“I meant for you,” she breathed, then patted her taut tummy. “I’ve already eaten.”
The guy was tall—at least six feet—and I pegged him as a cop immediately as he assumed the tight stride of an officer on alert. Also, I could see his badge winking on his belt and a gun belt nestled against his waist. (Hey, if my instincts aren’t as honed as they should be, at least my powers of observation are.)
His head was cocked and a U-shaped curl of glossy black hair fell over his forehead. I balled my hands into tight fists as suddenly all I could think about was running my fingers through that luscious head of wavy hair.
The cop’s eyes locked on mine, and I sucked in an excited breath, and felt myself smooth my wild hair—and curse myself for another day of slept-late ponytail style. I straightened the hem on my black pencil skirt and dabbed on some lip gloss before I realized that I was primping.
“You love him,” Nina hissed, her long black hair falling over one angular shoulder. She grinned at me, her eyes coal black and deep set, her mouth open, tongue playing with one razor sharp fang. “You so love him,” she sang, twisting a red pen in her pale, slender fingers.
I rolled my eyes and fought to keep my grin welcoming and professional as the zombie at the front of the line frowned, checking her pockets for her paperwork.
“It was here a moment ago,” she groaned. “I know it was. Ooh!”
“Pardon me,” the cop said, his voice smooth and deep. “May I? I’ll just be a minute.” His dark eyebrows rose up kindly, and it seemed even the zombie went weak-kneed and stepped aside, offering her place in line.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I can’t seem to find my papers anyway. Sometimes I lose my head when it’s not screwed on tight,” she drooled, her milky white eyes locked on him.
“Thank you.” The cop nodded to the zombie and then turned to me. “Hello,” he said, inclining his head of dark curls toward me. “Do you know where I can find Mr. Sampson?”
I had an image of myself climbing up onto my desk, covering the cop’s chiseled jaw and high, rose-colored cheeks with kisses, my fingers tangled in his mass of silky dark curls as my body pressed against his, fitting into the curves of his chest, of his trim, taut stomach, our hearts beating passionately as one….
Instead, I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I smacked it shut, blinking dumbly into the cop’s kind—but confused—face.
Nina shoved me, her bloodless hands cold on my arm. “Sophie works for Mr. Sampson,” she said. “She can take you right to him. She was just going there right now as a matter of fact. Weren’t you, Sophie?”
I tried to glare at Nina, but she was already engrossed with a hobgoblin who was slobbering all over her desk.
“Yes,” I finally forced, “I can take you to see Mr. Sampson.”
I looked up into the cop’s beautiful blue eyes, and although I had no idea what swooning was, I was pretty sure I was doing it. I started to think of the two of us, hands joined, spinning in a meadow somewhere while the theme to Love Story played in the background.
“Miss?” The cop blinked at me, and I felt my face flush.
I did a mental head slap and decided that I really needed a hobby. And a boyfriend.
The cop frowned and leaned closer. “Are you okay?”
That’s the thing about redheads. That’s the thing about having milky-white skin. Every time I blushed or flushed even faintly, I’d go tomato red from my toes to my eyebrows. Think third-degree sunburn. Not exactly the cute, pink-faced tinge of an embarrassed brunette.
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
I took a few deep breaths to steady myself before going to join the cop on the other side of the partition.
“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. The top of my head barely cleared his shoulder and he stooped a little bit.
I took his hand—it was large and cool, his palm rough—and shook. “Um, hello. Hi. I’m Sophie. Sophie Lawson,” I said, pulling out all the stops in my impressive vocabulary.
“Are you Mr. Sampson’s secretary?”
I raised one annoyed eyebrow. “I’m Mr. Sampson’s administrative assistant.”
“Oh”—he raised both palms placatingly—“right, of course.” His sinful eyes traveled to my vacated frontcounter spot.
“I was just filling in,” I said quickly.
“Right,” the cop said. “Not really work for an administrative assistant.” His grin—framed by full lips that made my mouth water—was wide and a little playful and just the tiniest bit smug.
“And you are?” I said, extracting my hand and crossing my arms.
“Hayes. Detective Parker Hayes. Police Chief Oliver”—Hayes’s blue eyes slid skyward—“sent me down here.” He grinned again. “I didn’t even know here existed.”