He was an extremely handsome man whose picture frequently appeared in local magazines and papers beside prominent judges and legislative officials. But photos couldn’t do him justice, film lacking the capability of capturing his commanding presence. Often she’d had to fight her instinct to look directly into his blue eyes. At the office, his every move, his every word overshadowed anyone and everything around her.
Standing close to him in the claustrophobic space, she inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, felt his radiating heat. Her trembling body instinctively angled toward him.
Mr. Trenton spoke, fracturing the quiet of the small space with his deep and powerful voice. “This morning, our firm’s biggest client, Jaxon Deveroux, arrived home from his business trip and found his wife dead from multiple stab wounds.”
“I thought you limited your practice to civil law,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. When his jaw grew rigid, she internally chastised herself for the mistake. “Sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
The silence was deafening as she waited for him to decide whether to accept her apology. Interns had been fired for less.
“No, you shouldn’t have interrupted. However, it was a valid question and, therefore, I’ll let it pass.”
Once the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into the bustling main floor lobby, and she fought to match Mr. Trenton’s brisk pace as they headed toward the parking garage. “While typically I would refer my clients to Jeffrey Reaver, the head of our criminal division, Mr. Deveroux and I have been friends for many years, and he requested me personally. Jaxon’s a very private man, but those who are in his circle are aware of certain . . . proclivities that may come up in the police’s line of questioning.”
What sort of proclivities? It pained her to remain silent.
He paused as if expecting her to screw up by asking another question. She curled the sharp edges of her nails into the flesh of her palms, the biting pain a reminder to keep her mouth shut. A wave of peace rippled through her, and her heart slowed for the first time since Mr. Trenton had requested her presence.
“He and his wife engaged in the practice of BDSM. Do you know what that is, Ms. Martin?” he asked with a slight upturn of his lips. On anyone else, she’d believe it was the beginning of a smile, but since she’d never seen Mr. Trenton smile, she couldn’t be sure what it meant.
There wasn’t a woman in the country who hadn’t heard of BDSM since the popular erotica novel hit the charts a few years back. His mention of it awoke that dormant part of her hibernating in the recesses of her mind during the light of day.
Her cheeks heated, but she kept her tone professional despite the fireworks launching between her thighs. “BDSM stands for bondage and discipline, domination and submission, sadism and masochism. It’s kinky sex.”
They reached the parking garage and climbed the concrete stairs to the second level.
“For some it is, and for others, it’s a way of life. Unfortunately, the media has a way of distorting the truth to their advantage for the sensational headlines. You remember the recent case.”
A metro-Detroit man had allegedly hired a hit man to kill his wife, but it was the fact that he’d practiced BDSM in a seedy sex dungeon that the media had latched on to, riding the frenzy caused by the popular erotica trilogy.
Kate had read the books. Twice. But in the end, she agreed with the popular opinion that BDSM fiction was nothing but romantic fantasy.
A bit breathless from her attempt to keep up with him, she was relieved to slide into the passenger seat of his Mercedes. Moments later they sped toward the highway.
Weighing the consequences against her curiosity, she decided to risk asking her boss a question. “In your opinion, should Mr. Deveroux divulge the nature of his relationship with his wife to the police?”
He tilted his head as if to think over the answer, but she didn’t doubt he’d known the answer before she’d finished asking the question. “At this point, I see no reason why he needs to say anything about it. What happens behind closed doors is none of their business unless it’s relevant to the murder. Until someone brings it up in questioning, I’d advise Jaxon to keep his sex life to himself.”
For the next few minutes, they rode in silence, and she peered out the window at Detroit’s crumbling houses. The car proceeded west to the suburbs and the view changed to a large brick wall that shielded homeowners and businesses from the sight of the expressway. They exited onto a street that led them into a recently developed upper-class neighborhood of palatial homes, strip malls, and trendy restaurants.