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Silk Confessions
Joanne Rock
As a hotshot detective, Wes Shaw thinks he's seen it all–until he meets the luscious Tempest Boucher. She's a blend of artistic sensuality and no-nonsense practicality that he can't resist. Too bad he suspects one of her companies of being a front for an illegal sex ring…and possibly murder. Now he has to wonder if his pursuit of her is for the sake of the case or for something very personal.Tempest has always lived by the rules. So to find herself the subject of an intense investigation by one sexy cop has sparked all kinds of rebellious impulses in her. Soon his interrogations lead to intimate confessions across the sheets…and even hotter explorations!



“So sue me for having a prurient streak.”
Tempest had so not been flirting with Wes.
Had she?
Forcing herself to consider the notion, she wondered if her sexual impulses could conspire to act without her explicit permission. What if her artistic persona and businesswoman facade hid a decadent and determined inner seductress?
Frustrated with the undeniable attraction she felt for a man she probably had nothing in common with, she forged ahead. “Look, I’m sorry if it seemed like I was coming on to you. The dating profiles happened to intrigue me.”
“So you’re saying your sudden interest in threesomes didn’t have a damned thing to do with me?”
“Correct.”
Wes grinned. As slow, sexy, I’m-going-to-have-you grin that sent a sensual shiver down her spine. “Good. Because I’m not the kind of guy who likes to share.”



Dear Reader,
As I thought about what I wanted to write for my ninth Harlequin Blaze release, I kept thinking about my very first two Harlequin Blaze novels. Both stories—Silk, Lace & Videotape (Blaze #26) and In Hot Pursuit (Blaze #48)—took place in New York City, with cop heroes working in the same NYPD precinct in Manhattan. I love glittering, glitzy New York for its one-of-a-kind personality. I also truly admire the nobility of men and women who are called to serve and protect. So as I thought about a way to bring a sexy, suspenseful story to the page, I naturally decided to revisit a place teeming with steamy potential for Silk Confessions, the first in my ongoing WEST SIDE CONFIDENTIAL miniseries. Wesley Shaw is on the trail of a killer, but first he’ll have to get past a sizzling suspect and all the mayhem she leaves in her wake.
I hope you enjoy the new series as much as I loved writing it! And keep your eye on Wes’s partner, Vanessa Torres. Her story will be coming in May 2005. Until then, visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases.
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock

Silk Confessions
Joanne Rock


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader,
An Evening To Remember… Those words evoke all kinds of emotions and memories. How do you plan a romantic evening with your guy that will help you get in touch with each other on every level?
Start with a great dinner that you cook together. Be sure to light several candles and put fresh flowers on the table. Enjoy a few glasses of wine and pick out your favorite music to set the mood. After dinner take the time to really talk to each other. Hold hands and snuggle on the sofa in front of the fireplace. And maybe take a few minutes to read aloud selected sexy scenes from your favorite Harlequin Blaze novel. After that, anything can happen….
That’s just one way to have an evening to remember. There are so many more. Write and tell us how you keep the spark in your relationship. And don’t forget to check out our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.
Sincerely,
Birgit Davis-Todd
Executive Editor
For Pam Hopkins, a wonderful agent,
a patient listener and fearless champion of my dreams!
Thank you so much for your support.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

1
TEMPEST BOUCHER had a multimillion dollar corporation to run, a kickboxing class to attend, a board of executives in upheaval and a lecture waiting to be written for a finance seminar she’d promised to give at New York University in a few weeks. But every last bit of it was going to have to wait since Days of Our Lives was on in five minutes.
“Eloise!” Juggling her ten-speed bike and the dog leash as she searched for the keys to her building’s front door, Tempest whistled to her two-year-old German shepherd. Her spoiled pet seemed utterly unaware of the need to hurry as she gave her best poor-hungry-me look to a corner pretzel vendor in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. Thanks to a new construction site three buildings over, West 18th had suddenly become a prime location for anyone pushing a food cart.
Oblivious to Eloise’s irritated owner, the hot-pretzel man tossed the conniving canine a treat. Only then did Eloise deign to obey commands and follow Tempest through the front door. So much for obedience school training.
Tempest grumbled as she repositioned the bike for the trudge up three flights of stairs. She only indulged her soap opera habit on Fridays, for crying out loud. Couldn’t Eloise fulfill her inner panhandler on any other day of the week?
Determined to wring some fun—and some sense of normalcy—out of a life overflowing with responsibilities, Tempest had made a New Year’s resolution to start living her own life this year. Not every day was her own, of course. After her father’s unexpected death eight months ago, the task of overseeing day-to-day operations at Boucher Enterprises had fallen on her shoulders as temporary CEO, taking up most of her time.
But one day a week—Friday—could be hers. For two months now, she had been spending the weekends at the new studio apartment in Chelsea, a rundown and wonderfully normal place where none of her neighbors had noticed the daughter of eccentric corporate scion Ray Boucher in their midst.
And that was just the way Tempest wanted it.
She’d taken so much pride in finding the space on her own and paying for it out of a budget from her meager income as a sculptor. In fact, budgeting a life in Manhattan on a small income took as much financial savvy as running Boucher Enterprises. Possibly more, since the family corporation had a fleet of accountants and financial analysts whenever she needed a business consultation, whereas she had no help with her personal finances. Unless she categorized Eloise’s begging on the streets as “help.”
Hustling the last few steps to her apartment door, Tempest could already hear the opening bars of music for her soap opera in her mind.
“Like sand through the hourglass…”
Days of Our Lives reminded her to slow down. Enjoy herself. The sand through the hourglass had become her personal transition moment where she left behind Tempest the heiress, who had a schedule so packed she needed—good God—an administrative assistant. This was her time to be Tempest the woman who was passionate about sculpting, soap operas and saving her pennies for a future that wouldn’t include running the family company.
But as she moved to put her keys in the lock, she realized the door was already slightly open. Had the superintendent finally decided to fix her broken shower?
Sure that had to be it, Tempest chose to let Eloise go first, just in case. Setting her ten-speed on the landing outside her door, Tempest motioned to the dog. Perhaps feeling compliant after her bonus lunchtime feeding, the shepherd dutifully nudged the door open with her snout.
And revealed Tempest’s tiny haven, trashed beyond recognition.

NYPD DETECTIVE WESLEY SHAW didn’t normally pay any attention to the calls taken by other officers at his precinct on West 20th, but as he meandered past a throng of desks to start his day, a name slowly repeated by a rookie cop caused a flash of recognition.
