Intimate Caresses (The Love and Danger Series) (2 page)

Brock almost laughed at her furious expression, her blue eyes shooting daggers at him.  She was
smoking hot when she got fired up, he thought.  And damn!  He was actually having fantasies about those long, sexy legs, both of which, in his mind, were wrapped around his waist.  Or even better over his….

She was a suspect, he reminded himself. 
And a prime suspect at that, if the rumors were true. 

She looked appropriately repentant, but still irritated
, and Brock had to suppress a chuckle at her bluster.  She really looked hot when she was riled. 

“Fine.”
  She turned around and walked down the hallway with her head held high, but he could tell that she was having difficulty not looking behind her.  He couldn’t hide his smile, or his admiration as he watched her butt in the low riding slacks.  The slacks were tailored, and probably made with some sort of really expensive fabric.  And he found that he had to revise his opinion about his favorite article of clothing on women.  He’d previously been a jeans kind of guy, loving the way denim clung to a woman’s butt and shaped it, the way he could see the sexy lines of her thighs and even wonder about her calves.  But seeing this woman in the finely tailored slacks, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven.  Her hips swayed and every time she stepped, those high heels enticed him.  Damn!  A pair of jeans couldn’t ever compete with silk slacks and a pair of spike heels!  No sirreee! 

Too bad she was most likely going to prison.  He didn’t think she’d look as good in orange cotton as she did in silk and heels. 
However, he could enjoy her tiny, cute butt until then, he told himself. 

She stepped into an office but took a moment to glare at him accusingly.  And sure enough, he was caught staring at her butt.  He didn’t mind though.  It obviously flustered her and since he would be
coming back to her office later, flustered was good.  Flustered meant she wouldn’t be guarding her words as well and he might wrap up this homicide investigation more quickly. 

The lovely Ms. Nina Jansen disappeared into her office and Brock continued down the hallway. 

“Whatcha got in here?” he asked his partner, Colt Meyers, as he stepped into the corner office where the deceased had just been carted away. 

“You’re not going to believe this,”
Colt said, and turned to face Brock with an astonished look.  “Joe thinks the coffee was poisoned as well.”

Joe was the medical examiner
, and one of the best doctor’s Brock had ever met.  The man could sense things at a homicide scene that others tended to miss.  That was why Brock and Colt always wanted Joe doing their autopsies.  Brock looked at the blood on the leather chair behind the desk.  “I thought he was shot?”

Colt
nodded his head grimly.  “He was.  The ambulance pulled away moments ago with the guy’s body, heading to the lab for an autopsy.  But Joe was looking around the guy’s office and smelled something strange.  When he picked up the victim’s coffee cup, there was an acrid smell that Joe didn’t think was right.  He still has to run tests, but he’s pretty sure the coffee – which was spiked with bourbon, by the way – was also laced with something a bit more potent.”

Brock rubbed his hand over the back of his neck.  “Okay, so what are we looking at? 
Someone trying to slow him down to shoot him?  Or incapacitate him?”

Colt
shrugged his shoulders and looked back at the crime scene.  “Or there were two people trying to kill him, neither one aware of the other.”

Brock was stunned by that theory.  “Where did you get that idea?”

Colt sighed, shrugging his enormous shoulders as he took in the various details of the victim’s office.  “I don’t know.  It just seems strange.  Poison is generally a woman’s method of murder.  It’s a bit less messy, less interactive.  But shooting?  I’m not saying a woman couldn’t, or didn’t do this, but generally shooters are men.  So it makes more sense that two people were trying to kill the guy.  But I might be wrong.  Whatever was in the coffee might have been used to slow him down.”

“Women are pretty good at shooting,” Brock came back, thinking of the long, elegant fingers of a certain beautiful woman with sexy, black heels.  Yeah, she could shoot
someone.  Probably.  Hell, he didn’t know.  Where that woman was concerned, he wasn’t sure if he was thinking with the correct head. 

He focused on the current issue.  “Do we
know the type of gun used yet?”

Colt
looked down at his notes.  “Bullet was a thirty-eight,” he replied. 

“Great. 
The most common pistol around.”

“Yeah, but if there’s just one killer, maybe the poison will give us a clue.”

A woman raced down the hallway, bursting into the office.  She looked frazzled and anxious and Brock instantly knew this was the wife.  He stepped into her pathway, his mind going over the best way to break it to her.

“Is it true?” the flustered blond
demanded, her lips compressed and her eyes about to tear up.  “Is he dead?”

So much for breaking it to her carefully, Brock thought.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t
come in here.”

The woman’s hand shook as she raised it to her mouth.  “Just tell me if he’s dead.  Is Jared dead?
  Is my husband dead?”

Colt
stepped into the line of sight as well, the two of them blocking her view of the large, leather chair with the blood stain and bullet hole with their broad shoulders.  It didn’t work perfectly since the woman still tried to get through them, but she was shorter and they were much stronger.  “Ma’am, you need to sit down,” Colt coaxed.  He took her arm firmly and led her into the conference room down the hallway.  “Tell me your name,” he said and waited patiently while she focused her eyes. 

Brock
had followed and stood to the side, watching.  In most cases of murder, it was the spouse who committed the act.  So while Colt coaxed information out of the woman who, it turned out was Meredith Silverberg, the wife, Brock watched her reactions.  She was frantic, her shaking hands covering her face while her body seemed to crumble under the strain.  That could either be grief or guilt, Brock didn’t know at this point. 

While
Colt consoled the woman, Brock stepped out into the hallway and hunted down the kitchen.  Thankfully there was already a pot of coffee made, so all he had to do was pour some into the paper cup and bring it back.  He’d never known his mother; he only had vague recollections of her, which were more just fuzzy pictures in his head.  And his father had vanished who knows when, so Brock didn’t have much knowledge in the cooking department.  In fact, he hated cooking and his expertise ended with burning water.  But he was an expert at sniffing out the best restaurants, and he knew when coffee was good or bad.  This coffee was hot, but that was the best thing he could say about it. 

