by Joanne Rock
“It’s a lot more complicated than that.” Tension built in her forehead, the sure sign of another stress headache coming on. She could have handled all this better if she’d at least had her weekly dose of Days of Our Lives. Damn it, melodrama like this belonged on her television screen, not in her living room. “You know how many people depend on our company for their livelihood? Those are the people who get hurt when my family comes under attack.
“My mother will console herself with shopping. My late father’s board of directors will unload their stock options and jump on early retirement. But what about the thousands of people we employ around the globe? They don’t deserve to lose their jobs because my father suffered a midlife crisis from the time he turned thirty until the day he died.”
Levering herself off the couch, Tempest stepped over the piles of rubble from the break-in, slowly making her way toward the kitchen where a bottle of Tylenol waited.
“What about you?” The cool-as-you-please detective merely followed her with his eyes, though his long limbs retained their alert stance, as if ready to pounce at any moment. “What would you do if Boucher Enterprises takes a financial nosedive?”
The question made her head throb all the more. Fishing through a maze of cooking spices and boxes of Milk-Bones in every conceivable flavor, she found the pain reliever and popped two in her mouth. Downing them with a cold glass of water, she took deep breaths and reminded herself nothing catastrophic had happened to the company yet. She could still fix this.
“I’ll admit it makes things harder for me. As temporary CEO, I’m eager to unload my job and it will make the position less attractive if the company is struggling.”
All the more reason to address the matter of MatingGame before the problem exploded underneath her. “In fact,” she continued, a plan slowly taking shape, “if MatingGame is a front for something sordid, I can have it shut down in a matter of minutes.”
Infused with new energy now that she had a strategy, she moved to find the phone, which no longer rested in its usual place on the kitchen counter.
“No.” Detective Shaw rose from his seat and was in her face in no time. He moved with a swiftness that surprised her.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Her breath caught at their sudden proximity, his tall, lanky frame close enough to touch.
Not that she would allow herself the pleasure. She’d been far too aware of him ever since he’d touched her earlier, as if her body had captured that quick impression of his hand on her back and had been seeking to recreate the moment ever since. Ridiculous, maybe. But sort of intriguing considering she hadn’t been even remotely interested in any man over the last months of nose-to-the-grindstone work.
What was it about the plainspoken police detective that turned her head and made her—she fidgeted to admit it, even to herself—horny? She’d never been the type to get all keyed up over a guy. Why him? Why now?
The timing for her sudden bout of lust surely sucked.
“I don’t have the evidence I need to prove Mating Game is a shady business.” He had oddly precise articulation for a man who’d probably seen the seamiest underbelly of the city. Glaring down at her from his height, which would have dwarfed her even if she hadn’t been wearing her running shoes, Wesley Shaw was warning her in no uncertain terms.
Too bad he was also turning her on—big-time. Her breath hitched in her throat as she envisioned having her way with such a big, powerful man. She’d overcome a lot of personal insecurities in the past year, but she’d never had the chance to test her sexual confidence. This was so the wrong time.
“It would better suit my company to pull the rug out from under them, Detective.” Folding her arms across her chest, she glared right back, hoping like hell she wasn’t giving out any “do-me” vibe to mirror her sexually charged thoughts. “I don’t need any evidence to withdraw my support immediately. I won’t allow Boucher Enterprises to be dragged through the mud just so you can make your case.”
They stood too close together but Tempest wasn’t about to back down now. She hadn’t gleaned many of her father’s killer instincts when it came to business, but she knew enough about body language to comprehend she didn’t dare give this man any ground now.
Of course, there was a whole other dynamic to their body language that didn’t have a damn thing to do with prostitution, MatingGame, Boucher Enterprises or even her ransacked apartment.
“I don’t care about busting prostitutes.” He lowered his voice to a pitch that seemed just right for how close their bodies loomed and all wrong for a detached, intelligent conversation between strangers.
“You don’t?” Tempest cringed inwardly to hear her own voice hit a soft note. What was she thinking to en gage in guy-girl games with the cop investigating a break-in?
Bad, bad idea.
“No. I’m trying to catch the murderer masquerading as a prostitute.”
His words reverberated in her ears, his point resonating until the meaning loomed large and ugly just out side the kitchenette area of her apartment. She blinked hard to gather her bearings, but when she opened her eyes her world still seemed slightly off-kilter and her stress headache now pounded to the forefront of her brain.
