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“This was under some stuff on the table where you were working today.” He held it out to her. “You probably missed it, being in such a big hurry to leave and all. I figured it was important enough not to leave it there until tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She gave a small sigh of relief. “I realized when I started to work tonight that it was missing. Thank you for bringing it by.”
She reached for it. Their hands touched, and a bolt of something akin to lightning shot up her arm and impaled her smack in the center of her chest. That traitorous pulse in her pussy was pounding hard enough to play in a rock band. She yanked her hand back at once, but he reached for it and gently placed her cell onto her palm. The flare of light in his eyes was the only indication that he’d felt the electricity, too. And he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move away from it.
She swallowed past the panic that flooded through her and backed farther into the room. She couldn’t let him get any ideas about her or do anything that might force her to leave High Ridge before she finished what she’d come here to do.
“You know,” he drawled. “It’s only common courtesy to offer someone a cold drink or a cup of coffee in a situation like this. I’m good with either.”
Coffee? A cold drink? Was she supposed to make casual conversation with him, too? “I know this sounds rude, but I really do have a lot of work to do.”
He shook his head, almost dismissively. “Those cases are older than dirt, Miss Moretti. Another half hour won’t make a difference one way or another. Besides, you look like someone who could use a break.”
Her chin lifted automatically. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
He moved closer until he was only inches away from her. “It means, you’re so uptight, if I flicked my fingernail against you, you’d vibrate like piano wire. I’ve seen people teetering on the edge of a nervous collapse before, and you give a pretty good imitation. So how about that cold drink and a little conversation about the real reason you chose the High Ridge crimes to write about?”
Dana nearly dropped her phone. She curled her fingers tightly around it and schooled her features into as blank an expression as possible. But not blank enough. Because Cole was looking at her as if he could see right into her center, right into the workings of her mind.
Dana shivered. This wassonot good. Not to mention the dream…
“I can offer you a cold drink,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I don’t know about the conversation.”
With an effort of will, she made her feet move toward the kitchen, dropping her cell into her briefcase as she passed it. Yanking two bottles of soda from the fridge, she turned to head back into the living room, only to find a solid wall of muscle in her way.
Dana froze. She suddenly felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her kitchen and replaced by this man and images from the dream. Tiny drops of perspiration beaded her forehead, and her heartbeat felt like a bass drum against her ribs.
She had no idea how to handle the unexpected feelings running riot in her body. She certainly couldn’t let him know how he affected her. Literally shoving one of the bottles at him, she slid sideways past him into the living room.
“Thanks.” His deep voice resonated through her as he followed close behind.
She deliberately took the big armchair, leaving him the couch. As if he read her mind, one corner of his mouth quirked, but he folded his body into one end of the couch, stretched out his long legs, and tilted the bottle to his lips.
Dana could barely tear her eyes off him as the muscles in his throat worked to swallow the soda. The pulse in her pussy beat heavily, a totally foreign sensation. Her nerves felt as if someone had removed all the protective coverings and exposed them to the sensuality of this man. Could he see the thudding of the pulse beat at her throat? Was her face unnaturally flushed? She had a feeling that somehow, in those eyes that revealed nothing, he knew her darkest secrets.
If this was all a deliberate attempt to put her off balance, she didn’t dare let him know how well it was working.
He locked gazes with her again.
“So how about it, Miss Moretti? I’m not looking for social discourse, just an explanation. What’s your real angle here?”
****
Cole wanted to slap his head and kick his brain back into gear. Coming here had to be the dumbest fucking thing he’d done all year. But the shock of seeing his water nymph from the night before—the vision of his intensely erotic dream—walk boldly into his office this morning, as if he’d conjured her from his dream, still hadn’t worn off. Maintaining his composure had been hard.
It wasn’t enough that she’d popped up out of nowhere to rake open the muck of a case everyone had buried as deep as they could. The hard-on he got the minute he laid eyes on her today was killing his concentration.
There was nothing sexy about the way she dressed, and her personality could freeze Hell. But he’d taken one look at her slender, shapely body, her soft mouth and thick, shining blonde hair that reflected the lights, and his dick had stood up and whacked him. Just like last night.
Wonderful. Just what he needed. A stiff dick for a nosy, uptight, and from what he could tell, slightly frigid writer. What the hell was he thinking? He’d given himself a mental shake and dismissed all possibility of her from his mind for about half a heartbeat.
Then he’d stupidly taken another look and seen hazel eyes flecked with green but so bruised he couldn’t imagine what hell they’d seen. Looking at her now, so obviously trying to hide the fear she was feeling, he sent his dick a stern message to assume parade rest. This was not a woman who gave out sexual signals at all, although he sensed something buried deep inside her was fighting hard to get out. And that something was scaring her to death. Something was off kilter here, and he planned to find out what it was.
He watched her, curled into the big armchair she’d chosen, the too-large T-shirt hanging slightly off one shoulder, bare legs tucked firmly against her tempting ass. She’d poured her soft drink into a glass she clutched with a death grip, her eyes focused on the bubbles dancing in the liquid. She was ignoring his question, as if the longer she waited to answer, the sooner he’d lose interest. She’d soon learn he never lost interest when something mattered to him.
“Miss Moretti?” he prompted.
“Dana.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Miss Moretti sounds too confrontational.”