“Did you just say Tempest Boucher?” Wes leaned down into Carl Esposito’s line of sight, his cop radar blaring an alert.
Ignoring him, Carl continued to copy down information being given to him over the phone.
Wrenching around to peer above the rookie’s shoulder, Wes experienced the rush of instinct that always prickled inside whenever he had a good lead—a professional thrill for the chase that he hadn’t enjoyed during the two years since his first partner had gone missing. He’d been functioning on autopilot for so damn long, the electric rush was as unexpected as it was welcome.
He’d been coming up empty on a murder case for a week until he’d connected the victim to an online dating service two days ago. And although he hadn’t been able to track down anyone at MatingGame.com, he had discovered the business was one of many owned by the successful Manhattan-based conglomerate, Boucher Enterprises.
Seeing Tempest Boucher’s name surface in his precinct so soon after his discovery couldn’t be coincidence.
“I’ll take it.” Wes snagged Carl’s notes as the officer hung up the phone, determined to follow any lead that gave him the feeling his old partner Steve had called the cop “buzz.” Better than your run-of-the-mill Budweiser high, the cop buzz hit your system with the kind of adrenaline surge that solved cases and caught bad guys.
Highly addictive stuff. And Wes had ached for it like a junkie for twenty-four godforsaken months. No way would he let it pass him by now.
“You sure?” Carl reached for his jacket. “I live two blocks from there. I can ask some of the locals if they’ve seen anything.”
Wes was already halfway out the door. “Send a patrol car to meet me. I’ve been meaning to talk to this woman anyway.” He shoved through the double doors into the afternoon gloom when he remembered he needed to inform his new partner.
Yeah, new. Vanessa would love that one. She’d been on his back like a bossy sister to pull himself together ever since they’d been paired up eighteen months ago. Jogging back inside, he shouted to Carl. “When Vanessa gets in, do me a favor and tell her where I am.”
Ten minutes later, Wes arrived at an address that didn’t look anything like the sort of elite building a filthy-rich real estate heiress ought to own. A patrol car already sat out front, attracting some attention from the locals. A few rubberneckers bought hot pretzels from a nearby vendor as if to settle in for any hints of news about what might have happened in the run-down, ten-story building.
Despite New Yorkers’ reputation for minding their own business, Wes had yet to see any signs of the phenomenon in nine years on the force.
Making quick work of the stairs, he hit the third floor in no time. A bicycle leaned forgotten in the hall while a woeful-looking black-and-brown German shepherd stood guard at the half-open door to apartment number 35. A skinny old woman clad in a blue-and-yellow floral housecoat watched over the proceedings from number 39, but other than that, the third floor remained quiet.
Pausing to gain the approval of the shepherd, Wes scratched the dog’s ears before following a dull hum of voices from inside the airy studio apartment. Light spilled in from floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a profound mess of strewn clothing, plants dumped out of their containers and piles of broken statuary. Two uniformed patrol officers were on the scene—one who knelt in the rubble taking fingerprints off some broken glasses and the other who stood near the windows taking notes as he spoke with a petite brunette.
Wes recognized Tempest Boucher from the newspapers. She possessed eye-popping curves and seemed to be rocking back and forth on her heels, perhaps an attempt to calm herself since she looked a little shaken. Jittery.
With creamy pale skin and chin-length brown curls, she wore running shoes with a sleekly cut crimson pantsuit that appeared tailor-made for her lush hourglass figure. Something about her extravagant curves and full red lips brought to mind the cartoon image of Betty Boop, except the apartment owner lacked the wide-eyed look of an ingénue. Her tawny gaze was sharp and assessing.
And preoccupied with him as he bent to retrieve a broken piece of statuary.
“Ms. Boucher?” He noted her stare strayed to the broken piece of clay in his hand. Peering down at the object, Wes discerned a ridge along the top of the foot-long shaft of clay. Only then did he realize the piece he’d recovered was actually a penis.
Reacting on pure male instinct, he dropped the busted piece back on the couch in all due haste. No cop buzz in the world seemed potent enough to make him seek out clues that damn badly.
“Please, call me Tempest.” A hint of amusement fled through her honey gaze, although she didn’t halt her nervous rocking. She reached for a choker around her neck, a band of silver-gray velvet with a big chunk of smoky quartz crystal dangling just below the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.
“Detective Wesley Shaw.” He reached to shake her hand and realized he was eager to touch her. An irritating thought when she might be mixed up in something dangerous. Deadly, even.
Nodding to the note-taking officer, Wes silently took over the questioning. While he sympathized with this woman, if she were truly innocent, he couldn’t allow her to bamboozle one of the new guys just because of her famous face and obvious sex appeal. Skinny Paris Hilton had nothing on the more elusive—and deliciously curvy—Tempest Boucher.
“Would you like to sit down?” He gestured to the couch strewn with sketchbook drawings of hands, feet, arms and—damnation—more penises.
While Wes knew he had no business judging her on the contents of her ransacked apartment, the cop in him couldn’t help but wonder if the uptown heiress used this downtown address as a love nest. Or something even more sordid.
Her connection to his murder case linked her with some very unsavory characters.
“Sure.” She sprang into action, brushing aside the smashed figures and hastily scooping up the anatomical drawings. “Have a seat.”
A shiver passed through him as her thumb skimmed the base of a pencil-and-ink penis. A wholly inappropriate reaction. How the hell long had it been since he’d had a woman in his bed if he was getting turned on at work?
He would have made a mental note to call his girlfriend of the month, except that this was one of the many months he didn’t happen to have one. In fact, if memory served, he’d only managed to accomplish the girlfriend-of-the-month feat twice in the last year and a half. Hell of a track record.
Since he’d always sucked at relationships—something he sorely regretted telling his new partner—Vanessa liked to hassle him about one month being the longest he could keep a woman in his life. Damned if she hadn’t been dead-on accurate. Wes didn’t bother to inform her that he’d had a long-term interlude back in the day—before his first partner went undercover and never came back out. His job and his personal life had both pretty much fizzled since then. Even more so after they’d finally found Steve’s body in the East River last fall.
Rogue thoughts of the sexy socialite now firmly under control, Wes dropped onto the small pullout sofa a few feet away from her. Too late he realized the open studio apartment contained no bed, meaning she must sleep here. Right on this very piece of furniture where he’d parked himself.
