07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery by Lois Greiman Read Free Book Online Page B

their mailboxes just to get the free coupons that doomed rainforests from Brazil to Alberta. But Americans’ penchant for vehicular overuse was only one of Phillip’s causes. Institutions such as the Humane Society and Greenpeace considered him a demigod.
    “Well…” He shrugged. “He’s got a really nice head of hair.”
    “Hair?”
    He grinned a little. “That might be code for ass.”
    “How about his personality?”
    He canted his head. “His what?”
    I gave him a look.
    He sighed. “The man’s a Neanderthal. He lives in a cave.”
    “Literally?”
    He returned my look. “No. But if there were any unspoken-for caverns in L.A., I’m sure he’d take up residence. His apartment’s a mess.”
    “And that bothers you?”
    He shrugged. “Not as much as his accent. It sounds like he just escaped from the Hazard County demolition derby.”
    “Anything else?”
    “He dresses like a redneck time traveler. Pearl snaps on his shirts and everything.”
    “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
    “Did I tell you about his hair?”
    “So you’re just seeing him because he’s attractive.” See how I tone down my own redneck roots when I’m in professional mode? Yee-haw.
    “Well…” He shrugged. “That and his dogs.”
    “He has dogs?”
    “A couple,” he said, but his tone almost sounded defensive.
    “Two dogs is a lot of responsibility,” I said, thinking of Harlequin. But maybe a Great Dane counted as one hundred and two dogs.
    “Actually there are six of them.”
    “Six.” That was a lot of dogs.
    He looked as if he rather wished he hadn’t started down this road. “Six greyhounds.”
    “Oh?” Now we were getting somewhere, I thought, but I kept my tone level. I can be sneaky if I want to. “Does he race them?”
    He stared at me for several seconds, mouth tilted slightly as he contemplated my question. “You know he doesn’t race them,” he said finally.
    I raised my hands, palms up. “He’s a messy Southerner with no positive attributes other than the physical. I naturally assumed…” I let my voice trail off.
    He glanced out the window, hands tense on the arms of the chair, before he turned back. “He fosters them.”
    “Oh? From the Grey Save organization?”
    “Maybe.” He was being evasive. That meant I had touched a nerve. Go, me.
    “I’ve heard good things,” I said, keeping my voice level.
    He shrugged. “It doesn’t mean he should be canonized or anything.”
    “Six big foster dogs in one apartment.”
    “It’s a two-bedroom.”
    I almost laughed out loud, but that would have been unprofessional. “Maybe just listed as a lesser saint, then.”
    “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But you’re way off-base. I don’t have a thing for him because of his sensitive soul.”
    “Okay.”
    He scowled. Clearly I had not sold the “okay.”
    “Love is just a figment of Hollywood’s overdeveloped—”
    “McMullen!”
    I snapped my attention to the left. Lieutenant Jack Rivera stood there, right hand on the doorknob, left on the jamb. A half dozen unexpected expletives tried to escape my mouth, but I held them at bay like a real live grownup. “I’m sorry," I said, and gave him the benefit of a prissy smile. “But you’ll have to wait for an appointment like all my other clients.”
    “We need to talk,” he growled.
    I upped the wattage of my smile. “I’m sure your returning psychosis seems particularly disturbing, Lieutenant. But you’ll have to speak to my secretary about my next available—”
    “Listen—” he snarled, but Shirley, my super-secretary, interrupted him.
    “I’m sorry, Ms McMullen.” She spoke from the hallway, sounding professional and harried and more than a little pissed. “I told him you were with someone.” Rivera’s gaze, dark and hard and brooding, snapped to Phillip’s. “I need to talk to her,” he said.
    Phillip raised a brow, first at Rivera then at me. For a petite, self-proclaimed pacifistic, he