Twenty-Three

I was in the middle of one of those incredible dreams, the kind where you win the lottery, then find out your yard boy is Channing Tatum, and he has just decided to prune your hedges naked, when my cell rang. I reached out blindly, knocking over half of the items on my bedside table before I hit the silence button. I drifted back, seeing his gorgeous profile, his muscular arms reaching up, up—and my damn phone rang again. I reached out, this time connecting with it the first time, silencing it so quickly that dream redemption should have been easy pickings.

I floated down, down, into absolute nothing. My subconscious searched wildly, searching for a fragment, a tendril, anything. I would have been happy with Channing Tatum’s chest hair at that point, not that the man had any. But...zilch. It was gone.

I opened my eyes to dark silk and reached up, yanking the eye mask from my face. Shit. I groaned, reaching over and grabbing my phone, grumbling as I unlocked it to display my call history.

Brad. Two missed calls. I traded one imaginary hunk for a real one. It should be a good thing. Channing Tatum never brought me to my first orgasm, though I had certainly tried hard enough before chucking my first vibrator into the trash. But seeing Brad’s name brought back reality, and reality brought back Broward’s dead body and the Magianos’ probable involvement. An involvement that Detective Parks had dismissed without a second thought. No matter what he said, I knew what I had heard. And despite Broward’s strong words, there had been fear in his voice. And then he had been killed. The circumstances were too strong to ignore.

The phone rang again, startling me.

I rolled my eyes, my mouth curving despite myself. “Whaaaat?” I groaned into the phone, fighting to keep the smile out of my voice.

“You’re starting a habit, answering the phone like that.” His deep voice weakened my flimsy shield, and I giggled despite my best intentions.

“You’re starting a habit of power calling.”

He chuckled. “You can’t be busy, seeing as how I gave you the day off.”

I smirked into the phone. “Don’t even start thinking along that path. I’ll report to Clarke before I’m under you.”

“There are so many places I could go with that statement, but seeing as I’m not alone, I will keep it clean. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” I stretched, stifling a yawn. “Right now I’m waiting with bated breath to find out what my day will look like tomorrow. Has anyone sent out an email?”

He swore under his breath. “Shit. I’ve got to have someone do that.”

“Sounds like a Clarke assignment to me. He seems by far the most responsible out of the remaining two partners.”

“You’re right. I’ll call him next.” There was noise in the background, and then he was back on my line. “Are you mine tonight, or should I make other plans?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

He made an unintelligible sound, somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Whatever. I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up at seven?”

“All right. Let me get back to my warm bed. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, baby.”

I ended the call, halfheartedly attempted another return to Tatum-land, then gave up, swinging my legs out of bed and standing. Stretching, I headed to the shower, determined to wash away the day’s ugliness.

At 5:12 p.m., an email from Lisa Strong, Clarke’s secretary, titled “Broward Staff” hit my in-box. It was brief, listing the day and time of Broward’s funeral—Sunday, 3:00 p.m. It also stated that the Broward staff would be off on Thursday, but was expected to work normal hours on Friday.

I skimmed the email and then packed an overnight bag. A good dinner, sleeping late in Brad’s bed and a home-cooked breakfast sounded pretty good right now.

Twenty-Four

Over thirteen hours later, I woke up in Brad’s bed. The smell of bacon was in the air, and I was naked, his thousand-thread-count sheets cool against my body. The shower was running, and I glanced over to the clock. Six-forty a.m. We had stayed up late, talking over dinner, and then, later, sweet, sensual sex, an incredible joining that had given me an emotional connection when I desperately needed one. I fought the desire for bacon and closed my eyes, feeling my body drift back toward dreamdom. The sound of the shower door halted my descent and I rolled over, propping a pillow underneath my head and watching the door swing open, steam billowing out. I smiled when I saw him emerge, butt naked and utterly gorgeous, ripped muscles surrounding nine inches that had become my full-time obsession. I drank him in, his head obscured by a white towel, his hands rubbing it over his head and then down his body. He turned and paused, meeting my eyes, a smile creeping over his face. He dropped the towel and came to me, halting by the side of the bed, my eyes now in perfect eye level with his cock.