Eager to maintain focus on his case, Wes redirected.
“Is that your dog out front?”
“Eloise?” She peered around the apartment as if she’d only just remembered she had a dog. Inserting two fingers between her lips, she blew a piercing note.
Wes barely heard it since his eyes were glued to her full mouth, her bottom lip still damp from her whistle.
The dog came padding through the rubble of the apartment, its presence seeming to relax Tempest. “Yes, she’s mine. I would never bring a shepherd into the city since they really like to run. But I found her in a Dumpster on the way to work one morning and what else could I do? I figured living with me—even if I don’t have a few acres for her to romp around—had to be better than the fate she was looking at.”
Wes watched her scratch the dog’s neck, her shiny red manicure disappearing into the animal’s thick ruff. There was no doubt in his mind the mutt had it made.
“She looks pretty well-adjusted.” He didn’t mention his St. Bernard was twice the size of Eloise and managed to keep entertained in Wes’s shoebox of an apartment on Roosevelt Island. “Can you tell me what happened here today?”
“I was coming home from a meeting and I noticed the front door was unlocked.” Her fingers buried deeper into the dog’s fur. “Eloise went in first because I was a little unnerved by the open door. I had safety measures drilled into my head at an early age, and I can assure you, I’ve never forgotten to bolt a door in my life.”
“Is anything missing?”
“I honestly haven’t looked around. I called the police as soon as I saw the mess.” Her eyes drifted over the debris. “I’m not sure I’d know where to start looking for missing items.”
Wes followed her gaze, his eyes slowing on a haphazard pile of lacy undergarments spilling out of a tall armoire. Black ribbons mingled with pink straps, bright blue satin billowed over yellow see-through netting. He’d have to be a dead man not to notice the distinctly feminine intimate apparel, but he refused to envision Tempest wearing any of the slinky outfits.
Although the thought tempted him. Mightily.
As a compromise, he told himself he would not only work on finding another girlfriend in the very near future, but he would also seek out one who had a taste for lingerie. Of all the times for his libido to make a comeback after staying in hiding for months.
“Consider if you have anything here that someone else really wants. Something with monetary value? Something with significant value to a particular person?” He studied her face for hints of guilt or subterfuge, but only found deep thought. “The level of destruction in the apartment indicates that the perpetrator conducted a thorough search for something specific, or else the person responsible holds a personal grudge.”
His thoughts ran to the old lady neighbor he’d seen peering out her apartment door earlier. Had she been monitoring the goings-on in the hallway for reasons beyond general nosiness? Maybe some of Tempest’s neighbors didn’t appreciate the inevitable media frenzy that followed young, beautiful socialites around New York.
Wes found himself wondering if she brought a lot of men back to this apartment. Was the unassuming address her rendezvous point for booty calls she hid from her ritzy family?
“Obviously my intruder didn’t think my sculptures were worth a damn.” She clutched the smoky crystal at her neck and Wes spied the rapid beating of her pulse there.
What would it be like to make this woman’s heart pound faster?
“You collect statues?” Of naked men?
Perhaps Tempest’s snooping neighbor was an old prude who resented anyone with such an obvious interest in male nudity.
“I am the artist.” She lifted her chin with vaguely injured pride. “I had been hoping to convince a local gallery to do a showing once I had enough of a collection, but now…”
Certain a wealthy heiress whose face frequently graced the social pages could buy her way into any gallery she chose, Wes wasn’t too concerned. He needed answers from Tempest Boucher and he certainly wasn’t getting them by being subtle.
Time to be a bit more relentless with his questions.
“Did you keep valuables here? Jewelry? Other artwork besides your own?”

TEMPEST STARED BACK at Detective Heartless Shaw and assured herself he must not have a creative bone in his body. How else could he ask her something so insensitive as whether or not she owned any artwork that was actually worth something?
Of all the damn nerve.
“As a matter of fact, my statues were the most valuable items here. I don’t keep much at the apartment besides the tools for my sculpting.” And a few pictures for inspiration. Could she help it if she liked to mold male bodies? Judging by what her first few pieces had sold for, she wasn’t the only woman who appreciated a naked masculine torso around the house.
Detective Shaw might actually make for great male inspiration himself if he didn’t have such abrupt crime-scene manners. With his close-cropped dark hair and classic Roman features, he possessed a timeless appeal women would have found irresistible in any era, though his dove-gray eyes and the hint of a dark tattoo curling around one wrist gave him a uniqueness she wouldn’t confuse with any other classically handsome male. He wore a vintage suit that had probably cost a fortune in its prime, but the threads had seen better days, settling into softer lines around angular shoulders.
Definitely the sort of shoulders a woman wouldn’t mind molding. In clay, of course.
He peered around her apartment as if to test the truth of her assertion that she only came here to work. Curse the man and his unwanted sex appeal. Wasn’t she the victim here? Shouldn’t he make a passing effort to ask her if she was okay? She’d never been a paranoid woman, but it seemed as if even the toughest of chicks would be shaken by the sight of their personal lives churned through a giant blender and spit out like an aftertaste all over the floor.
“As soon as we’ve finished collecting evidence, we need to do a thorough walk-through to see if anything’s missing. In the meantime, I’ve got some other questions I’d like to ask you about Boucher Enterprises.” His gray eyes slid back to her, fixing her with unsettling directness. And something more? She could almost imagine a hint of male interest there. Then again, she could be dabbling in big-time escapist thinking to drool over Wesley Shaw instead of focusing on the criminal act some scumbag had committed against her.
“You recognized the name?” She had rather hoped he wouldn’t want to discuss her connection to the famous family, but no doubt reporters would have jumped on the police report the moment it was filed anyhow.
Her misfortune would be all over the papers and would certainly prompt more irritated phone calls from her mother about the need to move back to the safety of the family’s Park Avenue building on a full-time basis. The media would discover the location of her weekend hideaway and make life in Chelsea impossible. And then there would be the outcry from the Boucher board of directors who never understood her desire to have a life separate and distinct from her commitment to the company.
“There aren’t many people in New York who wouldn’t. The Post ran a feature on you just a couple of weeks ago—”
“I remember.” How could she forget the story that implied she had a fixation with younger men? As if her last-minute decision to go to the cinema with the barely-legal performance artist who ran a coffee shop around the corner counted as a date. “Can we move on to your questions, please?”
