Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"Could you run it now?" asked Adam.

"It'll take some time."

Adam glanced at M. J. She nodded. "We'll wait," he said. Grace called to another tech: "Val, can you check that box of requests from the state? We're going to run a STAT on Xenia Vargas." She looked at Adam. "Are you sure you want to hang around, Mr. Q.? This is going to be real boring."

"We'll be up in my office," said Adam. "Call us there."

"Okie doke. But if I was dressed like that -" She nodded at their evening clothes. "I'd be out dancing."

Adam smiled. "We'll keep it in mind."

By the time they reached Adam's office, which was upstairs and down a long corridor, M. J.'s sore feet were staging a protest against high heels and she was silently cursing every cobbler in Italy. The minute she hobbled through the office door, she pulled off her shoes, and her stockinged feet sank into velvety carpet. Nice. Plush . Slowly she gazed around the room, impressed by her surroundings. It wasn't just an office; it was more like a second home, with a couch and chairs, bookshelves, a small refrigerator.

"I was wondering how long you'd last in those shoes," Adam said with a laugh.

"When Grace mentioned dancing, I felt like crying." She sat down gratefully on the couch. "I confess, I'm the socks and sneakers type."

"What a shame. You look good in heels."

"My feet would beg to differ." Groaning, she reached down and began to massage her instep.

"What your feet need," he said, "is a little pampering." He sat down beside her on the couch and patted his lap in invitation. "Allow me."

"Allow you to what?"

"Make up for that long walk down that long hallway."

Laughing, she rose from the couch. "It won't work, Quantrell. It takes more than a foot rub to soften up my brain."

He gave a sigh of disappointment. "She doesn't trust me."

"Don't take it personally. When it comes to men, I'm just an old skeptic."

"Ah. Deep-rooted fears. An unreliable father?"

"I didn't have a father." She wandered over to the bookcase, made a slow survey of the spines. An eclectic collection, she noted, arranged in no particular order. Philosophy and physics. Fiction and pharmacology. Over the bookcase hung several framed diplomas, strictly Ivy League.

"So what happened to your father?" he asked.

"I wouldn't know." She turned and looked at him. "I don't even know his last name."

Adam's eyebrow twitched up in surprise. That was his only reaction, but it was a telling one.

"I know he had light brown hair. Green eyes," said M. J. "I know he drove a nice car. And he had money, which was what my mother desperately needed at the time. So…" She smiled. "Here I am. Green eyes and all."

She expected to see shock, perhaps pity in his gaze, but these was neither. The look he gave her was one of utter neutrality.

"So you see," she said, "I'm not exactly to the manner born. Though my mother used to claim she had noble Spanish blood. But then, Mama said a lot of crazy things toward the end."

"Then she's…" He paused delicately.

"Dead. Seven years."

He tilted up his head, the next question plain in his eyes.

"Mama would say these really bizarre things," explained M. J. "And she'd get headaches every morning. I was in my last year of medical school. I was the one who diagnosed the brain tumor."

Adam shook his head. "That must have been terrible."

"It wasn't the diagnosis that was so wrenching. It was the part afterwards. Waiting for the end. I spent a lot of time at Hancock General. Learned to royally despise the place. Found out I couldn't stand being around sick people." She shook her head and laughed. "Imagine that."

"So you chose the morgue."

"It's quiet. It's contained."

"A hiding place."

Anger darted through her, but she suppressed it. After all, what he'd said was true. The morgue was a hiding place, from all those painfully sloppy emotions one found in a hospital ward.

She said, simply, "It suits me," and turned away. Her gaze settled on the refrigerator. "You wouldn't happen to have anything edible in there, would you?" she asked. "The wine's going straight to my head."

He rose from the couch and went to the refrigerator. "I usually stock a sandwich or two, for those impromptu lunch meetings. Here we are." He produced two plastic-wrapped luncheon plates. "Let's see. Roast beef or… roast beef. What a choice." Apologetically he handed her a plate. "Afraid it can't match up to the mayor's benefit supper."

"That's all right. I didn't pay for my ticket anyway."

He smiled. "Neither did I."

"Oh?"

"It was Isabel's ticket. She's a big fan of Mayor Sampson."

"I can't imagine why." M. J. unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. "I think he's Albion's Titanic."

"How so?"

"Just look at South Lexington. Sampson would like to pretend it doesn't exist. He caters entirely to the more suburban areas. Bellemeade and beyond. The inner city? Forget it. He doesn't want to hear about the Jane Does and Nicos Biagis." She went back to the couch and sat down, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her.

He sat down as well. Not too close, she noted with a mingling of both relief and disappointment, but sedately apart, like any courteous host.

"To be honest," he admitted, "I'm not a fan of Sampson's either. But Isabel needed an escort."

"And you didn't have any better offers for the evening?"

"No." He picked up a slice of beef, and his straight white teeth bit neatly into the pink meat. "Not until you turned up."

M. J. paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. His gaze was much too searching, too intimate for comfort. She didn't trust him; more important, she didn't trust herself. But those primitive threads of desire were spinning between them all the same, drawing her toward what could only be a mistake. Lord knew, she had never in her life felt such temptation.

She set the plate down on the coffee table and slowly wiped her fingers on the napkin. "You can flirt all you want with me," she said. "It's not going to change things. I still have a job to do. Questions to be answered."

"And suspects to be suspicious of."

"Yes."

"It doesn't bother me, being a suspect. Because I'm not guilty of anything. Neither is my company."

"Still, the name Cygnus does keep popping up in all sorts of places."

"What do you want me to say? Confess that I'm manufacturing some secret drug in the basement? Selling it on the streets for a profit? Or maybe we can come up with a truly diabolical scheme, say, I'm single-handedly trying to solve Albion's crime problem by killing off the junkies. The ultimate drug rehab! And that's why I was at the mayor's benefit. Because Sampson's in on it too!" He cocked his head and smiled, revealing yet again those beautiful white teeth of his. "Come now, M. J.," he said, leaning towards her. "Doesn't that sound the slightest bit ridiculous?"

He did make it sound ridiculous, and she didn't appreciate the insult. "I don't discount any possibilities," she said.

"Even wild and crazy plots?"

" Is it so wild and crazy?"

He was moving closer, but she was too stubborn to give up an inch of territory on that couch. She held her ground, even as his hand reached up to touch her face, even as he gently stroked her cheek.

Even as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

"If you knew me," he whispered against her mouth, "you wouldn't ask these absurd questions."

She felt an exhilirating rush of desire, felt it leap through her veins and flood her face with its warmth. Together they tumbled to the cushions. At once he settled on top of her, his weight driving her deep into the couch, his mouth closing over hers. This isn't supposed to happen , she thought, as her arms circled around his neck, tugging him hard against her mouth. He fumbled at his jacket, trying to peel it off and at the same time keep kissing her. She opened her eyes and caught a dizzy glimpse of his fair hair in disarray, of the circle of lamplight playing on the ceiling. What am I doing ? she thought. Making love in an office. Yielding on a business couch .