Mentally, I threw patience into the same category as truth and discretion. “Bite me, Buckaroo,” I said sweetly. “This is a here-today-gone-tomorrow kind of thing, and frankly, I’d rather be homeless than live within five miles of you.”

At this, Joseph turned to look at me, and I thought I glimpsed a grudging respect in his eyes. It was gone quickly. “I guess we understand each other,” he said.

“Only partially correct,” I said, moving past him and through the open doorway into a spacious, tiled front room. “I understand you. The reverse, unfortunately, is not true.”

“Whatever,” Joseph said.

I shut the door in his face and turned the dead bolt. He probably had a key, but I doubted he’d sneak in and murder me in my bed while I slept—assuming, of course, that I would sleep, which was doubtful. The senator would surely notice my absence when he showed up for that patio breakfast in the morning, and it went without saying that wholesale slaughter would make a mess in ye auld casita.

Putting Joseph out of my mind as best I could, I took the grand tour. There were three bedrooms, each with its own bath, a kitchen half the size of my entire apartment and a master suite with a Jacuzzi tub and flat-screen plasma TV that came down out of the ceiling at the push of a button in a little console on the bedside table. Looking at that place, I almost reconsidered my stance on mooching.

My one-bedroom digs over Bad-Ass Bert’s suffered by comparison.

My cell phone launched into a muffled tune as I was emptying the trash bag in the middle of the bed. I rummaged, checked the caller ID and debated answering. The number on the panel was Tucker’s.

I’m a sucker for punishment. I thumbed the talk button and snapped, “What?”

“I guess I deserve that,” Tucker said.

“I guess you do,” I answered, fishing my nightgown out of the pile of semifolded clothes I’d laundered that morning.

He chuckled. “If I knew where you were,” he cajoled, “maybe I’d send flowers.”

“Is there a point to this call?”

“Yeah.” All rumbly and gruff, followed by a note of boyish mischief. “I’m trying to find out where you are.”

“Why don’t you just ask me?”

“I did. In a roundabout sort of way.”

“I’m in Senator and Mrs. Clive Larimer’s guesthouse,” I said. “Cactus Bend, off Highway 10 east. Do you want the zip code?”

“Are you premenstrual or something?”

I sighed. “Just tired.” And scared to death you’re getting it on with your ex-wife.

“Isn’t Cactus Bend where—?”

Obviously, Tucker had been doing some research.

“Where my folks were murdered?” I finished for him. “Yes.” I paused. “I thought you were undercover.”

“I’m on a break. Look, Moje—”