Adopting her best all-business demeanor, she dismissed the topic, unwilling to think about what kind of man she would have rather been dating than the coffee guy. Tempest might not enjoy her role in Boucher Enterprises as a corporate bigwig, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t play the part when necessary. After coming home to a trashed apartment, finding her last year’s worth of work destroyed and missing Days to boot, she wasn’t really in the mood to put up with a lot of innuendo. And she definitely didn’t want to find herself daydreaming about the detective’s shoulders again.
Before he could say anything, however, one of the officers called Wes from the other side of the room.
“Looks like we’ve got a message from our perpetrator, Shaw.” Standing next to the computer armoire, the cop held a pile of clothes that had been draped over the monitor. Now that the mountain of lace and satin had been moved aside to reveal the screen, the neatly typed words in extra large font were visible from clear across the room.
You’re in the wrong business, bitch. Rising, Tempest read the message aloud as she stepped closer to the computer, her frustrations with Wesley Shaw forgotten in the sudden onslaught of cold, clammy fear.
The warning written on her computer screen—the cursor still blinking at the end of the last word—had been left by someone who knew her. The break-in was no random act of city crime, but a calculated plan carried out against her specifically.
The thought made her a little woozy. She’d fought so hard for a small slice of independence in a life filled with commitments to her family’s business. The unassuming downtown address and her sculpting gave her a taste of normal life where she wasn’t under the constant surveillance of security cameras or family bodyguards. But if her weekend apartment haven wasn’t safe, did that mean she’d have to return to the Boucher clan compound that was as secure as Fort Knox and just about as homey?
“Tempest?” Detective Shaw stood beside her now, his voice quieter. Softer, even. But the gaze he directed on her remained detached and—could she be reading him right?—suspicious. “I think it’s time we talked more specifically about your line of work.”
Tempest chewed her lip, trying to figure out what this man was driving at and why she’d roused his suspicions. Unfortunately, he’d roused a different sort of feeling altogether within her. But no matter what she thought of Detective Wesley Shaw, his brusque manners and undeniable sex appeal, she recognized him as her best hope of keeping her studio a safe retreat.
Somehow she would ignore this unwelcome hum of attraction and do whatever it took to help Wes with his case.

2
“HOW MUCH TIME do you have, Detective?” Tempest wrapped her arms around herself, clearly shaken by the note on her computer screen. “As the temporary CEO of Boucher Enterprises, I’m involved in overseeing many smaller companies in a wide variety of businesses. I also support my studio with my sculpting, so I consider that a line of work as well.”
Wes felt a tug of sympathy for her. He’d had enough years in law enforcement to be pretty astute about sizing up people’s stories, and Tempest was either a hell of an actress or genuinely surprised and scared to have found her home ransacked.
Of course, that didn’t clear her of wrongdoing. She could still be connected to his murder case, or have some hand in the prostitution ring his informant assured him operated under the guise of the MatingGame.com name. Her genuine fear and surprise might simply stem from dismay that someone was on to her.
Hell, for that matter, maybe his sudden eagerness to clear her name had more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t mind getting to know her better. Thoughts of her dressed in some of the skimpy lingerie scattered all over the apartment invaded his brain despite his most valiant attempts to staunch them. Was she wearing an outfit like that under her pantsuit right now?
Shoving aside the thought, he forced himself to focus on the case. On her valid worries.
“Do you have reason to believe any of your assorted businesses could be involved in illegal practices?” This was the revealing question, the one that could give her away if she hid an affiliation to a high-priced call girl ring. She certainly had all the right social connections to provide the city’s wealthiest men with escorts.
And damned if he didn’t really hate that idea.
The mountains of lingerie strewn all over her apartment took on a more sinister meaning.
“Detective Shaw, I assure you if I had any reason to suspect one of my companies engaged in illegal practices, it would already be shut down.” She fixed her tawny stare, eyes as cold and remote as the chunk of smoky quartz at her neck. “If you have any grounds for suspecting one of my businesses is involved in something devious, I urge you to fill me in immediately so I can put the proper balls on the chopping block.”
The threat seemed all the more convincing in light of the disembodied clay penis he’d unearthed earlier. He hadn’t expected so much fervor from a woman he planned to keep on his suspect list.
Did it make him sadistic that Tempest Boucher and her bloodthirsty promise were turning into the most interesting case he’d had in nearly two years? As the web of intrigue around this mystery tightened, Wes experienced the first hint of enjoyment in his job that he’d had in far too long. “Is that how Boucher Enterprises deals with employees who don’t toe the company line?”
“It is while I’m at the helm. My family has been through enough over the past eight months without adding the media frenzy any illegal businesses practices would cause.”
“Do you keep work-related files on your home computer?” His gaze strayed back to the PC where the officer had just finished fingerprinting the keyboard. Wes wanted to get his hands on that computer to see what secrets he could shake loose from the circuitry.
Besides, better to think about laying his hands on the computer than think about using them on the woman in front of him who needed to be off-limits for as long as she was a suspect.
“Nothing related to Boucher Enterprises, but I do the accounting for my sculpting work here.” She snorted. “Such as it is. It’s not exactly keeping me in high style. And now that all my inventory has been destroyed—”
She broke off, surprising Wes with a hint of vulnerability he hadn’t expected. The woman lived her life in a relentless public spotlight, ran a company with a net worth that boggled the imagination, and could afford anything her heart desired. Yet she seemed genuinely distressed about the loss of her homemade statues.
“If it’s any consolation, insurance ought to cover their value.” Maybe that wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but his practical side couldn’t help pointing out she wouldn’t be hurt financially.
Her curt nod and well-camouflaged sniffle assured him he hadn’t consoled her in the least.
“I’m sure you’re right. Do you think the person who broke in here was looking for business information of some sort?” She relieved the other officer of his handful of lingerie and the guy got back to work looking around the apartment. Tempest tossed the silky pile of undergarments on the arm of a red floral club chair.
Wes couldn’t say how long he stared at the stack of lace and satin, imagining the black silk hugging Tempest’s hips, the blue netting cupping generous breasts…
But he knew it took a Herculean effort to pull his thoughts back to reality. Blinking hard, he wrenched his gaze away.
“Possibly.” Deciding he was making zero progress by waiting for her to incriminate herself, Wes laid more of his cards on the table, still searching for some telltale reaction. At the very least, by sharing his suspicions he would put her on the defensive if she was guilty. Maybe she’d trip up and give him the lead he needed. “I’m investigating a small company owned by Boucher Enterprises. MatingGame.com?”
“The Internet dating service?”
