Silk Confessions. Joanne Rock
he taped up another box of broken statuary pieces while she swept up some of the dust. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a simple black blouse at some point, probably while he’d been on the phone. The velvet choker with the smoky crystal remained around her neck, but she’d tied back her curly dark hair with a black and red zebra-print bandana.
He stacked the third box of smashed clay pieces on top of the others and then paused to watch her while she worked. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
His mental image of a Manhattan socialite pretty much coincided with the stereotype—vain, spoiled, self-involved. Yet here she was, living in a Chelsea studio that had to be far beneath her financial means, with no household help in sight. She swept up her own messes, microwaved her own popcorn and kept stealing glances at a small television that seemed to be tuned nonstop to overblown daytime dramas. Even without the audio, the action on screen snagged most of her attention while she cleaned.
Except for the handful of times he’d caught her sneaking glances at him. Some kind of heat sparked between them and Wes would be stupid to deny it. He didn’t plan to act on it—in fact, he would make damn sure to ignore it—but the sexual friction had made for a tense day. He was pretty sure she fought against the chemistry even harder than him.
“Do you mind if I have a look through your computer?” Wes propped his elbow on the stack of boxes and studied her. “Ever since we found the note from the perpetrator, I’ve been curious to take a look around your files and see if he left a trail.” Besides, staring at a computer screen would prevent him from staring at Tempest.
“Sure.” Setting the broom aside she washed her hands and pulled two bowls out of a cabinet. “We can have our dinner—such as it is—while we surf. Maybe then you can explain to me what MatingGame has to do with your murder case.” She pulled two bottles of water out of the refrigerator. “Is water okay? The secret to my latest diet is not to bring anything in the house that I shouldn’t eat.”
Wes grabbed the bottles from her and carried them toward the computer, grateful for another topic. “I thought you were going to prove me wrong about jet-setting heiresses.”
“I’m not a jet-setting heiress so I’m proving you wrong already.” Her voice followed him a few steps behind as the scent of buttered popcorn filled the room.
Eloise lifted her head from her paws as he walked by her, tail thumping the floor.
“You’re living on a diet of popcorn and water.” He slid into the red, high-backed chair in front of the computer and told himself that finding out more about Tempest was part of his job. The fact that he happened to be enjoying himself was a bonus. “You must know that’s exactly what I’d expect from you highbrow types. You probably had a half ounce of cottage cheese on a lettuce leaf for lunch, right?”
“Wrong again.” She set down their popcorn on a foldout shelf before pulling over one of the dining room chairs to sit beside him. Before she lowered herself into the chair, she whistled to Eloise and tossed the dog a pink Milk-Bone.
“I bet I’m not far off.” Wes concentrated on the scent of popcorn in an effort to shut out the soft fragrance of the woman making herself comfortable next to him.
She sure didn’t seem like the prostitution type, even with the high percentage of lacy undergarments still strewn around her apartment like visual sex triggers guaranteed to make him start drooling. And she didn’t seem to be hiding anything, either. Other than her lunch menu, of course.
“I skipped lunch actually,” she finally admitted, her gaze fixed on the computer screen as he pulled up the “Properties” information box on the unnamed document informing Tempest she was in the wrong business.
“Even worse than a lettuce leaf.” He tossed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and jotted down the time the document had been created. 12:53 pm. “You said you got home around two?”
“I got to the building at five minutes before two. My meeting ran late today and then Eloise stopped to beg the hot pretzel vendor for a treat.” She glared at Eloise who sniffed the floor for any leftover crumbs.
“It’s no wonder your dog has to beg on the street if you feed her like you feed yourself.” He cracked open his bottle of water and took a swig before digging into the popcorn bowl again. “But it’s a damn good thing you didn’t get here any sooner today since you missed your uninvited guest by less than an hour.”
Wes didn’t want to think about how different his day would have been if he’d been called to Tempest’s apartment on an assault case. Or worse.
His popcorn stuck in his throat.
“Tell me why you think MatingGame is involved in prostitution.” Tempest tucked her feet underneath her thighs, folding herself up into a more comfortable position on her chair.
Not that he’d let his gaze wander over her delectable body. He was simply making smart cop observations.
Yeah, that was it.
“Anonymous tip.” He clicked through a few more screens before opening her browser and surfing to the MatingGame site. “Add that to the fact that our murder victim had a reputation for visiting prostitutes every Saturday night, and then this past Saturday his appointment book had an entry to meet someone he designated simply as a blonde from MatingGame.”
She wriggled in her seat beside him, the wooden dining room chair squeaking as she moved.
“Maybe he got tired of paying for sex and decided to use a more tried and true means of getting horizontal.” She reached over him to point out a little red box at the bottom of the MatingGame home page. “Click here to move straight to the dating profiles.”
“I don’t get paid to come up with the most creative scenarios for a crime. I follow the obvious path first.” Wes took a deep breath to steel himself against the surge of hunger brought on by the soft shift of her body beside his. She was close enough that he could hear the whisper of fabric as she moved. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she leaned in front of him, and he could have sworn one wayward curl of her dark hair skimmed his cheek.
Of course, the breath that he hoped would steel his nerves only filled his nostrils with her warm, nutty scent—something sultry and feminine and definitely edible. Whatever it was, he damn well wanted a taste.
He clicked the red box she’d indicated with a vengeance, hoping like hell she wouldn’t have any reason to point to the computer screen again. How could a man keep his mind on work with such an abundance of soft femininity leaning and bending and stretching beside him?
“Are you comfortable yet?” He turned on her, not meaning to glare, but didn’t she realize how distracting all that wriggling could be?
“You got the good chair.” Frowning, she looped an arm over the back of the wooden seat. “I can’t sit still if I’m not comfy.”
Damnation. He stood, silently rolling the red office chair toward her until she swapped places with him. He dragged the wooden chair in front of the computer and turned it around so he could straddle the seat. They would both be better off if he didn’t get too relaxed in her living room anyhow.
“So the obvious answer is that his MatingGame date was a prostitute?” She reached over him again to tap the blank screen with one manicured finger. “I think the women’s profiles are on the left. Sorry my dial-up connection is slow, but you can go ahead and click here and it will advance you to the next screen.”
This wasn’t going to work. Wes was choking on his own lust. The women he’d slept with in the last eighteen months hadn’t been people he’d pursued. They’d shown interest in him, he’d succumbed to biology. The encounters had been simple. Neat. Easy.
And completely unlike the heat licking over him because of one curvy, wriggly, delicious-smelling woman. It would be different if he could just take her right now and get it over with. Right there, in her red chair, where she’d damn well be comfortable.
Only