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“Fuck!” Hartley yelled at Montgomery, her jaw jutting out. She stared at him, and for one second he thought he saw agony mixed with anger.
He stood, but she put out her hands, shaking her head. It was the most confused he’d ever seen her, and curiosity niggled at him.
With a snap, she spun on her heels and retraced her steps to the elevator. He knew where she was going—the attic.
Montgomery turned to Eli, wondering if he’d imagined what he thought he saw.
“I’m not surprised she’s pissed,” Eli said, picking up two of the devices and sliding them into his pocket. “I’m just surprised she didn’t stay longer to yell at us.”
“I’m surprised too,” he agreed, walking to the doorway. “I’m going to go talk to her. The three of us need to come up with a plan.”
“Agreed. I’ll wait here,” Eli said.
Montgomery headed for the elevator, but stopped in the doorway. “I won’t try to piss her off any more than she already is,” he said. “But if you see my body falling past the window, call Detective Frank. He’ll know what to do with my remains.”
Eli chuckled. “That’s a brave assumption.”
“Assumption about what?”
“That she’ll leave anything recognizable,” he replied, waving Montgomery toward the elevator. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER6
Hartley strode into the ethereal twilight that flooded through the attic window. She loved this tiny room, but it was doing nothing now to calm her nerves.
Marching to the bedroom’s entrance, she kicked off her shoes and tried to ignore her heart pounding against her ribs. The encounter downstairs had sent a torrent of emotions whipping through her. No, not even the encounter. Just Monty’s presence—his body, his glaring eyes, the hard line of his jaw.
“Fuck,” she whispered, then repeated it more loudly when she saw his pristine suitcase on the narrow bed.
It had been a weakness not to face him, but the mix of shock, desire, and confusion that blasted her when she’d seen his face had sent her right upstairs. To safety.
Now, staring at his suitcase like it was a cancer, rage splintered through those other emotions. She strode to the bed and grasped the handle, slinging it like a discus. It hit the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster, then clattered to the floor.
The contents spilled out: shirts folded so precisely that they slid across the floor like a deck of cards, rolled ties and belts, bundles of dress socks. Neat, contained, like his entire arrogant personality.
That opened another album of memories—her teasing him about his regimented wardrobe and using some of those belts in more interesting ways.
“Fuck him!” she yelled into the small space, her fists balling.
She spun away from the sight, returning to the main room. But she couldn’t escape the memories that insisted on flooding her mind. She could picture the elegant Seattle condo, its expansive windows facing a dark city skyline. The press of his body against her back, her naked front against the cold glass. She remembered the hint of cognac on his breath as murmured meaningless words into her neck.
She looked at her palms, still feeling the coldness of the glass. In a flash she saw the ecstasy of her reflected expression as he slid his hand over her hip, gliding past the crease of her thigh and into her wet core.
“I know you better than you know yourself,” he’d whispered hoarsely, tipsily, into her ear. She’d pushed her ass against his cock, feeling the hard steel nestle into her.
“I can say the same,” she’d replied, but it had come out intertwined with a moan.
He’d flattened his hand against her belly to angle her up on her tiptoes, then plunged in. He’d teased out a moan with the nimble fingers of his other hand, tickling her sensitive bud. They’d circled, then slid down and inside her, his thumb taking over stroking her clit. He knew exactly what lit her up like a rocket. Nobody else ever had, or had taken the time to learn.
It was a night she’d tried to forget. When she couldn’t, she’d told herself it was purely physical—something she’d wanted, that she took from him and then walked away, leaving him wanting more.
Except it hadn’t gone like that. She’d been the one left wanting more, having to bury the feeling deep down during the Cavendish meetings that had followed. Especially when the kill kit contents had been dumped on the table—downstairs in the boardroom she’d just left—and her wedding ring had tumbled out.
She reached to her chest automatically, pulled out of her daydream to feel the round metal where it hung between her breasts. Knowing some thief, maybe a murderer, had held it was like a splash of cold water.
Monty had crucified her for taking it off and letting it get stolen. It was a Meyer family heirloom.
“I should have melted it down,” she muttered, striding toward her desk. Why she wanted to keep a reminder of her marriage to a cheating asshole was the last thing—