“You’re familiar with the business?”
“I brought them aboard myself shortly before my father’s death.” She whistled to her dog and absently pet the animal while she spoke. “They had a talented web mistress who keeps the site fresh and provides great visibility all over the Web, but they were being inundated by crank dating résumés and starting to flounder under client dissatisfaction. Boucher brought the financial help they needed to screen all their clients by collecting more information. I believe they’re turning a very healthy profit now.”
“I believe they are a front for a prostitution ring.” He kept his gaze direct. Detached. That was a crucial part of interrogation unless you had a damn good reason for wanting your suspect to think you were on their side.
Wes didn’t know whether he’d struck pay dirt or if he’d merely scared the hell out of her, but she swayed on her feet at the news.
Damn.
“Are you okay?” He reached for her on instinct, pushing aside his need to dig for the truth long enough to steady her.
His hand went automatically to her waist, securing her at the base of her spine. Right away he knew touching her had been a mistake, but what the hell else could he have done? She looked as though she’d seen a damn ghost.
Too bad all he could think of was how tiny her waist felt under her jacket. The tailored cut wasn’t nearly tailored enough, the fabric not doing justice to the cinch of her midsection between gently flared hips and incredible cleavage.
Her scent—something rich and warm that made him think of the hot chestnuts sold by street vendors all winter—made him feel damn light-headed too. Good thing he would let her go any second now.
Yup. Any minute.
“I’m fine.” Tempest cleared her throat, the soft vibration of her voice reverberating gently against his palm where he still touched her. She stepped away before he remembered he was supposed to be letting go.
Cursing himself and his stupid sex-starved senses, Wes regretted the loss of mental control. He hadn’t done anything outwardly inappropriate, but his thoughts were another story. Worst of all, he’d lost track of his instincts since they’d gotten mixed with lust.
Where the hell was the cop buzz when he needed it? It seemed to have been soundly thrashed by a much louder hum of desire.
“I don’t know anything about MatingGame being involved in illegal activity, but you caught me off guard since—” She peered over her shoulder toward the other officers in the apartment. “Can we possibly speak in private?”
Surprised at her apparent need to confess, Wes couldn’t deny a rush of disappointment. The sexual hunger simmering in his veins had been really rooting for this woman’s innocence.
“Sure.” He shouted to the cops finishing up their routine search for evidence and quickly cleared the room of everyone but the two of them and Eloise, who curled up in front of the door for a snooze.
Wes hoped Vanessa wouldn’t show up on the scene too soon now that Tempest appeared so close to telling him what she knew. His partner had planned to investigate a few other leads on their murder case, but he expected she’d arrive at the precinct soon.
Now he settled in the club chair, a safe distance from the temptation presented by the first woman to send sparks his way in too long.
And didn’t it just figure she was going to turn out to be part of a prostitution ring?
Tempest eyed the muscular cop sprawled in a chair two sizes too small for him and prayed she was making the right decision by trusting him. But if he was investigating MatingGame, he might as well know everything she knew.
She sank down into the couch across from him and dug out the old memories that had caused her family so much pain.
“You’re probably familiar with the scandal surrounding my father’s death last year while he was in Mexico?” It had been the subject of speculation in the papers for weeks, making it nearly impossible to grieve privately.
“Heart attack during sex with a much younger lover, right?” Detective Shaw didn’t look scandalized in the least. Somehow, that made it easier to continue.
“Most people assumed it was a heart attack, allowing us to keep quiet the fact that the Mexican officials said he actually died of asphyxiation. You know how some people think cutting off their oxygen supply will increase the power of their release?” She waited for his nod, her cheeks heating at the nature of the discussion. She’d never been a shy woman, but the frank sex talk unnerved her.
Especially in light of her inconvenient attraction to the cop.
“He died during kinky sex?” One eyebrow lifted.
“Yes. And the woman involved might have come under more scrutiny if my mother hadn’t assured police my father had been perfecting ways to achieve the ultimate release throughout their marriage. It was one of the core reasons my parents fought.” Her mother had been horrified by her husband’s increasing obsession with pushing sex to the limit, finally walking out when he’d nearly strangled himself, although they’d never actually divorced. Apparently Ray Boucher demanded as much from his sexual encounters as he had from every other facet of his glittering, over-the-top lifestyle. “And as it happened, the woman my father had been with that last night wasn’t really a girlfriend. She was a one-night stand he’d met through MatingGame.”
Wes sat straighter in his chair, his long, lean body suddenly charged with alertness. “She never said anything to the press?”
“My mother and I made a trip south of the border to appeal to her sense of common decency and asked her to keep the sordid details to herself since the local officials didn’t leak the information to the media.” The woman had been nice enough and she’d been as eager as they were to put the ordeal behind her. “We helped her to relocate overseas so she wouldn’t be faced with the situation day in and day out over the turbulent months that followed.”
“You paid her off?”
“Hardly. She was down on her luck after a divorce left her broke, which was why my mother and I thought it would be just as well to help her start over again. Last I heard, she’d learned to speak Italian and settled just outside of Florence.”
“But you felt guilty enough about the whole situation to confess all this to me,” he pointed out with a bluntness Tempest began to recognize as part of his investigative style.
Or maybe it was just his personality. She had found it rather cold at first, but after a lifetime surrounded by people who were often pleasant to her face only for personal gain, she was beginning to find his direct manner more appealing.
Or maybe it was simply all those hard male muscles she found interesting. She hadn’t been enticed to get close to a man in a very long time.
“I don’t feel guilty about it in the least since no one outside his family needs to know what happened to my father. I was just taken aback when you mentioned MatingGame could be a cover for a prostitution ring.” She had thought the scandal of having her father die in bed while having adulterous sex with a woman half his age had been bad. Imagine the repercussions if the adulterous sex turned out to be part of an encounter with a prostitute?
The tabloids would have a field day, her mother would be humiliated and Boucher Enterprises would suffer. And while Tempest and her family were well-insulated from the rises and falls of the business, she couldn’t help but think of the people who worked for the company in one capacity or another. Those were the people who would suffer the most.
“You’re worried about the negative press that will ensue if people learn your father cavorted with a prostitute.” Shaw nodded knowingly, as if that statement summed up the situation.
“It’s a lot more complicated than that.” Tension built in her forehead, the sure sign of another stress headache coming on. She could have handled all this better if she’d at least had her weekly dose of Days of Our Lives. Damn it, melodrama like this belonged on her television screen, not in her living room. “You know how many people depend on our company for their livelihood? Those are the people who get hurt when my family comes under attack.