I rolled back, looking up into his face, a lazy smile spreading over my own. “Good morning.”

He leaned over, resting his weight on the bed and kissing me with a mouth that hinted of mint toothpaste. “Good morning, beautiful. Go back to sleep. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

I frowned, propping myself up on one elbow, my face close to his. “Fine. If you absolutely refuse to join me.” I tilted my head up and he closed the distance, planting a soft kiss on my lips. Then I curled back into the sheets, my eyes closing before he even walked away, sleep beckoning me from afar.

I was wakened by a loud woman’s voice.

“I know you don’t think I’m going to clean around your lazy ass!” I cracked open one eye, then two. Martha stood at the foot of Brad’s bed, her hands on her hips and a glare on her face. I propped myself up on one elbow and held the blankets against my body.

“I wasn’t aware that you did clean, Martha.”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“It means that I thought Helga cleaned, and you ‘managed.’ And it’s...” I looked at the clock. “Only eight-fifteen. Not exactly grounds for calling me a lazy ass.” Though I had planned on sleeping till at least ten. So much for sleeping in late with a home-cooked breakfast.

She threw up her hands and looked to the ceiling. “Lord Almighty, you test me with these women....” She stopped cursing whoever was above the ceiling and pointed a finger at me. “I’m not gonna have you talk to me like that!”

That did it. I threw my legs off the bed and stood, dragging the blanket off with me. “What is your problem?!”

“My problem?”

“Yes, your problem! You have been horrible to me since the first day I met you! I thought it was just ‘your way,’ but now I think it’s something you personally have against me!”

She pointed at me again and I wanted to reach over and break that finger off. “You’re just like all of his girls. You think you’re special, but you’re not. Why should I bend myself backward to kiss your ass when, two months from now, you’ll be back at home, crying over the man?”

I stared at her and pulled my own finger out from behind the sheet. “First, Martha, you don’t know a damn thing about me. I am fucking special, and I don’t cry over men. If I am back at home in two weeks, or two months, or two years, it’s because I want to be there, not because a man got tired of me and kicked me out. But while I am here, I’m not gonna tiptoe around your grumpy ass. I’ll treat you with respect, and don’t think it’s ridiculous to ask for it in return. Now, since you, as far as I know, don’t clean, how about you give me some privacy!” I turned on my heel, hoping I didn’t get tangled in the blankets, and flopped back down, throwing the covers over my head and praying to God, Martha’s God, that she wouldn’t throw something large and pointy at me.

I heard her laughing, a cruel, mean laugh that grew in volume, and I flung the covers off my head and glared at her.

“Next time you throw that high-and-mighty routine, don’t do it under a photo of another naked woman. Just a tip there, Julia baby.” She sniffed, laughed again and sauntered off, slamming the door shut behind her.

I flopped back on the bed, glaring up at the gorgeous naked beauty framed above my head. The life-size portrait was of an ex of Brad’s, something he told me he hadn’t had the time or effort to replace. I’d have to push that higher up on his to-do list.

I rolled over to the other bedside and grabbed my phone. Eight percent battery. Figures. I called Brad, hoping he was still in the house but knowing he wasn’t.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Martha is a bitch, you know that?”

He chuckled, sounding way too sexy for 8:00 a.m. “I can’t talk now. What do you need?”

“I’m stranded here with your crazy excuse for a... What is her job title again?”

“Ruler of Everything in the House. Martha is part of the package, babe. You’re going to have to learn how to get along with her.”

“She’s the one who’s being difficult! She marched in here yelling at me this morning!”

“She’s being territorial, Julia. Take whatever attitude she gives you as a compliment. Most women she doesn’t even bother being rude to.” His soothing voice did nothing but irritate me further. Especially since I now realized whose side he was taking.

“Whatever. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Just hang out at the house.”

“No, thank you. I hang out at the house any longer and me and her are gonna come to blows. And I’m positive I’ll lose that fight.”