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When Ranger issued a warning, he didn't do playful.
“That's just great,” I said. “I'm so not good at being careful.”
“I've noticed,” Ranger said.
My grandmother opened the front door and waved.
Ranger and I waved back, and I eased myself out of the car and went to retrieve my bag.
“Is that blood on your pants leg?” my grandmother asked when I stepped into the foyer.
“Kitchen accident,” I said. “Its fine. Gotta go. Just came in to get my bag. I'll bring the Buick back later.”
I hurried to the Porsche and angled in.
“Barnhardt is two houses down and across the street,” Ranger said. “She was here when we drove up. She must have spotted the Cayenne.”
Ranger rolled out of the driveway and down the street. Joyce rolled with us, staying a couple car lengths back.
“I'm taking you home with me,” Ranger said. “I have to catch up on paperwork and meet with Tank, and I don't want to worry about you. You can spend the night and turn Hansen in when the court opens in the morning.”
“I can't spend the night at RangeMan.”
“Morelli said I should keep you safe.”
“Yes, but no one's after me. I've just had some unfortunate luck.”
“Babe, you've destroyed a car, burned down two buildings, stapled a guy's nuts, and you have sixteen stitches in your leg. Take a night off. Have a glass of wine, watch some television, and go to
bed early.”
ELEVEN
Ranger's apartment occupies the seventh floor of the RangeMan building. It's professionally decorated in neutral earth tones and classic comfortable furniture. Its cool. Its calm. It's inviting in a mildly masculine way. The carved mahogany front door opens to a long narrow foyer. Coat closet and powder room on one side. Cherry wood cre-denza on the other. Rangers housekeeper, Ella, keeps fresh flowers on the credenza, plus a silver tray for keys and mail. Modern kitchen with stainless appliances and granite countertops to the right at the end of the hall. Breakfast bar. Small dining room. Small living room. The master bedroom suite consists of a den, a bedroom with king bed and smooth, white, thousand-thread-count sheets, a dressing room with all black clothes, and a weapons cabinet, and a luxurious bathroom with walk-in shower that smells like Ranger s Bulgari Green shower gel. Ranger electronically unlocked his apartment door and I followed him inside. He took an identical lock fob from a drawer in the credenza and gave it to me.
“If you decide to leave, take the GPS monitor with you. Hals bringing the Cayenne back. It'll be parked downstairs with the key on the seat. It's yours for as long as you need it. I'm sure Ella has dinner in the kitchen. Help yourself. I've got a lot to do. I'm going to grab a sandwich downstairs.” He curled his fingers into my sweatshirt, dragged me to him, and kissed me. “If you want to stay up for me, I'll make it worth the wait,” he said, his lips barely touching mine when he spoke. And he was gone.
I've lived in Ranger's apartment once before for a short time when my life was in danger. And for a short time, I worked in the RangeMan office. The building felt very safe back then, but after a while claustrophobic.
I prowled through the kitchen and found a chicken stew with rice and vegetables. I scarfed down the stew with a glass of wine, and took a second glass into the den to watch television. I sunk into Rangers big, comfy couch and re-moted the plasma.
Morelli's house was comfortable ground for me. It was filled with hand-me-down furniture left to him by his Aunt Ruth. It looked a lot like my parents' house, and in a strange, unexpected way, the house fit Morelli. When Morelli had time, the house was kept neat and orderly. When Morelli was overworked, the house became cluttered with abandoned shoes and empty beer bottles. Ranger s apartment felt exotic. The furniture was expensive and chosen for Ranger. Very comfortable but a little sterile. No family photos. No dog-eared books. This was a place where Ranger slept and worked and ate but didn't live.
Morellis house was a destination for him. Ranger's apartment felt like part of his journey. I probably should have gone home, but the truth is I love visiting Ranger's apartment. It smells great… like Ranger. His television is bigger and better than mine. He has better water
pressure in his shower. His towels are softer and fluffier. And his bed is wonderful, even when he isn't in it. Ella irons his sheets and plumps his pillows. If there's a woman out there who could make me turn, it would be Ella.
I fell asleep in front of the television. I woke up at eleven and again at eleven-thirty. I forced myself away from the television and into the bedroom, shucked most of my clothes, and crawled into Ranger's fabulous bed.
The alarm jolted me awake, and I had a moment of utter confusion before realizing I was at RangeMan. The room was dark, but I could see Ranger outlined against his dressing room light. He crossed the room and stood at the bedside to turn the alarm off.
“I have an early meeting with a client this morning,” Ranger said. “And I want to talk to you before I get involved in RangeMan business. Ella has breakfast on the table.” His cell phone rang, and he left the bedroom.
I painfully rolled out of bed, my whole body aching from the fall off the car hauler. I flipped the light on, limped across the room to Rangers closet, and shrugged into a robe that had been bought for Ranger, but I was sure had never been worn. I couldn't imagine Ranger lounging around in a robe.
Ella was a small, slim woman with intelligent, dark eyes, short black hair, and contained energy. Ellas husband managed the property, and Ella managed the men of RangeMan. She cooked and cleaned and did whatever was necessary to get Ranger out of his apartment each morning in presentable condition. She bought his shower gel, did his laundry, ironed his orgasmic sheets, and set out fresh flowers.
The breakfast tray she brought to his door was almost always the same. Coffee, fresh fruit, whole-grain bagels, lox, fat-free cream cheese. An egg-white frittata with vegetables. Very pretty. Very healthy. This morning, Ella had set the dining room table for two.