“My mother will console herself with shopping. My late father’s board of directors will unload their stock options and jump on early retirement. But what about the thousands of people we employ around the globe? They don’t deserve to lose their jobs because my father suffered a midlife crisis from the time he turned thirty until the day he died.”
Levering herself off the couch, Tempest stepped over the piles of rubble from the break-in, slowly making her way toward the kitchen where a bottle of Tylenol waited.
“What about you?” The cool-as-you-please detective merely followed her with his eyes, though his long limbs retained their alert stance, as if ready to pounce at any moment. “What would you do if Boucher Enterprises takes a financial nosedive?”
The question made her head throb all the more. Fishing through a maze of cooking spices and boxes of Milk-Bones in every conceivable flavor, she found the pain reliever and popped two in her mouth. Downing them with a cold glass of water, she took deep breaths and reminded herself nothing catastrophic had happened to the company yet. She could still fix this.
“I’ll admit it makes things harder for me. As temporary CEO, I’m eager to unload my job and it will make the position less attractive if the company is struggling.”
All the more reason to address the matter of MatingGame before the problem exploded underneath her. “In fact,” she continued, a plan slowly taking shape, “if MatingGame is a front for something sordid, I can have it shut down in a matter of minutes.”
Infused with new energy now that she had a strategy, she moved to find the phone, which no longer rested in its usual place on the kitchen counter.
“No.” Detective Shaw rose from his seat and was in her face in no time. He moved with a swiftness that surprised her.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Her breath caught at their sudden proximity, his tall, lanky frame close enough to touch.
Not that she would allow herself the pleasure. She’d been far too aware of him ever since he’d touched her earlier, as if her body had captured that quick impression of his hand on her back and had been seeking to recreate the moment ever since. Ridiculous, maybe. But sort of intriguing considering she hadn’t been even remotely interested in any man over the last months of nose-to-the-grindstone work.
What was it about the plainspoken police detective that turned her head and made her—she fidgeted to admit it, even to herself—horny? She’d never been the type to get all keyed up over a guy. Why him? Why now?
The timing for her sudden bout of lust surely sucked.
“I don’t have the evidence I need to prove MatingGame is a shady business.” He had oddly precise articulation for a man who’d probably seen the seamiest underbelly of the city. Glaring down at her from his height, which would have dwarfed her even if she hadn’t been wearing her running shoes, Wesley Shaw was warning her in no uncertain terms.
Too bad he was also turning her on—big-time. Her breath hitched in her throat as she envisioned having her way with such a big, powerful man. She’d overcome a lot of personal insecurities in the past year, but she’d never had the chance to test her sexual confidence.
This was so the wrong time.
“It would better suit my company to pull the rug out from under them, Detective.” Folding her arms across her chest, she glared right back, hoping like hell she wasn’t giving out any “do-me” vibe to mirror her sexually charged thoughts. “I don’t need any evidence to withdraw my support immediately. I won’t allow Boucher Enterprises to be dragged through the mud just so you can make your case.”
They stood too close together but Tempest wasn’t about to back down now. She hadn’t gleaned many of her father’s killer instincts when it came to business, but she knew enough about body language to comprehend she didn’t dare give this man any ground now.
Of course, there was a whole other dynamic to their body language that didn’t have a damn thing to do with prostitution, MatingGame, Boucher Enterprises or even her ransacked apartment.
“I don’t care about busting prostitutes.” He lowered his voice to a pitch that seemed just right for how close their bodies loomed and all wrong for a detached, intelligent conversation between strangers.
“You don’t?” Tempest cringed inwardly to hear her own voice hit a soft note. What was she thinking to engage in guy-girl games with the cop investigating a break-in?
Bad, bad idea.
“No. I’m trying to catch the murderer masquerading as a prostitute.”
His words reverberated in her ears, his point resonating until the meaning loomed large and ugly just outside the kitchenette area of her apartment. She blinked hard to gather her bearings, but when she opened her eyes her world still seemed slightly off-kilter and her stress headache now pounded to the forefront of her brain.
Body language be damned, she needed breathing room.
“I think I’d better sit down.” Tempest sidled past him, attempting to get her bearings away from the confusing heat that flared between them. She stepped on a piece of statuary, the broken clay crushing into dust on the hardwood floor beneath her sneaker.
“I need your help, Tempest.” He was right behind her, following her toward the sofa.
Her apartment seemed to shrink with him in it, his presence big and male and dominating her scrambled thoughts.
“I don’t know how I can help you, Detective, and I sure don’t understand how having my apartment broken into relates to murder.” She paused beside the sofa, unwilling to take a seat if it meant this man would insinuate himself beside her. She couldn’t think with him so close.
“You can help me.” His gray eyes seemed so confident. So certain. “And you can start by calling me Wes.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She needed barriers to ward off the train wreck certain to ensue if she ever acted on her newfound lust for one of New York’s finest.
She dated artists. Men who weren’t afraid to explore their creative side, or at very least, their sensitive side. Wesley—Wes—didn’t look like the type to get in touch with his emotions anytime soon.
“It’s an excellent idea because you and I are going to get to know each other a hell of a lot better for the next few days—weeks—however long it takes for me to catch my bad guy.” He frowned. “Or bad girl in this case.”
“That’s impossible.” No way, no how, would she allow herself to get any closer to this man. She’d already experienced the sizzle of his briefest touch. How could she ward off that kind of sexual firepower for days—possibly weeks—on end? “I’ve got a multimillion dollar company to run. A CEO to hire. Do you have any idea how much my father’s death has compromised his business and all the people who count on Boucher to make their living?”
“No. But I have a fair idea that your earnings will continue to go down once it’s made public that the Boucher heiress can’t make time in her busy schedule to help police catch a killer.”
His words delivered a resounding slap to her conscience, a plea she couldn’t very well deny. No matter that her life had been turned upside down, or that her bid for independence from her powerful family would be put on hold until she could recreate her inventory of artworks. She needed to pull her head out of her own problems and remind her body that Wes Shaw was off-limits long enough to help him find his criminal.
She was so caught up in her own thoughts, she didn’t realize Wes reached for her until his hands were on her upper arms, the fabric of her crimson jacket practically incinerating beneath that simple touch.
“Please, Tempest.” His gray gaze jump-started an erratic and totally juvenile beating of her heart. “Help me.”
