The Ex. BEVERLY BARTON
ma’am.”
“Then come right over. I want to do whatever I can to help the police.”
“Thank you.”
The minute she hung up the receiver, Annabelle dashed into the bedroom and stripped out of her comfy fleece sweatshirt and pants. Her wardrobe was limited since she’d brought only a couple changes of clothes, but thank goodness she’d brought along a pair of jeans. After dressing hurriedly in jeans, white shirt and slip-on loafers, she had just applied pink blush and lipstick when her guest arrived. Taking a deep breath, she rushed through the apartment.
Flinging open the door, she gasped when she saw the man standing there. Not Sergeant George. Definitely not the handsome young police officer.
“Mr. Cortez, what are you doing here?”
Wearing faded blue jeans, a beige turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket, he didn’t look like a wealthy lawyer. But even in casual attire, he possessed an aura of power and strength. And danger.
“I thought we needed to talk,” he said. “After we settled things with Griffin Powell last night, you rushed off in quite a hurry before we had a chance to discuss the situation.”
Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you or talk to you or think about you.
“There isn’t anything to discuss,” she said. “Not until Mr. Powell has some information for us.”
“May I come in?” he asked.
“I don’t see the need. Besides, I’m expecting company any minute now.”
“This shouldn’t take long. What if I come in and stay until your company shows up? Then I’ll leave.”
He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It was that plain and simple. Short of slamming the door in his face—which is probably what she should do—her only alternative was to give him what he wanted.
“Very well, Mr. Cortez, you may come in for a few minutes.”
As he entered the apartment, he paused and their gazes locked. “I thought we agreed last night that you’d call me Quinn.”
Heat suffused her, warming her from head to toe. “Please, come in, Quinn.”
“Thank you, Ms. Vanderley.”
When he smiled at her, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Dear God, had she gone so long without a man that she had become little more than a bitch in heat? What was wrong with her? She never—not ever!—reacted this way to a man.
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