Silk Confessions. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 MatingGame 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 engage 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 outside 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 confusing 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, unwilling 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.
3
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 himself 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