As Tank approached the elevator, Emerson’s heart picked up speed. “I’ll take the stairs.”
He led her to a fire door and stilled in front of the wall scanner. The light turned green and he opened the door. “Stryker’ll meet you on the third floor.”
On the way upstairs, she wondered how bad it would’ve been if she’d stepped into the elevator. By the time she reached the top floor, she had convinced herself that she neededmoreexercise, not less. She yanked open the heavy door and headed down the quiet hallway. Black walls, candelabra lights set on low.Definitely sexy.
A couple exited a room and walked by, arm in arm, both masked and both wearing leather. A door at the far end of the hallway opened and Stryker appeared. A surging wave of adrenaline rolled through her. His massive body dwarfed the space and her cheeks warmed.
One step at a time, she made her way toward him, the matador sizing up the bull. The only thing missing was the smoke billowing from his nostrils. Despite their contempt for each other, he was a smokin’ hot man. She couldn’t deny that he was part man, part beast, and all testosterone. He’d pulled some of his long hair into a half-up top knot. Her whisper-soft moan floated in the air. His sexy man bun was her hot button. She imagined freeing his hair as he planked over her, his soft waves brushing against her bare skin.
Stop, Em. Just stop.
Stryker did not greet her with a smile, but, then again, she wasn’t offering one of her own, either. The man wore his anger well. She hated having to work with him, but she loved that she could see him again. He was super easy on the eyes.Staring is not a crime.
“Detective Easton, let’s see that warrant.”
She fished it from her handbag. After skimming it, he handed it back to her. “This’ll work.” He waited for her to enter the office, shut the door behind him. The woman standing beside the glass desk was leaning on a hand-carved cane.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Detective Easton.”
“Call me Mavis.”
As Emerson eased onto the guest chair, Mavis sat in her cushioned chair behind the desk.
“Thanks for talking to me about April Peters.”
“What happened to her?” Mavis asked.
“The report from the coroner’s office hasn’t—”
“No.” Mavis cut her off. “Was she killed? Suicide? I feel absolutely sick over this. I had no idea anything was wrong. If she killed herself…” Mavis cleared her throat.
“It appears she was murdered. I’m hoping you can help me with the investigation.”
Emerson glanced over her shoulder. Stryker’s heated gaze drilled into her. He hadn’t moved from his position as door guard.
“Mr. Truman, can you join us?”
Refusing to sit in the guest chair beside her, he got comfortable on the sofa across the room. And his hard stare sliced right through her.
Steeling her spine, she turned back to the GM. “Mavis, what can you tell me about April?”
Mavis clicked on her keyboard while she read from the computer. “I hired her almost three years ago. In this industry, that’s like a decade. April started in L1—”
“L1?” Emerson asked.
“Level 1,” Stryker replied, the frustration in his voice not lost on her. “As in, the first floor. More members, more chaos. We put the employees in the pit, first. Sink or swim.”
“She was a sweet young woman,” Mavis said. “She showed up on time, did her job. No drama. Rarely called out sick. Better positions would open up, she’d express interest, and I’d give her a shot. She was head mixologist when she—” Mavis paused. “You find that son of a bitch and I’ll kill him myself.”
Ignoring that comment, Emerson pressed on. “Was she married? Boyfriend, girlfriend? Was she seeing anyone?”
“You’d have to ask a coworker. If I was tending bar, we were short staffed. No time to talk.”
After several more questions, it was clear that Mavis knew nothing about her employee.
Emerson finished with, “Do staff list emergency contacts?”
“Mavis was hers,” Stryker replied.
