Sweet Seduction Shield(2)

I could sympathise.

I let a long breath of air out in a mixture of dread and resignation. My back was killing me. My knees felt bruised and over sensitive. And my nose was twitching with the need to sneeze. Dust hung in the air, swirling around my hands and up into my face as I methodically reconnected each plug into the correct wall socket. Then reaching for the plastic cable ties at my side, I made quick work of lashing the cords all together, neatly arranging them by colour and location, so they all lined up perfectly under the desk.

I'd need to vacuum later. If later actually came.

I stared at the neatly arranged cables and swallowed past a dry throat. There was no further reason for me to be kneeling under my desk when a person was waiting to talk to me in my office.

One last longing glance at my distraction and I started to shuffle backwards from out beneath my short lived haven. Oh, I was sure the cop was getting a nice view, especially when he cleared his throat again, as though in some sort of discomfort.

I stood upright, dusted what I could of the 'bunnies' off my skirt and blouse, and stretched my back, getting the kinks out of my muscles.

Then I turned to face my visitor.

Holy fuck he was cute in a bad-boy kind of way. Tall, extremely fit looking, what with the stretch of his jacket and shirt across his chest, and the snug fit of his jeans over impressive thighs. In his mid-thirties I'd guess, with curly brown hair and a fashionable goatee beard. But it was his eyes that told me I was in deep trouble. I'd always been a sucker for guys with intense brown eyes. These ones seemed bottomless. Even as I watched them caress over every inch of my body, from my slightly flushed face, to my carpet tattooed red knees, to the long length of my naked legs.

He'd undressed me with that look. As though he'd been desperate to do so from the moment he entered the room and saw me on my knees. Oh, did that realisation cause an internal reaction I had to work hard to not show.

His gaze slowly rose back to my face. It wasn't exactly reluctant, but he was definitely enjoying the view.

"How can I help you?" I asked in my usual Marie Cox fashion. Before he could answer, I started toward my side of the desk. Better to put space and an object between us. The hand sanitiser I keep in my desk drawer was out and permeating the air with its acrid bite before he even opened his mouth.

"Mrs Costello. I'm Detective Sergeant Ryan Pierce of the Auckland CIB."

Well, I'd guessed he wasn't a beat cop, seeing as he was in plain clothes. But the Criminal Investigations Bureau meant this impromptu meeting was not going to be mundane. I held his gaze, refusing to show anything other than mild curiosity, and indicated the seat across from me for him to take. Sitting before he'd even taken a step toward me, I began shuffling papers on my desk, tidying what was already tidy, in an effort to marshal my thoughts.

This could not be happening.

The Criminal Investigations Bureau was exactly the division of the Police Force I wanted to avoid the most. Those detectives who prided themselves on cleaning up New Zealand's criminal elite. A group I was unfortunately once familiar with.

But what was worse, in this nightmare unravelling before me, was the name he had used. A name I hadn't called myself for over five years. A name, no one here at Whitcomb & Associates Ltd even knew of.

My eyes skipped across the desk's surface and landed on the small framed photo off to the side. The need to reach out and grasp it reassuringly, and then follow that up with hiding it in my top desk drawer, was too great to deny. I cleared my throat, started to snake my hand out towards the picture frame and then at the last second realised what a monumental mistake that would be. The detective couldn't see the subject of the photo from where he sat, drawing his attention to it was just plain stupid.

I lifted my gaze back to his face, noting the keen and undoubtedly observant eyes, in a façade that gave nothing away. I was sure he hadn't missed a thing, but like me, he shielded his reactions from those before him. A genial and attentive man sat in front of me.

He may have been attentive, but I was guessing right now, friendly and cheerful were not emotions he felt.

"My name is Marie Cox," I said, eyes steady, face relaxed, blood and adrenaline thundering through my veins.

The detective stared at me unmoved. An unusual stand off existed across my work desk. One that if shattered could ruin more than just me.

Finally he broke first.

"I expended a lot of police hours hunting you down, Ms Cox," he said.

I didn't show a reaction at all.

"I'm part of a taskforce," he added, neither of us shifting uncomfortably in our seats, even though I knew we both were feeling it, "which successfully brought the drug lord Roan McLaren down three months ago."