Shades of Passion

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DEMARCO STARED AT THE elegantly dressed woman with long black hair and a thin waist raise herself on tiptoes on a rickety chair, trying to hang a plant on a hook. He’d met Anna Wong only recently, when he’d checked out various crisis clinics in the city to determine whether Cann and the second murder victim, now identified as Hastings, had both sought counseling at the same place. She’d been able to confirm that, indeed, both men had made appointments at her clinic, the Golden Gate Crisis Center.

At the time, she’d been professional and pulled together, not a hair out of place. Now, with her guard down, Anna Wong seemed infinitely more approachable. She finally got the plant hooked up, but had leaned too far forward. She wobbled as she tried to get her balance. Despite the serious nature of his visit, he couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked standing before him and that she possessed what was the most beautiful ass he’d ever seen.

And she was about to fall right on it.

Sure enough, her foot slipped on the chair and she squealed in alarm.

DeMarco grabbed her just as the chair teetered and slid out from under her.

Wow. She felt good. Smelled good.

“Whoa. Thank you!” the woman said.

As he gently deposited her on her feet, she turned to look at who had saved her. Her brows lifted in surprise. “Detective DeMarco. How nice to see you again. Um, did you want to talk to me about something?”

He realized she was standing on her own two feet, but his hands were still around her waist and his face was inches from hers. “Oh, sorry,” he said, lifting his hands off her body and holding them up in the air, palms facing her.

She took a step back. Her silk blouse was rumpled and one of the buttons had come undone, but he wasn’t about to call attention to that detail. Not when the gape gave him a glimpse of soft, rounded flesh behind the silk. She brushed her hands down, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in a tight-fitting skirt. Then she walked to her desk and sat down.

“So...what can I do for you? As I told you before, Mr. Cann and Mr. Hastings were both seen at this clinic, but I can’t disclose specifics about who they saw or what they talked about.”

Damn, but in addition to a smoking body, did she ever have fine eyes, too. Almond-shaped, hot-cocoa-chocolate-colored. Bottomless. And she was staring expectantly at him.

“Actually, I’m not here to talk about either of those men. I’m—uh—I’m actually not here in an official capacity.”

“Oh. Well, please. Have a seat and tell me why you are here.”

He cleared his throat. Suddenly felt like bolting from the room. But the steady way she stared at him, a slight smile of encouragement on her lips, caused his racing heart to slow and his nerves to settle.

“The reason I’m here is...” He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. Looked around the room. Then finally met her gaze again. “Well, this is a crisis center. And I’m in crisis. I need help.”