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“Try again, Esmerelda.”
“I’m human.” She swabbed the tweezers with one of the disinfectant pads. “You’re . . . superhuman.”
“You’re not seriously going to give me that ‘you’re a god’ bullshit again, are you?”
Exactly what she’d been about to do. “Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that I get nervous around you because I’m a regular person and you’re larger than life.”
“A viper pit wouldn’t make you nervous.” She brightened at the compliment, but he went on, oozing satisfaction. “You’re sucking up to me because I sign your paycheck and because you need that paycheck to stay in business.”
She set her teeth. “A bitter pill to swallow. Now hold still.” She began to clean the gravel from his hand. It had to hurt like hell, but Captain America was built of vibranium, and he didn’t wince, nor did he take his eyes off her.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, as if he really wanted to know. “The nonbullshit version.”
She probed as gently as she could. “Only child. My mother was killed in an armed robbery when I was four, which left me with a father who alternated between treating me like the son he really wanted and being overprotective. Talk about schizophrenic.”
“Explaining your personality disorder.”
“Best not to insult the woman holding the tweezers.” She extracted another bit of gravel. “I have combined degrees in computer science and sociology from U. of I. and eleven years working at desk jobs I grew to hate. I thought about giving my father a coronary and applying for the police force, but I didn’t want to be a cop. I wanted to work for myself. Fast-forward . . . I bought Dove Investigations from my stepmother after my dad died.” No way was she telling him how much she’d overpaid for what she’d ended up with.
“Bought it?”
One piece of gravel had gone deep, and she worked as gently as she could. “The alternative was murdering her. I thought about it, but they can put you in prison for that.”
“Good point. Straight or gay?”
“Me or the Wicked Stepmother?”
“You.”
The gravel was out, and she dabbed the wound with antiseptic. “Straight. Unfortunately.”
“Why do you say that?”
She cleaned the tweezers and put them back in the kit. “In general—and there are exceptions—I like women more than men. They’re more interesting. More complicated. And they’re loyal. One of my biggest regrets is my lack of sexual attraction to members of my own sex.”
He smiled. “Sounds like you’ve had one too many bad boyfriends.”
“Says the man who’s dated most of Hollywood. What’s it like to go to the Oscars?”
“Boring as hell.” He wiggled his fingers, as if he were checking to make sure she hadn’t stolen one of them. “Current boyfriend?”
“Your cop pal is working
on it, but no.”
“Cop pal?”
“Eric Vargas. Officer Hottie?”
Graham laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Not to be offensive, but”—the evil glow in his golden eyes indicated he intended to be very offensive—“isn’t he a little out of your league?”
She grinned. “You’d think so, right? But I’ve never had much trouble attracting good-looking guys.”
He frowned, not liking that his deliberate put-down hadn’t made her curl up in the corner and cry. “You have a theory about that?”
“I do.” She applied one of the large bandages to the heel of his hand. “They think I’m one of them, and that makes them comfortable around me. Until they figure out I’m using them. Not callously. I don’t believe in that. But, really, how can you take most straight men seriously?”
He cocked his head, as if he wasn’t hearing all that well. “You’re using them for . . . ?”
