It was unlikely that anyone was keeping track of my whereabouts, but I needed this job. I wanted this job. And I had no desire to lose it because I was abusing my lunch hour.
By two o’clock, I was so hungry that I went rooting through the refrigerator in the break room. I was just pulling the tin foil from a casserole dish when Jude entered the room. I started guiltily and shoved the dish behind my back.
“It’s not that bad,” he said with a smile. “I’ve actually been told that my five-cheese, creamy tomato pasta casserole could bring about world peace.”
He cooks, too! Not only was the man gorgeous, funny, and successful, but he knew his way around the kitchen as well? Again, I felt a surge of heat warm my body, and I swallowed hard, suddenly aching with thirst again. “I was so busy doing errands during my lunch break that I didn’t actually get a chance to eat.”
In two strides, Jude was next to me. He took the casserole from my hands and gently pushed me toward the table. “Please be seated, milady. I would be honored to serve you my humble fare.” Giving me a deep, rakish bow, which earned him a laugh, Jude scooped pasta into a bowl and placed it in the microwave. Each of his gestures was theatrical to the point of being ridiculous, and I giggled like a teenage girl on a first date right until the moment I tasted my first bite of casserole.
My eyes went wide as the blend of cheeses and creamy tomato sauce coated my tongue. I shoveled in several forkfuls before finally pausing to compliment him on the delicious fare. Surely a man who cooked with such artistry couldn’t be a murderer!
Jude bowed again and then walked behind my chair and bent over, his lips an inch away from my ear. “Dessert is in my office,” he murmured. “Stop by anytime.”
With his breath on my neck and the woody scent of his cologne tingeing the air, I nearly lost muscle control and dropped my fork. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, and I closed my eyes, picturing Jude’s full lips, his arms yanking me against his chest in a rough, passionate embrace, his hands moving under my blouse, feeling my hot skin against his fingertips.
I blushed again, recalling how recently I’d had the same fantasy sequence with Sean as the leading man. I was going to have to either rein in my crazed hormones or actually kiss one of these men. And clearly Sean was the better choice. After all, he wasn’t on my list of possible suspects.
After I’d eaten, I attacked the query pile, amazed that over a dozen had come via email between twelve and one. Just how many aspiring writers were out there?
Ten queries fell flat before I ripped open an envelope and unfolded a query that gave me chills. Not only was it compelling, but the opening lines made me think of Marlette.
A murderer is preying on the itinerant population of downtown San Diego. Each morning, beneath a mound of bloodstained rags or inside a decrepit cardboard box, another body is discovered. The victims, murdered by strangulation, have all been given the fresh tattoo of a poppy flower. Seeing the glaring red bloom, Detective Jones Connelly refuses to subscribe to the department’s theory that the killer is a deranged sociopath who believes he is helping the community by clearing the streets of “riffraff.”
One of the oldest cops on the force, Connelly remembers a cold case in which a little girl was stolen from her bed in the dead of night. Her body was found two days later in the city center park. She’d been strangulated by her own jump rope.
Connelly remembers the case all too well. He still sees the crime scene photos whenever he closes his eyes. He sees the bruises on the small neck, the torn nightgown, and the carpet of poppy blossoms the killer laid out on the grass for his victim.
He remembers, because the little girl was his sister.
The author’s words carried a strong sense of grief and regret. I could tell that Connelly was the epitome of a troubled police officer and that the writer had likely developed a complex, three-dimensional character. This query deserved to be put in front of an agent’s eyes.
I worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon, but the query about the Poppy Killer continued to silently call to me from the corner of my desk. I’d been putting off delivering it to Jude because I didn’t know what he meant by saying that dessert was in his office. I did know that we generated enough heat between us to send this query letter up in flames.
Jude was on the phone when I knocked on his door, his feet propped up on the desk, his arms cushioning the back of his head so he could lean as far back in his chair as he dared. He waved me in and then told the caller, “You know you’re the most beautiful flower in the garden.”