The Detective

For that, she’d give him credit. Some men would lie simply to get their way. Like her cheating ex. Not going there. Thinking about him only aggravated her.

She tore her sketch off the pad, set it aside and grabbed her chalk and a pencil. “I have a house to dismantle. Let’s get to work.”

* * *

BRODEY WATCHED OVER Lexi’s shoulder as she finished her sketch, and the faint smell of her shampoo, something minty, he thought, like spearmint but not really, worked its way into his system and—look out now—relaxed him. He liked it.

Maybe too much.

She angled back, looking up with those greenish-brown eyes, and something in his brain snapped. Something being the male side of him that hadn’t seen any action from a female in a couple of months. Sure there were women he could call, but with the damned arm in a sling, everything—sex included—was way too much work. And it scared the hell out of him because how many men didn’t want sex? None that he knew.

Whatever. Mind snap.

“Are you paying attention?” Lexi asked.

More than you know...

“Yeah. I’m thinking.” He brought one arm around her so he could point at the sketch and brushed her shoulder along the way. Immediately, he regretted it. Even that meaningless interaction brought his body—very male body—into the red zone. Only thing to do here would be to put his growing erection out of his mind. Maybe today would be the one time that trick worked, but not likely. Considering it had never worked before. “The body needs to be closer to the door.”

“Well, Brodey, this is not to scale. You have to allow for some wiggle room.”

“I know. It still needs to be closer.”

She flipped her pencil to the eraser side and scrubbed it across the paper. A minute later, she’d busted off the outline of the body in the exact place he wanted. “Perfect,” he said. “You know, you’re really good at this. You should work for the PD.”

“No. Thank you, though. What was he wearing that night?”

“Black pants.”

She filled in some shading to reflect the slacks the victim wore. “That’s better.”

“Why not?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her perfect lips slightly puckered, her eyes zeroed in as if she’d read his every X-rated thought. Only the hum from the furnace below could be heard in the quiet house, and Brodey’s pulse knocked harder. All he had to do was bend down a few inches and those perfect lush lips would be his.

“Wow,” he said.

She stepped away, putting distance between them. “It wouldn’t work for me. I generally don’t sketch people. I do furniture. Furniture is easy. Even if I had the level of skill it requires, I’m not sure I could handle that type of work. I have a friend whose mom was a sketch artist, and it’s emotionally draining. What you do—a homicide detective—is a gift. Whether you realize it or not, the average citizen couldn’t face the horrors you see every day. I’m one of those people. I like serenity and homey environments. It’s what I’m good at.”

Good observation since he was already counting down the years—fourteen and a half—until he reached retirement. Not that he didn’t have a passion for the job, a passion for righting a wrong, a passion for justice. That justice was what got him out of bed every morning, but studying mangled bodies for thirty years, like some of the guys on the job, didn’t seem like a banner way to stay sane. Twenty years would be plenty. Like his dad.

After shading the body, Lexi scratched her cheek, leaving a dark smudge trailing down her face, and he itched to run his fingers across the spot, over the delicate curve of her jaw, and wipe it away. Just to put his hands on her.

She held the sketch out. “What do you think?”

I’d like to tell you what I think. Back to business here. He took the sketch. “It’s good. Let’s put it on the floor so I can look at.”

“Okay. You’re all set, then? You don’t need me?”

And, hell, if she wasn’t the cutest damn thing with that smudge on her cheek. “I’m all set. Except...” Against his better judgment—considering his partial erection might go full-blown—he gently ran the pad of his thumb where the remnants of her sketching marred her creamy skin. Major mistake because now his body went haywire, every nerve snapping.

More.

That was what he wanted. More of her skin under his hands.

She didn’t flinch, but locked her gaze on his, and the message was clear. She knew what he wanted. And she wasn’t running.

“Smudge?”

“Yep.”

“I do that all the time. You’d think I’d learn by now. Thanks for telling me. I’d have been walking around like that.”

“No problem,” he said. “If touching a beautiful woman’s face is the worst thing I do today, I’d say I hit the jackpot.”

For a good twenty seconds, she stood in silence, clearly deciding whether to take the bait. Come on, Lexi, let’s play. But, nope. She broke eye contact and headed to the kitchen, where she’d left her sketches. She turned back to him, casually leaning against the island, but her folded arms and fingers digging into the sleeves of her sweater screamed confusion.

“You know,” she said, “you’re quite charming when you want to be. I like that about you.”

Charming. He’d take it. There were a lot of things he liked about her, too—her confidence, her skill, her ability to shut down an uncomfortable conversation without making a big deal about it. The woman had a way about her.

“I do try.”

She nodded toward the laundry room. “How long until you’re finished?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll read the ME’s report and the crime-scene notes again. The angle of the body is weird.” He shifted in the doorway. “Unless he was standing like this, facing the wall. Or maybe the killer moved the body. I don’t know. I need to study it.”

“So, what you’re telling me is I won’t be able to get into this room again today?”

Here we go again. All that light banter from twenty seconds ago? Gone. Vanished. Vamoosed. “Lexi, I don’t know. Trust me, I’d love to tell you it’ll be today. It might be. I need to study these notes more. Sorry if it’s ripping into your forty-five days, but the guy is dead.”

“Oh, don’t even go there. Do not try to make me feel like I’m being unreasonable for wanting to get this project done. I have been nothing but cooperative. I want to give this woman peace as much as anyone. Part of that will come from unloading this house before she’s forced into bankruptcy. So, spare me your lecture.” She scooped up her pad and shoved the loose sketches into it. “Call me when you’re through holding up my work.”

Great. Mad. How the hell had this become his fault? He moved to the island, where she’d already left skid marks on her way to the front door, and held his arms wide. For once, the elbow didn’t holler, but the gesture was useless since she couldn’t see him. Well, fine. His whole point of getting here early was to work alone. All she did was distract him. Between her looks and the way she smelled, his body responded to her. Couple that with her insistence that he rush through his investigation, and Alexis Vanderbilt snatched his energy. Just sucked him dry.

The front door slammed and he shook his head, pondering whether or not to chase after her. Let her go. He’d get more done without her.

Even if she smelled good.

* * *

LEXI TROMPED DOWN the Williamses’ walkway, sketch pad in hand, coat flapping and the wrath of a winter day descending on anyone fool enough to venture outside. Mere breathing brought the wind—frigid, bone-shattering wind—burning down her throat.

“I need to be a snowbird,” she muttered.

“Morning.”

She halted a second before slamming into a man walking his Yorkie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”