I reached into the deepest recesses of my brain to see if I remembered hanging it there.
Nada.
Jagger could have hung it up for me.

I shook my head to get all these stupid thoughts out of it, stood, grabbed the jacket and put it on.

He watched me, silently.

Great.

“So, how do we get out of here?” I walked toward the door.

Jagger had pushed open the double doors only about three inches. The old padlock still did its job, holding them shut.

I pushed at one door. It creaked. “Can't you just push it until the lock pops?”

Jagger looked through the small opening. “Not until Sophie is gone.”

I bent near to look. His breath heated my cheek, and the bastard didn't move away. As a matter of fact, I think he somehow managed to make his breath . . . hotter.

During the night, snow had fallen. Not much, thank goodness, but enough that the roads might be a bit slippery. I wondered if the neighbors had noticed Jagger's SUV parked down the street. At least he didn't stop it right in front of Mr. W's house.

The guy was on the ball.

“Oh. Good thinking about Sophie. Can you—” I pulled back. “She's coming!”

Jagger took a fast peek, then grabbed my arm. As he pulled me toward the back of the shed, he held a finger to my lips. I got it that I had to shut up, but didn't move his hand away.

Pauline Sokol, pathetic woman.

“Clean both driveways today, Todd. Someone is coming to look at the house,” Sophie said.

“Yeah,” a teen's voice answered. Obviously Todd. The yard boy.

Jagger and I looked at the shovel together. Todd had to come get it. The lock started to jiggle.

Jagger pushed me behind the lawnmower. I fell, but before I could conk my head, his arms were around me, easing me to the floor with him on top of me.

Todd, a lanky kid with acne and a black woolen cap, stuck his arm into the shed and grabbed the shovel. “Yeah, bitch-lady. I'll shovel real good. Wouldn't want your fat ass skidding down the drive and breaking the cement.” He turned to look, probably to make sure Sophie was gone. Then he let out a howl of laughter.

I held my breath, which wasn't difficult since Jagger was squashing the daylights out of me.

A mouse walked across my leg!

Jagger's hand was over my mouth before I could scream, but a tiny muffled sound had come out.

Todd stopped laughing.

“Who's in there?” his voice shook like mine felt. “I'll bet just one of those damn mice. Yeah. You little shits, stop making so much noise. You're not going to scare me anyway, making me think old man Wisnowski came back from the dead.”

Silence.

Bam!

Jagger eased up. With my face partially blocked by his jacket, I looked to see the door shut and prayed Todd had forgotten to lock it again.

We waited a few minutes.

Then Jagger got up, offered me a hand, which I had to take since I was folded like a pretzel and didn't think I could maneuver on my own. When I was able to stand, he turned and walked toward the door. Ever so gently, he eased it open.

Atta boy, Todd, forgetful teenager.

Squeak.

This time I knew it wasn't the mice. If Todd had decent hearing, he might come see what was going on. Then again, a teen who thinks about ghosts more than likely would run the other way.

I looked at Jagger. “Think he'll come back?”

“More than likely he's got some earphones blaring. Come on.”

He took my hand, stepped out, and looked down the driveway. Sure enough, there shoveled Todd with music playing so loudly I could hear it from where I stood. We worked our way around the back of the shed and ended up on the opposite street.

Jagger looked around. “Let's go.”

We walked down the sidewalk, turned left and headed toward his SUV, which sat partially covered in white.

I think I finally took a breath.

“Hungry?” Jagger asked after he brushed off the snow just barely enough to see through the windshield.

“I hadn't even thought about food after a night like that.”

He turned, grinned.

“I'm talking about almost getting caught breaking and entering.” But truthfully his look wasn't far off. “Yeah. I guess I am hungry, but I can't eat like this.”

He turned down Elm Street. “We'll go to a restaurant.”

“No, I mean . . . my teeth. I have to brush them and then shower before I can eat.”

At the stoplight Jagger turned to me. “Maybe next time you should bring an overnight bag with you on surveillance.”

“Why I hadn't thought about—” I slapped his arm before he took off again. “Funny. I can't help having good hygiene. Anyway, I need to go home before I can eat.”

“I'm starving.”

“Okay. Compromise. I'll give you toast while I get ready.”

He didn't reply but turned into the parking lot of my condo and shut off the engine. Once outside, I took a long, deep breath of fresh air. It really felt good to be outside again. I made a mental note to call my friend who was a therapist. Probably I could use some behavior modification for my phobia while doing this line of work.

Maybe even a little Prozac.

We walked up the steps, and I opened the door. When Jagger walked in, he stopped. I'd forgotten to warn him about the “jungle.”

“Goldie lives here now too.”

Without a word, he walked toward the kitchen. Spanky came running up to Jagger. He grabbed the dog, gave him a hug and held him. “Where's the coffee?”