She was in over her head with this man after knowing him for less than two hours. But he needed her help and she planned to give it to him, consequences be damned. And not just because she found herself thinking about what it might be like to kiss that blunt mouth of his.
No, Tempest planned to help him because she wouldn’t allow her personal space, her private creative haven, to be invaded by street thieves, or prostitutes, or—she took a steeling breath—murderers.
Yet, even as she gave him an affirmative nod, she kept hearing a familiar swell of music somewhere in the back of her mind.
Like sand through the hourglass…
In the course of a couple of hours, Tempest’s life had definitely become a soap opera.

3
OVER THE NEXT HOUR, Wes helped Tempest sort through the wreckage of her apartment. Cleanup wasn’t a part of the NYPD response to a break-in, but as a detective and a nine-year veteran on the force, he’d bought himself a little leeway when it came to handling cases.
He used the time to phone his partner, dodging most of Vanessa’s questions since he didn’t want to discuss the case where Tempest might hear. There would be time enough to catch up with Vanessa tomorrow. For tonight, as long as he had won Tempest’s compliance, he planned to find out everything he could about MatingGame and her role in the Internet dating service.
Now, he taped up another box of broken statuary pieces while she swept up some of the dust. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a simple black blouse at some point, probably while he’d been on the phone. The velvet choker with the smoky crystal remained around her neck, but she’d tied back her curly dark hair with a black and red zebra-print bandana.
He stacked the third box of smashed clay pieces on top of the others and then paused to watch her while she worked. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
His mental image of a Manhattan socialite pretty much coincided with the stereotype—vain, spoiled, self-involved. Yet here she was, living in a Chelsea studio that had to be far beneath her financial means, with no household help in sight. She swept up her own messes, microwaved her own popcorn and kept stealing glances at a small television that seemed to be tuned nonstop to overblown daytime dramas. Even without the audio, the action on screen snagged most of her attention while she cleaned.
Except for the handful of times he’d caught her sneaking glances at him. Some kind of heat sparked between them and Wes would be stupid to deny it. He didn’t plan to act on it—in fact, he would make damn sure to ignore it—but the sexual friction had made for a tense day. He was pretty sure she fought against the chemistry even harder than him.
“Do you mind if I have a look through your computer?” Wes propped his elbow on the stack of boxes and studied her. “Ever since we found the note from the perpetrator, I’ve been curious to take a look around your files and see if he left a trail.” Besides, staring at a computer screen would prevent him from staring at Tempest.
“Sure.” Setting the broom aside she washed her hands and pulled two bowls out of a cabinet. “We can have our dinner—such as it is—while we surf. Maybe then you can explain to me what MatingGame has to do with your murder case.” She pulled two bottles of water out of the refrigerator. “Is water okay? The secret to my latest diet is not to bring anything in the house that I shouldn’t eat.”
Wes grabbed the bottles from her and carried them toward the computer, grateful for another topic. “I thought you were going to prove me wrong about jet-setting heiresses.”
“I’m not a jet-setting heiress so I’m proving you wrong already.” Her voice followed him a few steps behind as the scent of buttered popcorn filled the room.
Eloise lifted her head from her paws as he walked by her, tail thumping the floor.
“You’re living on a diet of popcorn and water.” He slid into the red, high-backed chair in front of the computer and told himself that finding out more about Tempest was part of his job. The fact that he happened to be enjoying himself was a bonus. “You must know that’s exactly what I’d expect from you highbrow types. You probably had a half ounce of cottage cheese on a lettuce leaf for lunch, right?”
“Wrong again.” She set down their popcorn on a foldout shelf before pulling over one of the dining room chairs to sit beside him. Before she lowered herself into the chair, she whistled to Eloise and tossed the dog a pink Milk-Bone.
“I bet I’m not far off.” Wes concentrated on the scent of popcorn in an effort to shut out the soft fragrance of the woman making herself comfortable next to him.
She sure didn’t seem like the prostitution type, even with the high percentage of lacy undergarments still strewn around her apartment like visual sex triggers guaranteed to make him start drooling. And she didn’t seem to be hiding anything, either. Other than her lunch menu, of course.
“I skipped lunch actually,” she finally admitted, her gaze fixed on the computer screen as he pulled up the “Properties” information box on the unnamed document informing Tempest she was in the wrong business.
“Even worse than a lettuce leaf.” He tossed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and jotted down the time the document had been created. 12:53 pm. “You said you got home around two?”
“I got to the building at five minutes before two. My meeting ran late today and then Eloise stopped to beg the hot pretzel vendor for a treat.” She glared at Eloise who sniffed the floor for any leftover crumbs.
“It’s no wonder your dog has to beg on the street if you feed her like you feed yourself.” He cracked open his bottle of water and took a swig before digging into the popcorn bowl again. “But it’s a damn good thing you didn’t get here any sooner today since you missed your uninvited guest by less than an hour.”
Wes didn’t want to think about how different his day would have been if he’d been called to Tempest’s apartment on an assault case. Or worse.
His popcorn stuck in his throat.
“Tell me why you think MatingGame is involved in prostitution.” Tempest tucked her feet underneath her thighs, folding herself up into a more comfortable position on her chair.
Not that he’d let his gaze wander over her delectable body. He was simply making smart cop observations.
Yeah, that was it.
“Anonymous tip.” He clicked through a few more screens before opening her browser and surfing to the MatingGame site. “Add that to the fact that our murder victim had a reputation for visiting prostitutes every Saturday night, and then this past Saturday his appointment book had an entry to meet someone he designated simply as a blonde from MatingGame.”
She wriggled in her seat beside him, the wooden dining room chair squeaking as she moved.
“Maybe he got tired of paying for sex and decided to use a more tried and true means of getting horizontal.” She reached over him to point out a little red box at the bottom of the MatingGame home page. “Click here to move straight to the dating profiles.”
“I don’t get paid to come up with the most creative scenarios for a crime. I follow the obvious path first.” Wes took a deep breath to steel himself against the surge of hunger brought on by the soft shift of her body beside his. She was close enough that he could hear the whisper of fabric as she moved. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she leaned in front of him, and he could have sworn one wayward curl of her dark hair skimmed his cheek.
Of course, the breath that he hoped would steel his nerves only filled his nostrils with her warm, nutty scent—something sultry and feminine and definitely edible. Whatever it was, he damn well wanted a taste.