Body language be damned, she needed breathing room.
“I think I’d better sit down.” Tempest sidled past him, attempting to get her bearings away from the con fusing heat that flared between them. She stepped on a piece of statuary, the broken clay crushing into dust on the hardwood floor beneath her sneaker.
“I need your help, Tempest.” He was right behind her, following her toward the sofa.
Her apartment seemed to shrink with him in it, his presence big and male and dominating her scrambled thoughts.
“I don’t know how I can help you, Detective, and I sure don’t understand how having my apartment broken into relates to murder.” She paused beside the sofa, un willing to take a seat if it meant this man would insinuate himself beside her. She couldn’t think with him so close.
“You can help me.” His gray eyes seemed so confident. So certain. “And you can start by calling me Wes.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She needed barriers to ward off the train wreck certain to ensue if she ever acted on her newfound lust for one of New York’s finest.
She dated artists. Men who weren’t afraid to explore their creative side, or at very least, their sensitive side. Wesley—Wes—didn’t look like the type to get in touch with his emotions anytime soon.
“It’s an excellent idea because you and I are going to get to know each other a hell of a lot better for the next few days—weeks—however long it takes for me to catch my bad guy.” He frowned. “Or bad girl in this case.”
“That’s impossible.” No way, no how, would she allow herself to get any closer to this man. She’d already experienced the sizzle of his briefest touch. How could she ward off that kind of sexual firepower for days—possibly weeks—on end? “I’ve got a multimillion dollar company to run. A CEO to hire. Do you have any idea how much my father’s death has compromised his business and all the people who count on Boucher to make their living?”
“No. But I have a fair idea that your earnings will continue to go down once it’s made public that the Boucher heiress can’t make time in her busy schedule to help police catch a killer.”
His words delivered a resounding slap to her conscience, a plea she couldn’t very well deny. No matter that her life had been turned upside down, or that her bid for independence from her powerful family would be put on hold until she could recreate her inventory of artworks. She needed to pull her head out of her own problems and remind her body that Wes Shaw was off-limits long enough to help him find his criminal.
She was so caught up in her own thoughts, she didn’t realize Wes reached for her until his hands were on her upper arms, the fabric of her crimson jacket practically incinerating beneath that simple touch.
“Please, Tempest.” His gray
gaze jump-started an erratic and totally juvenile beating of her heart. “Help me.”
She was in over her head with this man after knowing him for less than two hours. But he needed her help and she planned to give it to him, consequences be damned. And not just because she found herself thinking about what it might be like to kiss that blunt mouth of his.
No, Tempest planned to help him because she wouldn’t allow her personal space, her private creative haven, to be invaded by street thieves, or prostitutes, or—she took a steeling breath—murderers.
Yet, even as she gave him an affirmative nod, she kept hearing a familiar swell of music somewhere in the back of her mind.
Like sand through the hourglass…
In the course of a couple of hours, Tempest’s life had definitely become a soap opera.
CHAPTER THREE
OVER THE NEXT HOUR, Wes helped Tempest sort through the wreckage of her apartment. Cleanup wasn’t a part of the NYPD response to a break-in, but as a detective and a nine-year veteran on the force, he’d bought him self a little leeway when it came to handling cases.
He used the time to phone his partner, dodging most of Vanessa’s questions since he didn’t want to discuss the case where Tempest might hear. There would be time enough to catch up with Vanessa tomorrow. For to night, as long as he had won Tempest’s compliance, he planned to find out everything he could about Mating Game and her role in the Internet dating service.
Now, 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 be hind 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 Tem pest 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 be side 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 gla
re, 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 she wouldn’t stay comfortable for long. If he had his way, she’d be sighing, moaning and writhing all over him until she’d achieved body-rocking sexual bliss.
While they waited for the page to load on the screen, Wes downed the rest of his bottle of water but didn’t come close to dousing the heat inspired by Tempest Boucher.
“There we go,” she murmured as thumbnail photos of dozens of women appeared on the monitor. “I haven’t looked at the site in quite a while, but if I remember correctly, these are the dating profiles for every woman in the system except for the clients who sign up for the Blind Date service. When we took over the company, we helped MatingGame make sure all the e-mail ad dresses were verified to cut down on bogus profiles. I can’t imagine women who were prostituting themselves would give out information where they could be tracked.”