His friend Sam was getting married to a cute brunette who owned a coffee shop only a few blocks from this building.  So he and Colt were used to the good stuff that Hannah
brewed, and she made sure it was piping hot every time they stepped into her store.  How she knew they were coming and had their favorite types ready and waiting for them, he didn’t know, nor did he care.  He just thought she was the best thing since sliced bread when she handed him and his partner their coffee.  He didn’t even mind that she forced him to eat her whole wheat, tofu crap for breakfast either. 

Sam had found Hannah about two months ago when a serial killer had decided the best way to impress Hannah was to dump the dead bodies of homeless men behind her coffee shop. 
Brock and his partner, Colt, would go out of their way to stop by her shop to get their morning java, which always came with a smile.  Sam hadn’t liked that initially, but when Brock, Colt and Walker had explained that they viewed Hannah as more of a sister or maybe a sister-in-law, even though none of them were actually related, Sam backed off and allowed them to temporarily bask the glow of her smiles and coffee. 

Since he’d already had his cup of coffee from Hannah’s Quirky Café, he had no intention of giving himself an ulcer by drinking the bilge water brewed here.  He handed the cup of coffee to
the still-sobbing wife, who carefully wrapped her hands around the warm cup.  “Here, drink this and you’ll feel better,” he told her.

Meredith Silverberg looked down at the cup, her eyes still frantic but she seemed to be calming down slightly.  “He was such a nice guy,” she said.  “I loved him so much when we were first married.”

Colt and Brock both looked at each other, noting the giveaway language.  “Can you tell me why he was here last night?” Colt asked, leaning back so Brock could better observe.

Meredith shrugged.  “He worked late a lot.  I don’t know what he was working on.  But he was always conscientious about his work.”

A commotion outside caused Brock to step out of the room. 

“What’s going on?” another female ask
ed one of the officers standing guard outside of the victim’s office.  She looked around as if confused by all the chaos and police presence.

Brock stepped out of the conference room and stepped up to the new woman’s
side.  “Ma’am, can I get your name?” he asked, slipping his notebook out of his pocket. 

Another blond
he noted, this one with curly hair who looked to be about ten or fifteen years younger than the current Ms. Silverberg. She bristled with irritation at being hindered in the hallway.  “I’m Joan Spangler.  This is my work station and this guy,” she waved to the uniformed police officer guarding the hallway so no one could enter the crime scene area, “won’t let me get to work.” Looking around nervously, she had her faux-leather purse clutched against her chest. Brock also noticed she was wearing two different earrings and her lipstick was slightly askew. 

Brock pulled her gently but firmly over to
an empty office.  “I’m Detective Transom.  I understand that you are Mr. Silverberg’s secretary, is that correct?” he asked.

The woman obviously didn’t like Brock’s tone of voice or
the title he’d used for her position, practically shaking with indignation.  “Administrative Assistant,” she corrected.  She fiddled with her cheap necklace using fingers with jagged nails and chipped nail polish. 

Brock nodded as if he understood.  “I apologize.  What can you tell me about Mr. Silverberg’s day yesterday?”

He saw something flash in her eyes, but wasn’t sure what it was.  “Jared had a lot of meetings.  He always does.  He prefers to schedule them all back to back, one day a week so he can spend the rest of his time working on projects.”

Brock nodded, trying to appear sympathetic. 
“That must make him very efficient.  Did he get a lot of work done yesterday?”

She shrugged, tightening her hold on her purse
and her eyes snapping around nervously.  “The usual.  It wasn’t the most productive, but it wasn’t a horrible day either.”

“What was he working on?”

Joan rattled off a list of meetings and the assignments he’d handed out the previous day.  Brock wasn’t necessarily interested in the projects, but wanted to hear her voice and then compare it to later, when the questions got a bit tougher.  “And was there any particular project he preferred to work on?”

Joan sighed and rubbed her for
ehead.  “He was always very efficient.  He liked to have things in order, to get as many things done as possible.”

“Would you say he was controlling?”

Joan shrunk slightly.  “He was very kind to me.”

Brock moved
marginally, his shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.  “That’s not what I asked.” 

Joan shifted, not sure how to answer the question.  “He liked things a certain way,” she said again.  “Look, I’ve really got to go.  Jared doesn’t like it when I don’t get to my desk on time.
  He’s very particular about his work day being on time and on schedule.”

Brock simply stood there, waiting. It only took a few moments before she started talking again.

“Seriously, Jared wasn’t a horrible person or anything.  And he wasn’t a perfectionist in any way.  We worked well together.  We sort of…” she looked up at the ceiling with a secret little smile, “knew what the other was thinking.  We were in sync, you know?” she asked, looking up at Brock as if he should understand completely. 

Brock thought it was a crock of shit, but then again, what did he know? 
Women were a dime a dozen, he told himself.  They were beautiful, soft and lovely to hold.  But this woman had some ideas about what a relationship could be like that he simply didn’t believe in.  Oh, he was as quick as the next guy to take a lovely woman out for dinner.  And if she invited him back to her place afterwards?  Even better!  But two people being “in sync”?  He didn’t think so. 

He tended to steer away from career minded women, preferring women that had a bit more time on their hands and didn’t work eighty hours a week.  Women who liked to be around men
, weren’t afraid to admit it, and were okay depending on them a little. 

The image of pretty blue eyes and soft, white skin popped into his mind.  Perhaps there was one career minded woman that could change his opinion of that species
.  One woman, at least, who he’d like to see again in her sexy silk black slacks and heels…or those heels and nothing else.