Mouth To Mouth. Erin McCarthy

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СКАЧАТЬ cubic art print to the left of her head, he rubbed his jaw, proceeding with caution. “You’re right. It was seven. Sorry I’m late.”

      She touched his hand on the table, gave it a soft stroke before letting go. “Can you face me when you speak? I’m deaf, remember?”

      Deaf? No, he didn’t remember that. He’d never known that. Jesus. Russ snapped his jaw shut. For a split second he wondered if she was lying, but then he realized she had the flat, nasal voice that characterized deaf speech.

      Her hand moved across the side of her face in a sign language gesture he didn’t understand. “I can’t read your lips when you’re turned.”

      Due to quick wit and good reflexes, he only sat there blank-faced for twenty seconds or so. Then even though he didn’t know if he was coming or going, he forced a smile onto his face. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. And I’m sorry I’m late.” He gave a little laugh that sounded more demented than charming, but he was trying, despite feeling poleaxed. “This isn’t a good first impression, is it, Laurel?”

      He tossed her name in to confirm what he was already certain of—that it belonged to her. Her lack of reaction to it now told him she really was Laurel. Being this close to her also made it obvious she wasn’t plain like Dean’s other victims, not by any stretch of the imagination. And as far as he knew, none of the other women had been deaf either. He wasn’t sure if that was relevant, but he wanted to know.

      If she was a victim, that is.

      “You’re taller than I pictured,” she said, her hands gesturing while she spoke. “And cuter.”

      Somehow she didn’t make it sound like a compliment. Yet she was smiling coyly from under long, thick lashes. There was something about her…an innocence, or naïveté, that made him uncomfortable. Which was freaking ridiculous. For all he knew, she was as big a con as Dean. Innocence could be faked.

      Deciding to test it, he pushed back the bill of his baseball hat and readjusted it. “Thanks. And you’re much more attractive than I expected.”

      It was true, even though he said it to gauge her reaction.

      Laurel didn’t blush or stammer or smile flirtatiously. Instead she just looked pleased. And it made him ninety-nine percent sure she was a con artist’s wet dream, not his girlfriend.

      The situation was worse than any Russ could have envisioned. She wasn’t butt-ugly at all. In fact, she was downright hot, and it aggravated the hell out of him. He was trying to think, to concentrate on sorting this new development out, and he was completely distracted by the fact that her leg kept knocking into his. There were showy pretty women, and model-gorgeous women, and then there were women like Laurel. Sweet and soft and sexy, with an innocent sensuality radiating off her pink skin. She was beautiful, damn it.

      Her hair was the color of split pine, with lots of darker and lighter streaks running through it, making it interesting to look at. Eyes like lake water, and rich cherry-red lips that jutted forward in a permanent pout. That off-white sweater she was wearing hugged a couple of really nice breasts, and despite the coffee aroma hanging in the air, he could swear he could smell her. Sweet and sugary, like a fresh bag of cotton candy.

      If he were scum like Dean, he would string this woman along for a long, long time, taking everything she had to give—emotionally, physically, financially—enjoying every second along the way. So where was the bastard?

      “Well, I wanted to e-mail you a picture of me, but I was too chicken. Which wasn’t fair of me, since I knew what you looked like. I looked you up in your high school yearbook.”

      Russ lifted an eyebrow. This just got weirder and weirder. “How did you get a hold of my high school yearbook?” And damn, what had he looked like back then? Bad hair and acne, probably. Arms that looked like they’d gone through the taffy pull, thin and rangy, like his thirteen-year-old brother, Sean.

      “Michelle Ganosky gave it to me. Remember Michelle? She’s the one who saw your name in the reunion chat and suggested I introduce myself.”

      “Michelle?” Russ couldn’t remember women he’d dated two weeks ago, he sure in the hell wasn’t going to remember a girl from high school. Unless he’d slept with her, but he couldn’t exactly ask Laurel about that.

      Then his memory jogged. “Oh, Michelle Ganosky. Wasn’t she that…” he trailed off, realizing he’d been about to say “deaf girl.” He cleared his throat and unzipped his jacket, uncomfortable. Could he fit his size twelve feet in his mouth?

      “Deaf? Yes, Michelle’s deaf. That’s how I know her. We went to college together for a year before I had to come back home. But I didn’t tell you I knew Michelle because I didn’t want you to know that I’d started talking to you intentionally, which I did. And I guess now I’ve told you anyway.” She laughed, pushed her hair off her shoulder.

      Russ was starting to get a clearer picture of what was going on here. Laurel had met someone in a high school reunion chat room. Trevor Dean. Not as Trevor Dean, but using his name, Russ Evans, the slimy motherfu…

      “Did you know I’m a cop, Laurel?”

      She blinked. “Cop? Is that what you said?”

      “Yes, did you know I’m a cop?”

      Tense, he waited for her answer. Up to now, they’d had no reason to think Dean knew they were investigating him.

      “Yes, you told me.”

      Laurel’s answer shot that assumption out of the water. His anger rose. Dean was playing with the department, dicking them around—or, more specifically, him. And dragging this woman into it.

      “You told me a lot of things, Russ.” Her smile was flirtatious.

      He could only imagine. Infuriated at Dean, Russ shifted and hit Laurel’s leg again. He jerked it back quickly, aware of her sharp intake of breath.

      “Laurel, I’m not the man you’ve been talking to online. I don’t even own a computer.” He’d probably throw the thing out the window if he did. He had trouble sitting still and no patience for technology.

      Laurel just frowned at him.

      “Do you know Trevor Dean?”

      “Who?” She fiddled with the ends of her scarf, over and over, her fingers always moving. They flowed in sign language when she spoke, and when she wasn’t talking, they were still wiggling, plucking, fluttering.

      He wanted to draw those fingers into his mouth and suck them.

      Russ rubbed his eyes. That was nice and inappropriate. Jesus.

      “I don’t know anyone named whatever Dean, and I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

      Russ did. Laurel wasn’t a sophisticated con artist’s girlfriend. She was either fun on the side for Dean, to flirt with online, or she was his next target.

      Russ wasn’t about to let that happen.

      Not on his watch.

      Not to this woman.

      And maybe Laurel could help him catch a thief.

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