Page 90 of Lorenzo

“How convincing you think you can be.”

His hand tightens once around the steering wheel.

“I don’t usually have to try very hard.”

Heat gathers between my legs, irritating me. Damn him.

I close the file on my lap and fall back on my safety mechanism: sarcasm. “Arrogance again?”

“Confidence.”

I let my gaze travel over his profile, the firm line of his mouth, the open collar above his coat.

“Maybe you should keep your attention on the road.”

“Maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Now he glances at me.

The look lasts only a second, but it is enough.

“Like you really do want me to prove it.”

My nipples harden, and I’m thankful for the thick sweater I’m wearing. I would die of embarrassment.

I turn toward the window before he can read anything else on my face.

“Elaine’s last known contact with Rachel was several months ago,” I say, reopening the file. “That is the part we need to focus on.”

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then his voice returns to normal. “What did Rachel want?”

“I don’t know yet. That is why we’re going.”

Elaine Monroe lives in a modest house on a quiet street lined with mature trees and older homes set farther apart than you typically see in the city. The yard is well maintained without being elaborate. A small ceramic planter sits near the steps, empty for the season.

There is one car in the driveway.

I check the plate against the information I found.

“It belongs to Elaine.”

Lorenzo parks along the curb.

“No sign of Rachel,” he says.

“Not from here.”

We get out.

I lean into the car and look at Mocha. “I'm sorry, boy, but you have to stay here. We won't be long.”

He gives me a sad look, but he lies back down with a huff.

I shut the door and look at Lorenzo across the roof of the car.