Another shift in her seat, a dismissive curl of her lips.“The bad guys.”
Peter suppressed a growl of disgust.Damn it.Why didn’t he believe her?“What did Reggie say?”
The hand on his thigh stilled.“Reggie?”
“My sister.What did the mechanic remember her saying?”
“Not much.He said she tried to call you but before she spoke to anyone at the station the Irishman arrived.That is it.”
Peter bit back a curse.Everything felt wrong, but be damned if he knew why.
Yolanda’s hand pressed firmer against his leg, the warmth of its contact making his skin tingle.“We will find her, Peter.We will find her and the Irishman will get what he deserves.I promise.”
Eyes narrowing, he turned a corner.“Tell me why you transferred to Sydney City, Vischka?”
The hand on his thigh stilled.“Why?”
“Because unless you’re after something, I’m buggered if I can figure out why you’re all over me like a rash.”
An unreadable expression flittered across her face, somehow lost and vulnerable, before, with a sharp sniff, she lifted her chin and turned away, looking out the window.“Maybe my transfer had something to do with the fact I told my captain to fuck off when he suggested a ‘quickie’ in the evidence room.”She fell silent, watching the houses pass.
Ah, fuck.Way to go, dickhead.
“This is it,” she suddenly said, voice distant, as she pointed to a small semi-detached house on the high side of the street.
Peter pulled to the curb, self-contempt bubbling through him like boiling acid.Damn it.What was going on here?He killed the ignition, staring blankly at Yolanda’s house.Maybe he’d misread her?Maybe she was one of those touchy-feely people?Maybe she was more sensitive than she let on?A fragile female hiding in the vixen, after all?
His ex-wife had spent the last four years of their marriage complaining he was a cold fish.Perhaps she was right all along?He suppressed a wry sigh.Fuck.Years of being a cop and he couldn’t tell if a woman was coming on to him or just being friendly.He shook his head.“Sorry, Yolanda.That wasn’t called for.I didn’t mean to imply…” He petered off, unsure what to say.He didn’t mean to imply she was a slut?
For a moment his partner didn’t respond, her attention fixed on something outside the car, before she shrugged and turned back to him, expression ambiguous.“Do I intimidate you, Detective?Or intrigue you?”
Peter clenched his jaw, the question throwing him completely.
A slow grin curled one side of glossy red lips, any hint of vulnerability disappearing.“Because I am hoping the answer is intrigue.”Confident sexuality oozed from her once more.“I will not be long,” she stated, blue eyes direct.“I need to change my clothes.Grease is not easy to remove from linen and that gas station was literally painted in it.”The fingers returned to his thigh.Higher this time.Almost brushing the swell of his crotch through the material of his trousers.“Do not wait in the car.Not in this heat.”
Peter narrowed his eyes on the immaculate presentation of Yolanda’s small house, fully aware the sweat trickling down his back was caused, not by the summer day, but by her words.
You’re not going in there are you?
Another brush of his thigh, this time high enough to tickle the swell of his balls.If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was all an accident.But he did know better.Didn’t he?
He climbed from the car, the mid-morning heat hitting him like a wave, wringing new sweat from his skin.He followed her up the path to the front door, impatience eating at him, edgy anticipation feeding it.What he anticipated he didn’t know, but it itched at the back of his mind, in the pit of his gut.His gaze dropped to Yolanda’s butt and he suppressed a groan.Bloody hell.Concentrate.
Her living room was a study in minimalism.Black angular sofa, black leather sling chair, a low, glass coffee table and two matching lamp tables on which sat short, fat polished steel lights.A small plasma screen hung on the wall above a glass shelf displaying a singleobjet d’art—a sculpture of the ancient Roman babes Remus and Romulus suckling on a wild wolf’s teats.Minimalism at its extreme.
Peter took it all in, unease licking at his gut again.Cozy.
Yolanda stepped past him, trailing warm fingers over his shoulder, setting his skin afire.“Come in.”She cast him a lidded look through the razor-sharp bangs falling over her eyes.“I won’t bite.”Those glossy blood-red lips curled when Peter didn’t move.“Not unless you want me to, that is.”
Maggie looked at him with those large, liquid-chocolate eyes.Puppy-dog eyes, he’d called them, a term Maggie both loathed and loved since she was young enough to understand the pun behind the expression.Except tonight, those puppy-dog eyes were shining with tears.And agony.
“I’m sorry, Dec.”Pain made the words almost indecipherable.Pain and the bloody knifepoint pressed to her throat.
The ground underneath Declan’s paws vibrated with her terror and his body responded.There would be more blood spilt tonight.Just not Maggie’s.
He took a step forward.
“Enough, O’Connell.”McCoy’s hand—the one not holding the knife—curled harder over Maggie’s left breast.Maggie whimpered, a single tear marking her cheek as she cringed against the cruel assault.
