Silk Confessions

“Can I get you some coffee?” She could do that much at least, since she would have offered the same to any other visitor.

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and then asked for tea.

Three hours and numerous cups of tea later, Wes hadn’t found anything unusual in the computer files. He’d forwarded names and addresses to his police station, checking out the women—and even some of the men—who posted profiles on MatingGame. So far not a single person had been linked to prostitution or violent crime. He’d flagged two sex offenders who had snuck through the screening process, however, and reported them to police stations in California and Wisconsin where the profiles originated.

Tempest couldn’t help but admire his thorough approach to his work and the noble intentions behind it. She could appreciate the importance of his job, even if it put her on the defensive as owner of the dating company.

Sipping from a small glass of orange juice, she stole past the small desk for the tenth time in the last few hours, curious about his work but not wanting to get too close to him. He’d warned her about sitting beside him last night and she’d taken him at his word. No way would she send him any signals that implied sexual interest.

Even if she felt it.

“If you told me what you were looking for, maybe I could help you find it.” She set down her juice to wave her laptop in front of him. “I could work at the table and review files from there.”

But Wes scarcely seemed to hear her, his concentration devoted to the text onscreen, which he’d enlarged. “Take a look at this.”

She started to lean over his shoulder and then decided she’d be better off just pulling up a chair, since he seemed engrossed in his work anyway. Settling next to him, she retrieved her juice in an effort to keep cool around the sexy detective. “It’s the coding for one of the profiles, right?”

Her gaze scanned along the text that suggested the woman who’d written it was especially adept at blow jobs.

Tempest nearly spewed her orange juice.

“Yes. But it’s unusual coding since it includes this graphic of an asterisk here and I can’t see any explanation on the site for what significance an asterisk has. Do you know?”

Blinking her way past the shock of blow jobs written in sixteen-point font, Tempest tried to focus on his question and not wonder if there was actually a technique to good blow jobs. What other key pieces of sex advice had she been missing out on all her adult life?

“I don’t know what the asterisk means. Perhaps it only has significance to the site managers?” She congratulated herself on her calm, intelligent words despite her ridiculous thoughts. “Maybe it means the woman in question is a repeat customer or received a good rating from her dates or something.”

“But why put it there unless the Web site wants customers to see it?” Wes turned toward her, swiveling in his chair until he faced her head-on.

“Valid point.” She half wondered if the asterisk denoted adept blow job givers. “I can put in another call to the MatingGame people and see what they say.”

“What if it denotes the prostitutes in the crowd so that visitors who are aware they’re available can make sure they choose from the right pool of women?”

“I don’t know.” Shrugging, she found it hard to believe MatingGame had anything to do with prostitution. Or was it just that she couldn’t bear for her business instincts to have been so dead wrong? “Did you check out other women who have the asterisk graphic on their page?”

“I’ll put someone on it. I know you don’t want one of your companies to be found guilty of trafficking in sex, but one way or another, I have to get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m just as eager as you are to figure out what’s going on.” She didn’t need her board of directors questioning her business decisions now.

Reaching down to the floor, she picked up her laptop to show him how helpful she could be in his case.

Except that her arm brushed his leg as she moved.

JUST AN ACCIDENT?

Wes might have written off the barely-there touch as unintentional, except that coincidences were piling up as fast as he could count them in this investigation. His murder case just happened to be linked to Tempest Boucher, who seemed to be the target of an intruder bent on destruction. And he still wasn’t comfortable with the fact that her father had died while out with a MatingGame client, same as the victim in Wes’s case.

Maybe the incidents didn’t have a damn thing to do with one another and it had all just been chance. But—more likely—the events were genuinely related. He was anxious to speak to the day-to-day operations manager of MatingGame to see if she was selling more than dating advice.

Either way, Wes had reached his personal coincidence quota today. Since Tempest had touched him, he could only believe that she’d meant it.

Shifting beside him, she hefted her small computer onto the desk, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Sorry.” She murmured an apology before cracking open the case of her laptop.

“Are you?” He studied her while she flicked through the opening screens as her computer warmed up. One brown curl grazed her temple while the rest remained knotted haphazardly at the back of her head with only a felt tip pen to keep it in place.

She blew the curl away from her eyes impatiently as she huffed out a sigh. “No, actually, I’m not a bit sorry. I can’t help you unless I can access the MatingGame site. It’s not my fault your he-man sprawl of legs takes up every square foot of space beneath the desk.”

He watched her brow furrow in concentration, her lips pursed while she tapped more keys on the laptop. His gaze lingered on her mouth, which appeared deliciously free of lipstick today.

No doubt about it, he wanted her. Her alibi checked out for his case, so he wasn’t worried about the ethics of the situation. And although he wanted to find the homicidal hooker who had taken down her victim a week ago, Wes didn’t really have any other professional interest in MatingGame. If some facet of the company was involved in prostitution, Wes would stake his reputation that Tempest Boucher didn’t know a damn thing about it. Either way, that wasn’t his department. Another cop would make that bust, not him.

From where he was sitting, there wasn’t a reason in the world not to pursue the only woman to capture his interest in longer than he cared to remember.

“I checked your alibi.” He tossed the comment out there, as he navigated his way through a few more profiles of New York–based singles on the MatingGame site.

“Alibi?” Her computer keys stopped tapping.

“For last Saturday night.” His gaze wandered over another curly-headed brunette on-screen but the vampish female whose profile touted her S and M expertise left him cold.

What was it about Tempest that set a torch to his libido?

“I almost hate to ask why I’d need an alibi for last Saturday night.” She swiveled away from her laptop to face him.