I nodded. Thoughts of the morgue effectively cooled the warmth he’d stoked in me. I nibbled my lower lip.
“I’ll be with you, remember?” His voice had softened.
“I know. I just hope I don’t faint and make an ass out of myself.”
He pulled into the deck and took his usual spot. He turned his sapphire blues on me and reached up to touch my cheek, the softest graze of his fingers.
I was on fire again. My lips parted and my chest was suddenly tight. He was like a syringe of adrenaline plugged right into my vein.
He held my gaze. “I would never let you fall. I’ll catch you every time.”
I believed him, believed every word. We leaned into each other, the air suddenly heavy with everything that had been simmering under the surface. He hesitated, just a moment away from my lips.
“Say you want me to kiss you.” He slid his fingers down my cheek to my neck. They were like brands, burning me with the most enjoyable possession.
His touch wasn’t enough. His lips wouldn’t be enough. I wanted more than kissing. I wanted all of him. He stroked his fingers along my collarbone, moving my cardigan out of the way as he went.
“Just say it, Caroline.” It was a growl, the fire in his eyes mirroring my own.
“I want . . . ,” I sighed as his fingers traveled lower, stroking the swells of my breasts.
He smiled, a wolf about to enjoy his prey.
No. I leaned away. My body screamed for me to stop, to bring his fingers back. I wouldn’t. He was gaming me. I was falling for it. I refused. The lust cleared enough for me to see I’d almost lost to him.
“Caroline.” His gaze strayed to my lips and lower, taking in the places on my skin he’d lit on fire with his touch.
“No, Mr. Granade. Purely professional, remember?” I couldn’t keep the breathiness from my voice, but I could open the car door and step out. He shadowed me on his side. I caught the slightest movement, as if he were adjusting himself in his pants, before I took off toward the elevators.
He followed, both of our briefcases slung over his shoulder. I held my hand out, silently asking for my bag. He didn’t give it to me, just stared down at me with an intensity that threatened to make my blood bubble over again.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped on and turned, putting my hand up. “I think you should take the next one.”
His eyes opened wide. “What?”
“You heard me.” I stepped back, so the doors could close, but kept my palm up, warding him off.
He took another step forward, like a bull ready to charge.
I knew if he got on the elevator with me, I’d cave. The thought of his hands on me, his body pinning me to the wall, made my panties stick to me. I gave him my best stern look even as his eyes burned into mine.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed. I’d cockblocked myself, pretty much. I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Game face, Caroline. Game fucking face.” I pep-talked myself in the reflective doors. My mind was on board; my damp panties, not so much.
If things kept going like this, I would be begging him to kiss me by the end of the day.
Chapter Ten
Caroline
The next day, Wash and Mr. Palmer were booked for a partner meeting in the morning, so I decided to check out Ms. Barnett’s lead on the prostitute who was taken to St. Paul’s Hospital after the violent episode at the halfway house. I called NOPD and talked to their records clerk. He didn’t have anything other than a police report on the incident.
He faxed me a copy, but the report was bare except for the date and time of the call and the officers responding. The victim was listed as a Jane Doe. I phoned the hospital, hoping for answers. After a long phone call, mostly spent on hold, got me nowhere thanks to HIPAA, I decided to go do some in-person sleuthing.
I gathered my things and walked passed the glass-encased conference room where Wash and Mr. Palmer sat with their accountant. Wash raised an eyebrow, but I kept moving. He didn’t have to hold my hand every step of the way. I stopped by the courthouse, getting a stamped subpoena to serve on the hospital to avoid any more privacy red tape. With official documents in hand, I was ready to pounce on St. Paul’s records department.
The facility was in a dingy part of town, and its four-story façade appeared moldy and gray in the morning light. I entered and followed the signs leading toward the business offices. The entire place smelled like bleach with an undercurrent of something foul. I focused on the bleach as I turned a corner and passed through the administrative section.
At the end of a long, echoing corridor, I came to a window with a sign above it marked records.
The older woman behind the pane of glass glanced over her glasses at me. “Help you?”