His finger traced a tiny circle on my silk-and-lace panties, directly over ground zero. My brain went numb, and my body said, YES!
Morelli moved lower and performed the same maneuver with the tip of his tongue, once again finding the perfect spot without benefit of treasure map or detailed instructions.
Now this was a superhero.
I was on the verge of singing the Hallelujah Chorus when something crashed outside the kitchen window. Morelli picked his head up and listened. There were some scuffling sounds, and Morelli was on his feet, pulling his jeans on. He had his gun in his hand when he opened the back door.
I was right behind him, my shirt held together by a single button, my panty hose draped over a kitchen chair, my gun drawn. “What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don't see anything.”
“Cats?”
“Maybe. The garbage is tipped over. Maybe it was my neighbor's dog.”
I put a hand to the wall to steady myself. “Uh-oh,” I said.
“What uh-oh?”
“I don't know how to break this to you, but the floor is moving. Either we're having an earthquake, or else I'm drunk.”
“You only had three schnapps!”
“I'm not much of a drinker. And I didn't have supper.”
My voice sounded like it was resonating from a tin can, far far away.
“Oh boy,” Morelli said. “How drunk are you?”
I blinked and squinted at him. He had four eyes. I hated when that happened. “You have four eyes.”
“That's not a good sign.”
“Maybe I should go home now,” I said. Then I threw up.
I woke up with a blinding headache and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was wearing a flannel nightshirt, which I dimly remembered crawling into. I was pretty sure I was alone at the time, although the evening was fuzzy from the third schnapps on.
What I clearly remembered was that a Morelli-induced orgasm had once again eluded me. And I was fairly certain Morelli hadn't fared any better.
He'd done the responsible thing and had insisted I sober up some before I went home. We'd logged a couple miles in the cold air. He'd poured coffee into me, force-fed me scrambled eggs and toast, and then he'd driven me to my apartment building. He'd delivered me to my door, and I think he said good night before the nightshirt crawling-into.
I shuffled into the kitchen, got some coffee going and used it to wash down aspirin. I took a shower, drank a glass of orange juice, brushed my teeth three times. I took a peek at myself in the mirror and groaned. Black circles under bloodshot eyes, pasty hungover skin. Not a nice picture. “Stephanie,” I said, “you're no good at drinking.”
The headache disappeared at midmorning. By noon I was feeling almost human. I took myself into the kitchen and was standing in front of the refrigerator, staring at the crisper drawer, contemplating the creation of the universe, when the phone rang.
My first thought was that it might be Morelli. My second thought was that I definitely didn't want to talk to him. Let the machine take the message, I decided.
“I know you're there,” Morelli said. “You might as well answer. You're going to have to talk to me sooner or later.”
Better later.
“I have news on Mo's lawyer.”
I snatched at the phone. “Hello?”
“You're going to love this one,” Morelli said.
I closed my eyes. I was having a bad premonition on the identity of the lawyer. “Don't tell me.”