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But it wasn’t Dante who acted first. With a groan of frustration and a deep growl, André pushed Dante the last few inches to the wall behind them.
“You drive me fucking crazy.”
Dante’s shoulders banged against it with a resounding thump, the door vibrating in its frame.
“You love it.”
It was André who claimed Dante’s lips and mouth. It was André who proceeded to ravage him as if it had been years, not just a few weeks, since they’d last kissed. It was André who gripped the back of Dante’s neck and demanded entrance into his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” Dante whimpered, opening up. He was half hard already, his cock reveling in the pressure of André’s body against him. He pressed his hips harder back against André. He needed more.
Snaking a hand between them, André cupped and gently squeezed Dante’s denim-covered erection.
“Fuck, André,” Dante groaned. They were a mere hairsbreadth away from a bad decision.
André’s hand fell away. Relinquishing Dante’s mouth, he leaned his forehead against Dante’s. They were breathing heavily. And they were both hard, but sex in André’s office was definitely some kind of code violation—even Dante knew that. And there was the press conference in—Dante breathed in and glanced at his watch—five minutes.
“You’ve got people waiting. We’ll finish this later. Think about my offer.”
THIRTEEN
André
Did it look like he and Dante Castone had been about to rip each other’s clothes off and fuck? In his office? And before a major press conference? Could he have acted in a more unprofessional manner? No. The answer was definitely no.
For the third or fourth time, André smoothed his slacks and made certain his shirt was buttoned and tucked in properly. How the hell did Dante manage to get under his skin so quickly?
Dante had left the station by the time André was ready to emerge from the relative safety of his office. He’d needed a minute to calm down, to think about unpleasant things. Things that made his erection subside—like the sad pile of bones that had once been living, breathing humans. That had done the trick.
Now, here he was in the eye of the storm. Three news vans were parked along the sidewalk—it was tempting to threaten them all with tickets for taking up the no-parking zone. But he restrained himself. Might as well try to start on good footing. Thankfully, two representatives from West Coast Forensics had arrived along with Ethan Moore. André would not be doing the press conference alone.
The larger-than-life ex-homicide detective from Seattle wasn’t a surprise. Sacha Bolic was. André stared at him. Sacha smirked back.
“Keeping my hand in. Wouldn’t want my skills to get rusty.”
“I think that’s the idea behind retirement,” André said dryly.
“Meh, retirement is whatever you want it to be,” he replied before stepping back and managing to disappear even though André knew he was right there.
“I’m not normally involved in this crap,” Niall Hamarsson said from the side of his mouth as he continued to glare at the reporters and video crew. André needed to up his glare game. Hamarsson had it down to an art. “In this case, Frye seems to think just my presence will keep the yahoos from getting out of control.”
André wasn’t going to argue. He suspected that Hamarsson was hoping the press might step out of line so he could grab one or two of them by the collar and shake them like bad dogs. There was something ominous about the ex-homicide detective turned WCF cold case investigator. If André had seen him on the street and hadn’t already been introduced to him, he would have steered clear of the man.
“We appreciate it.”
Squinting across the highway toward the ocean, André could just make out the tiny figures of who he knew to be Martin Purdy and Nick Waugh. They and two contractors were working on the roofs of the cabins that made up Cooper Springs Resort. The sight reminded André that he needed to follow up with Waugh about the soon-to-be-vacant dispatch position and run a background check on him as well. André trusted Carol’s recommendation—with reservation—but all the boxes needed to be checked. He didn’t want to be saddled with another employee like Deputy Trent.
“Ready?” Hamarsson asked.
The reporters, sensing things were about to begin, surged forward, each trying to be closest to the front.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Because he was a bastard too, André first read the prepared statement that pretty much said nothing. What was there to say? After rehashing what they already knew, he agreed to answer a few questions and started with the younger male reporter who had been relegated to the back row.
“Yes? You in the back with the black cap.”
The reporter appeared to be about twenty-two, young enough to be André’s child. He looked around himself as if André might possibly have been talking to another person in a black cap.
