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But then she walks past me into my office and I get a full whiff of my own scent on her skin and in her hair. She’s still using my body wash, my shampoo and,good fucking Lord,I’m only just realizing she confronted that asshole ex of hers while drenched in my scent and now, I’m officially needing to bend her over that desk?—
“Are these… are these the case files on Michael Little?” Clara peers at a stack of folders on my desk that I completely forgot to put away.
“Yeah.”
I close the door behind me and head straight for the minibar. I need a drink. I need a whole fucking bottle if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.
There’s something else I can do that will definitely relax me enough to get a good night’s sleep, but…
As I pull a swig from my stash of bourbon, I watch her face contort into a frown and she slumps into my leather office chair. She’s too focused on the case, as she should be.
AsIshould be, instead of standing here debating on whether to carry her sweet ass to bed or just fuck her on my desk.
Either would be good.
Both would be better.
“How did you get these?” She carefully flips through the pages, her eyes never leaving the scrawled notes and highlighted sections. Half those notes are my own. “Aren’t these classified?”
“I happen to be very skilled at obtaining things I shouldn’t be able to obtain.”
“Oh…” Her face falls into a sheepish blush. “I thought you just… I don’t know, swindled gamblers and sold drugs or whatever.”
She’s so fucking adorable. Or this bourbon is strong.
Both can be true at once.
I meander over to the desk and shrug. “That, too. But the casino and my escorts pay most of the bills.”
“How charming.”
“Guy’s gotta have his hobbies.”
Clara narrows her eyes at me. In the golden light of the desk lamp, she’s fucking mesmerizing. “Is that what you’re calling it? Parading your hookers around to drunk tourists is a ‘hobby’?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d detect a hint of jealousy in that question.
I lean on the desk and take another swig. “They’re escorts, not hookers.”
“Oh, wow. Yeah. Such a significant difference.” She rolls her eyes.
“There is.” I lean in a bit closer, maybe a little too close. But goddamn, I love the way she smells. “I prefer my woman to be willing.”
Clara’s eyes widen. Then she clears her throat and taps a finger on one of the open files. “So I noticed a discrepancy here in the… ah…borrowedpolice log.”
I set the bottle of bourbon down on the desk and angle my head to take a look at where her finger is underlining a section.
It looks like standard clock-in, clock-out shift logs for the officers—in this case, Michael Little. I can’t remember why Bambi had this added to the files, but she’s always been insanely thorough. I’m pretty sure his dental history is somewhere in the folder, too. “Yeah?”
“On the day he died? He left early.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
“He and Dad were partners, right? So they worked the same shifts. Usually until five, maybe seven at the latest. A few graveyard shifts, but this roll call logs him in that morning for their usual day shift. But instead of leaving in the evening, he was out by three.”
“So?”
“So it means he was off-duty that night. And had been for a while.” Clara sighs. “What was he doing there?”
