In the bathroom, amidst chattering female voices, she splashed her face, then put her hands under the hot stream until the chill faded. She shouldn’t have touched him. Her skin felt clammy.
She wasn’t even close to cracking his alibi. But she had access to him now. That was a damn good start.
Leaving the restroom, she stopped a moment at the end of the passageway leading to the dance floor. Alone at their table on the other side of the bar, Hal stood out like a city-slicker in a Brooks Brothers suit. He grimaced when the DJ started the Macarena. Would the life cycle of that dance song never end?
“Get rid of him.” A voice right behind her, the man’s warm breath against her hair was sweet with peppermints. Like Cameron’s. The scent turned her inside out before it was eclipsed by an angry swirl of cigarette smoke despite the fact that Cameron said he’d quit.
She felt the guy at her back, his husky voice beating through her body as a fever raced across her skin. He rested warm hands on her hips beneath her jacket. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. All she wanted to do was lean back until his erection nestled between her cheeks. She didn’t doubt he had one.
She knew who he was without turning around.
Nicholas Drake. Nickie of Monday night, Boise Flight 452, and the backseat of a nice, shiny new car. Wendy Gregory’s lover.
Quite possibly her killer.
Just what the hell was he doing at the Round Up watching her with the dead woman’s husband?
Chapter Eight
Dancing with Nicholas Drake was suicide.
“You’re holding me way too tight, Nickie.”
He didn’t let go. His thighs, molded to hers, robbed her of her objectivity. So did the hard-on wedged between their bodies. Yep, she’d been right about that. His scent, masculine soap and the lingering snap of mint, made her throat dry. The aromatic reminder of Cameron was an unfair advantage. The only saving grace was the knowledge that her reactions belonged to Wendy.
Undulating bodies bumped against them. Keith Urban sang a bone-melting ballad. Nicholas Drake’s hips did a slow slip-slide against her. The aroused ridge forced a shiver deep inside her.
To hell with cracking Hal Gregory’s alibi.
Max had gotten rid of Hal in three minutes flat. She’d patted her purse where she’d stowed his card, promised to call the moment she heard anything titillating, and vowed to herself to somehow get herself invited to Wendy’s funeral. Once the body was released.
It was a morbid ploy, but all was fair in flushing out a killer, even behaving in poor taste.
So bye-bye Hal, for now.
Then she’d ended up on the dance floor with Nick.
Her lower body deliciously vacuum-packed to his as they danced, Nick pulled back to stare down at her with pale blue eyes. “Why did you call me Nickie?”
“It was in Wendy’s planner. Monday night. 7:59 p.m. 452. I’m sure the police are looking for Nickie. I’m not sure they know who he is yet.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Fear? No, not from this man. More like a banked fire that would turn into a raging inferno with a moment’s notice. The bump in his nose from a long-ago break proved he’d lost control at least once. Volatility, however, did not make him a killer.
He ignored her implied threat, took their bodies together into a sweet dip as the song ended and another bump-n-rub, slow-dancing tune started. “And you just naturally associated the name with me, a man you saw at the airport?”
A man whose magnetism left her breathless even from a distance, his current proximity was driving her slowly insane. And yet...she seemed strangely detached, as if, while the physical sensations belonged to her, the emotions did not.
They most definitely belonged to Wendy.
But now wasn’t the time to analyze. Max forged ahead with her probing, trying to catch him off guard. “So you did notice me there? Don’t forget it was the long-term lot. And you were staring at the crime scene of a woman you...knew.”
His eyes narrowed. Again, he masked that quick flash of something.
“Then, of course, there was the Taco Bell two blocks from the police station.”
His lips smiled. The sentiment did not reach his pale eyes. “I thought you’d spotted me. You forgot that you’ve seen me outside of Hackett’s, too.”
She hadn’t noticed him, and the knowledge sent a shiver along her nerve endings. She didn’t mind being watched; she just wanted to know when it was being done. “Why have you been following me?”
“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, ma’am. I don’t even know your name.”
“You don’t need to know it. And you didn’t answer.”
“Why have you been following me?”
“On the contrary, I’ve been trailing Wendy.”
“She’s dead.” Cold, flat, angry, but not self-pitying like Hal.
“That’s why someone needs to speak for her, to tell everyone what happened that night.”
His arms tightened across her back. She almost bit her lip. There was great strength in those arms. Liquid heat stole through her extremities. God, she was melting.
You sound like the Wicked Witch of the West.