Detective Long had a cute, lopsided smile. It made him almost endearing, especially with that trickle of butter running down his chin which, at any moment, would land on the lapel of his rumpled suit. Max felt no compunction about letting it happen. Brown was not one of her favorite colors. Maybe he’d have to get a new one.
“You know, Detective, you really ought to wear pink.”
He looked at her dumbfounded, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “Pink?”
She waved a hand. “Well, not pink-pink. More like a rose. Dusty rose. For the shirt, I mean. And a blue suit to go with it. A pink-and-blue striped tie would do the trick, I think.” Something fluttered through her stomach at the thought of dressing him, or undressing him, as the case may be. “Of course, if that’s too much for you, teal would do nicely.”
My, aren’t we color-conscious today? And all this from a woman who’s stuck in black and white. Cameron’s snide comment drifted through her mind.
At least he hadn’t connected the color thing with Wendy.
That was exactly my point, darling.
Max ignored him, broke off the tip of a chicken wing, then chewed on the crunchy end. “I love fried chicken. Of course, I’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow, but it sure tastes good.”
She hadn’t eaten like this since...God, since she was a teenager, and then she’d ended up with her finger down her throat to get rid of the stuff.
DeWitt Long didn’t say a word. And he was blushing. Could cops actually do that?
Max figured she’d stunned him and decided to give the conversation a jump-start. “So, Detective, I’m sure you don’t have time for a social visit.” She tried keeping her voice low, but with the whoosh of the cars along the curbside and the chatter of a multitude of office workers out for their nooners, Long had to lean closer and hold his hand up to his ear. She restated for him. “I said, why don’t you come clean on why you really asked me here?”
Gosh, he smelled good. Something musky and very male. Had he been wearing aftershave yesterday?
“Ma’am, you’re a helluva lot more direct than most people.”
“Well, Remy did tell me you’d try pumping me.”
The detective choked.
“For information, I mean.” Her explanation didn’t help. His face turned a dangerous beet red. She wondered if she should loosen his tie for him.
God, he really was choking! On a chicken bone. The Heimlich maneuver wasn’t her forte. She clapped him on the back and felt better when his eyes started to water and his breathing returned to normal. For a moment, Max thought he might actually be stifling a laugh.
He wiped at his eyes. “And what information exactly does he think I’ll pump out of you?”
She licked her thumb and index finger and noted that he was noticing the action. “Probably that you think he killed Wendy Gregory.”
A breeze ruffled his buzz cut like freshly mowed grass. “That what you think?”
What she thought wasn’t the point. What Detective Long knew was. “Don’t you guys always look at the husband first, not the employer?”
He shook his head. “Just who’s asking the questions here?”
They both still wore their sunglasses against the bright noon sun. Max was glad. Sunglasses hid all manner of intent. They also hid little white lies. “You’re in charge, Detective.”
Her stomach rolled ominously, but she wouldn’t waste the last bite before tossing the gnawed bone into the cardboard box. Across the street, the sun glinted off the windshield of a car and almost blinded her despite the dark of her shades. She blinked the spots away, and just as they cleared, she saw him in the window of Taco Bell.
The image was indistinct, but she knew. The man from the airport—Nicholas Drake. Watching her. A light changed and another wave of cars blazed past. In the brief break, he’d disappeared into the body of the restaurant. She was sure it was him. Positively. Maybe.
“What’s the matter? You’re pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She reached for a wet wipe. “Trust me, the last thing on earth that would unnerve me is a ghost.” Max squeaked as her empty butter packet fell into her lap. “You’re damn lucky that didn’t leave a mark on my black pants. I just had them cleaned.”
Cameron laughed from somewhere near the fully laden trash can.
“Pardon?”
“I was talking to myself, Detective.”
“Sure you’re all right?”
Get used to it, pal. She’s a weirdo. Even if she wants to jump your bones bad.
Max pursed her lips and kept her more choice comebacks to herself. “Look how clumsy I am. I swear I don’t touch a thing, it just happens. Okay, Detective, what did you want to ask me?”
“Need your help.”
A gaggle of high school girls twittered by. Max waited until they were gone. “I gave you my prints and Wendy’s appointment book. What more do you want?”
His lips curved ever so slightly, just at the corners, and she knew exactly what more he might want. Were detectives allowed to flirt like this? Except that it wasn’t flirting. It was...weird chemistry, or physics, same wavelength kind of stuff. Despite the heat of the sun, a shiver traveled her arms, and yes, there was that erotic bead of warmth between her legs.