the slacks the victim wore. “That’s better.”
“Why not?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her perfect lips slightly puckered, her eyes zeroed in as if she’d read his every X-rated thought. Only the hum from the furnace below could be heard in the quiet house, and Brodey’s pulse knocked harder. All he had to do was bend down a few inches and those perfect lush lips would be his.
“Wow,” he said.
She stepped away, putting distance between them. “It wouldn’t work for me. I generally don’t sketch people. I do furniture. Furniture is easy. Even if I had the level of skill it requires, I’m not sure I could handle that type of work. I have a friend whose mom was a sketch artist, and it’s emotionally draining. What you do—a homicide detective—is a gift. Whether you realize it or not, the average citizen couldn’t face the horrors you see every day. I’m one of those people. I like serenity and homey environments. It’s what I’m good at.”
Good observation since he was already counting down the years—fourteen and a half—until he reached retirement. Not that he didn’t have a passion for the job, a passion for righting a wrong, a passion for justice. That justice was what got him out of bed every morning, but studying mangled bodies for thirty years, like some of the guys on the job, didn’t seem like a banner way to stay sane. Twenty years would be plenty. Like his dad.
After shading the body, Lexi scratched her cheek, leaving a dark smudge trailing down her face, and he itched to run his fingers across the spot, over the delicate curve of her jaw, and wipe it away. Just to put his hands on her.
She held the sketch out. “What do you think?”
I’d like to tell you what I think. Back to business here. He took the sketch. “It’s good. Let’s put it on the floor so I can look at.”
“Okay. You’re all set, then? You don’t need me?”
And, hell, if she wasn’t the cutest damn thing with that smudge on her cheek. “I’m all set. Except...” Against his better judgment—considering his partial erection might go full-blown—he gently ran the pad of his thumb where the remnants of her sketching marred her creamy skin. Major mistake because now his body went haywire, every nerve snapping.
More.
That was what he wanted. More of her skin under his hands.
She didn’t flinch, but locked her gaze on his, and the message was clear. She knew what he wanted. And she wasn’t running.
“Smudge?”
“Yep.”
“I do that all the time. You’d think I’d learn by now. Thanks for telling me. I’d have been walking around like that.”
“No problem,” he said. “If touching a beautiful woman’s face is the worst thing I do today, I’d say I hit the jackpot.”
For a good twenty seconds, she stood in silence, clearly deciding whether to take the bait. Come on, Lexi, let’s play. But, nope. She broke eye contact and headed to the kitchen, where she’d left her sketches. She turned back to him, casually leaning against the island, but her folded arms and fingers digging into the sleeves of her sweater screamed confusion.
“You know,” she said, “you’re quite charming when you want to be. I like that about you.”
Charming. He’d take it. There were a lot of things he liked about her, too—her confidence, her skill, her ability to shut down an uncomfortable conversation without making a big deal about it. The woman had a way about her.
“I do try.”
She nodded toward the laundry room. “How long until you’re finished?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll read the ME’s report and the crime-scene notes again. The angle of the body is weird.” He shifted in the doorway. “Unless he was standing like this, facing the wall. Or maybe the killer moved the body. I don’t know. I need to study it.”
“So, what you’re telling me is I won’t be able to get into this room again today?”
Here we go again. All that light banter from twenty seconds ago? Gone. Vanished. Vamoosed. “Lexi, I don’t know. Trust me, I’d love to tell you it’ll be today. It might be. I need to study these notes more. Sorry if it’s ripping into your forty-five days, but the guy is dead.”
“Oh, don’t even go there. Do not try to make me feel like I’m being unreasonable for wanting to get this project done. I have been nothing but cooperative. I want to give this woman peace as much as anyone. Part of that will come from unloading this house before she’s forced into bankruptcy. So, spare me your lecture.” She scooped up her pad and shoved the loose sketches into it. “Call me when you’re through holding up my work.”
Great. Mad. How the hell had this become his fault? He moved to the island, where she’d already left skid marks on her way to the front door, and held his arms wide. For once, the elbow didn’t holler, but the gesture was useless since she couldn’t see him. Well, fine. His whole point of getting here early was to work alone. All she did was distract him. Between her looks and the way she smelled, his body responded to her. Couple that with her insistence that he rush through his investigation, and Alexis Vanderbilt snatched his energy. Just sucked him dry.
The front door slammed and he shook his head, pondering whether or not to chase after her. Let her go. He’d get more done without her.
Even if she smelled good.
* * *
LEXI TROMPED DOWN the Williamses’ walkway, sketch pad in hand, coat flapping and the wrath of a winter day descending on anyone fool enough to venture outside. Mere breathing brought the wind—frigid, bone-shattering wind—burning down her throat.
“I need to be a snowbird,” she muttered.
“Morning.”
She halted a second before slamming into a man walking his Yorkie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I see that.”
The man wore a long wool coat over a suit. His close-cropped, graying hair gave him an edge of sophistication that topped off the whole “I have money” vibe. By the looks of him and the adorable dog, he was a neighbor. He held a mug in one hand, and the aroma of hazelnut reminded Lexi she hadn’t put anything into her system in nearly twelve hours. On the way home, she’d stop at the coffee shop and load up on caffeine and sugar. A chocolate croissant might do the trick. The man eyed her, then glanced back at the house. “Are you the real-estate agent?”
On the surface, the question seemed harmless, but Lexi had worked with enough gossipmongers to know her words could storm this community. “No. Not the real-estate agent.”
“Ah. The designer, then.” Mug in hand, he gestured down the block. “Phillips. We live two doors down. We heard Brenda hired someone to stage the house. It’s a rotten situation.”
The gossip trail. How she despised it. “It is indeed.”
But wait. He was
