Heat Of The Night

“So you’re saying you think this was a murder? And Sanderson was set up to be found like that?”

He looked directly at her. “I’m not saying anything.”

She sighed. “Will you be at the press conference?”

“You seem to have that covered. I don’t need to be answering questions that are better left unasked until I have more information.” He pulled his chair out, signaling that their meeting was over.

Erin jotted a few notes on a notepad, then slid it back in the satchel she had slung over her shoulder. “Thanks, Brady.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re the one that has to deal with the wolves this afternoon.”

“Why is it I think you’re starting to like this division of labor?”

“Did I say that?” How did she do that? He’d been all business, then she pulled a smile out of him with seemingly little effort.

“I’m beginning to realize it’s what you don’t say that a woman should pay attention to.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed. “That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about you, Brady. I could never make you beg for anything.” She turned and he knew he’d been sucked in too deep, because he watched her move and angle that shapely body of hers past each and every desk on her way to the door.

She turned at the door, catching him watching her. “I’ll call you when the conference is over and give you an update.”

He could only nod. When she was gone, he sat down heavily in his chair. He closed his eyes, but he could still see her face, the sharp intelligence fairly glowing in those green eyes of hers, the delighted little twinkle that surfaced when she teased him. She might be a knockout, but it was the self-assurance she wore, as perfectly tailored as those hot little suits she shrugged into each morning, that was the more potent aphrodisiac.

Make him beg? Oh yes. She’d been back in his life less than twenty-four hours and he already wanted to beg her for mercy. But mercy in what form?

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