J.R. Ward - Envy

Except there was only one person looking at him.

Internal Affairs officer Sophia Reilly.

She was standing off to the side, and as their eyes locked, he wished they were getting together under different circumstances—again. The first time he’d been introduced to her had been because he’d corked that paparazzo.

This shit made one sucker punch look like a day at the beach.

The thing was, he’d liked her the moment he’d shaken her hand, and that first impression had only been reinforced tonight: The detective in him had so approved of her just now, as well as the way she’d looked him over, like even if he’d been bullshitting her—and he hadn’t—she would have known.

But they had to stop meeting like this. Literally.

Over at the asphalt lip of the parking lot, there was a thunch as the medics shut the double doors of the ambulance and then the vehicle backed out, taking the illumination with it. As Reilly turned to watch the departure, she was in the shadows—until she clicked on a flashlight.

Before she came back over, de la Cruz leaned into him and spoke softly: “Do you want a lawyer.”

“Why would he need a lawyer,” Bails snapped.

Veck shook his head at his buddy. He understood the guy’s loyalty, but it was a shitload more faith than he had in himself at the moment. “It’s a fair question.”

“So do you?” de la Cruz whispered.

Officer Reilly circled around the blood pool, wending in and out of the trunks and branches, small sticks snapping under her feet, the sounds loud in his ears.

She stopped in front of him. “I’m going to have follow-up questions tomorrow, but you can go home now.”

Veck narrowed his eyes. “You’re letting me go.”

“You were never in my custody, Detective.”

“And that’s it.”

“No, not at all. But you’re through here tonight.”

Veck shook his head. “Listen, Officer, that can’t be—”

“The CSI people are on the way. I don’t want you here when they go through the scene because it represents a potential compromise to their work. That clear enough for you?”

Ah. And he should have guessed. It was dark here in the woods. He could easily pick up or manipulate evidence from the ground without anyone knowing, and she’d been trying to give him a gracious way out.

She was smart, he thought.

She also happened to be beautiful: In the reflected glow of the flashlight, she was stunning in the way that only a natural, healthy woman could be—with no heavy makeup to gunk up her pores or weigh down her lids, and no greasy, slippery gloss on her mouth, she was utterly un-fake.

And that heavy dark red hair and that deep green stare weren’t exactly hard on the eyes, either.

Plus there was her take-no-shit attitude . . .

“Fair enough, Officer,” he murmured.

“Please report to the sarge’s office at eight thirty a.m. tomorrow.”

“You got it.”

As Bails muttered something under his breath, Veck prayed the bastard kept his opinions to himself. Reilly was just doing her job—and being damn professional about it. The least they could do was pay her the respect back.

Before his buddy could spout anything else, Veck clapped palms with Bails and nodded at de la Cruz. As he went to walk off, Reilly’s low, serious voice broke out through the night.

“Detective.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, Officer.”

“I’m going to have to take your gun. And your badge. And that knife holster.”

Right. Of course. “Badge is in the leather coat over there on the ground. Do you want to do the honors on my nine and strap?”

“Yes, please. And I’ll take your cell phone, too, if you don’t mind.”

As she stepped in close, he smelled her perfume. Nothing fruity or flowery or, God forbid, that vanilla shit. Nothing he could place commercially, either. Shampoo, maybe? Had she gotten the call just when she’d been stepping out of the shower?

Now, there was a picture. . . .

Wait a minute. Was he actually fantasizing about his coworker . . . five feet from a murder scene? While he was a suspect?

Wow.

Yup, that was all he had on that one.

Reilly put her flashlight in her mouth, and then her bright blue gloved hands reached forward. As he lifted his arms to help her get to his waist, a subtle tugging registered in his hips, the kind of thing that he would have felt if she’d been taking off his pants—

The electric bolt that shot down into his cock was a surprise—and Christ, he was glad that beam was flashing right at his chest and not in a southerly direction.

Man, this was so damned wrong—and unlike him. He didn’t hit on colleagues, whether they were admin assistants, fellow detectives . . . or Internal Affairs officers. Too much hassle when the inevitable end to the one-night stand came—

Dear God, where was his head at?

Not on reality, apparently.

It was almost like the magnitude of what had happened on that patch of red-stained leaves over there was so great, his brain was seeking shelter in any topic other than the giant, bloody elephant in the forest.

Then again, maybe he’d just lost his mind. Period.

“Thank you, Detective,” Reilly said as she stepped back with his weapon and leather holster. “Your phone?”

He handed it over. “You want my wallet?”

“Yes, but you can keep your driver’s license.”

When the handoffs were finished, she tacked on, “Further, I’ll ask you to remove your clothing at home, bag it, and turn it in to me tomorrow.”

“No problem. And you know where to find me,” he said, his voice gruff.

“Yes, I do.”

As they got ready to part, there was no coy duck of her chin and flash of the eyes. No hair flipping. No brush of the hip. Which, okay, would have been ridiculous under the circumstances—but he had the sense that the two of them could have been at a club by the bar and she wouldn’t have pulled any of that obvious crap anyway. Not her style.

Shit, she really did just keep getting more attractive by the minute. This kept up and he was going to end up asking her to marry him next week.

Har-har, hardy-har-har.

On that note, Veck turned away from her for the second time. And was surprised to hear her say, “You sure you don’t want a coat, Detective? I’ve got an extra flak jacket in my trunk, and it’s going to be cold on that bike of yours.”

“I’ll be fine.”

For some reason, he didn’t want to look back. Probably because of the peanut-gallery combo of de la Cruz and Bails.

Yeah. That was it.

At his BMW, he threw his leg over the seat and grabbed his helmet. He hadn’t worn the damn thing on the way here, but he needed to conserve body heat—and as he pulled it on, he half expected de la Cruz to wander over to revisit the lawyer issue. Instead, the venerable detective stayed where he was and spoke with Officer Reilly.

Bails was the one who came up. The guy was in gym clothes, his short hair spiky, his dark eyes a little aggressive—no doubt because he didn’t like Reilly taking over. “You sure you’re okay to get home?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to follow you?”

“Nah.” Likely the guy would anyway. He was just that way.

“I know you didn’t do it.”

As Veck stared at his buddy, he was tempted to unload everything—the two sides to him, the split that he had felt coming for years, the fear that what he’d worried about had finally happened. Hell, he knew he could trust the guy. He and Bails had been at the police academy together years ago, and though they’d gone their separate ways, they’d stayed tight and in touch—until Bails had recruited him to come up from Manhattan to join the Caldwell homicide team.