He clicked the red box she’d indicated with a vengeance, hoping like hell she wouldn’t have any reason to point to the computer screen again. How could a man keep his mind on work with such an abundance of soft femininity leaning and bending and stretching beside him?
“Are you comfortable yet?” He turned on her, not meaning to glare, but didn’t she realize how distracting all that wriggling could be?
“You got the good chair.” Frowning, she looped an arm over the back of the wooden seat. “I can’t sit still if I’m not comfy.”
Damnation. He stood, silently rolling the red office chair toward her until she swapped places with him. He dragged the wooden chair in front of the computer and turned it around so he could straddle the seat. They would both be better off if he didn’t get too relaxed in her living room anyhow.
“So the obvious answer is that his MatingGame date was a prostitute?” She reached over him again to tap the blank screen with one manicured finger. “I think the women’s profiles are on the left. Sorry my dial-up connection is slow, but you can go ahead and click here and it will advance you to the next screen.”
This wasn’t going to work. Wes was choking on his own lust. The women he’d slept with in the last eighteen months hadn’t been people he’d pursued. They’d shown interest in him, he’d succumbed to biology. The encounters had been simple. Neat. Easy.
And completely unlike the heat licking over him because of one curvy, wriggly, delicious-smelling woman. It would be different if he could just take her right now and get it over with. Right there, in her red chair, where she’d damn well be comfortable.
Only she wouldn’t stay comfortable for long. If he had his way, she’d be sighing, moaning and writhing all over him until she’d achieved body-rocking sexual bliss.
While they waited for the page to load on the screen, Wes downed the rest of his bottle of water but didn’t come close to dousing the heat inspired by Tempest Boucher.
“There we go,” she murmured as thumbnail photos of dozens of women appeared on the monitor. “I haven’t looked at the site in quite a while, but if I remember correctly, these are the dating profiles for every woman in the system except for the clients who sign up for the Blind Date service. When we took over the company, we helped MatingGame make sure all the e-mail addresses were verified to cut down on bogus profiles. I can’t imagine women who were prostituting themselves would give out information where they could be tracked.”
“You’d be surprised.” Forcing himself to concentrate on his case, Wes enlarged two of the profiles for closer inspection. “The city has slacked off on prosecuting crimes some people argue are victimless. Because of the lack of vigilance, escort services thrive and they can be very aggressive about advertising.”
She frowned. “I’ve never studied the site that thoroughly from anything but a business point of view, but I know firsthand that valid relationships have formed through the help of MatingGame. One of the company accountants got married last fall to a guy she met through the service.”
“Probably most of it is legit. My guess is that there’s a protected link, some hidden branch of the business that hires out escorts.” He scanned the profiles he’d pulled, not really sure what he was looking for. His professional hunger to solve the mystery seemed to be slowly giving way to a different kind of hunger that wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“Preferences—threesomes, foursomes and more.” Tempest read aloud one of the entries in the provocative profiles designed to generate plenty of interest for people looking for a date. She sounded vaguely scandalized, but that didn’t stop her from reaching for the mouse once again. “Do you think she’ll just pick one guy or will she choose four and ask them all to meet her at once?”
“Wait.” Wes restrained her wrist, unable to sit still while she stretched her delectable body in front of him for the third time. “I’ll get it.”
She froze there, body unmoving, her pulse pounding beneath the slight pressure of his thumb. “I just wanted to see what came up when you clicked on the hyperlink for threesomes. I guess I didn’t realize people were so…specific about what they wanted in a partner.”
“But if we start following all the options that catch our attention we’ll be here all night.” He held her wrist, held her gaze, hoping all the while she’d comprehend his real meaning.
It would have required a supreme act of willpower not to skim his thumb over the silky skin. And after wrestling his growing attraction to Tempest over the last few hours, Wes found he no longer possessed the restraint. He traced a line down the delicate tendons there, absorbing the smooth perfection of her.
Her lips parted, her faded lipstick revealing the natural color of her soft pink mouth beneath. Hypnotized by the perfect shape of the lush Cupid’s bow, Wes hovered closer until Tempest pulled away.
“Then I guess we’d better keep our attention more strictly focused.” Freeing her wrist, she reached for her water bottle and unscrewed the top. “I’ll check out the threesomes later.”
Wes wanted to redirect his thoughts but couldn’t seem to force himself to turn back to the computer. Lust still surged through him like the Eighth Avenue Express and she just shrugged it aside, as if it was all in a day’s work for a pampered, privileged heiress. Did she get off on making men drool and then leaving them wanting?
He didn’t know what games this woman was playing, but he damn well wouldn’t be leaving her apartment until he found out.

AS SHE STARED BACK into the stormiest gray eyes she’d ever seen, Tempest decided Wes looked angry. No, more like quietly seething.
Well—newsflash—she wasn’t exactly thrilled to have him waltz in here and take over her home, her computer and her hormones, either.
“Seems to me you’ve made concentration impossible.” Wes shoved aside their popcorn bowls before taking her water bottle from her hand, carefully screwing on the top, and pushing that away, too. “Has it ever occurred to you all that stretching and reaching over me combined with your infernal fascination with threesomes just might distract a man?”
“I am not fascinated by—” How dare he? Of all the presumptuous, arrogant things to insinuate. “Are you accusing me of flirting with you?”
“What would you call it?” He didn’t raise his voice, instead keeping his tone very, very soft. “I’m not opposed to starting something between us if the appropriate time arises after I close my case. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get away with a lot of suggestive talk and sidling up close only to have you leave me high and dry and completely incapable of getting any work done.”
“You think I’m playing the tease?” And didn’t that just beat all? “I was nice enough to make you popcorn and I didn’t even say a word when you took over my computer keys like you own them, even though I’m more familiar with my computer and this Web site than you are. Can I help it if I’m a little impatient to get through our work for the night so I can clean up the rest of the apartment and get back to my life?”
“But not impatient enough to point out the threesomes link?” He eased back ever so slightly, his self-assured body language somehow conveying a smugness that he’d made his point.
“So sue me for a prurient streak.” She had so not been flirting with him.
Had she?
Forcing herself to consider the notion, she wondered if her sexual impulses could conspire to act without her explicit permission? What if her artistic persona and businesswoman facade hid yet another facet—a decadent and determined inner seductress? She’d blossomed into a daytime TV heroine in record time today. All she needed was a bout with amnesia.
Maybe she had fallen through the damn sand in the hourglass at 2:00 p.m. today. Instead of transitioning from businesswoman Tempest to artist Tempest this afternoon as usual, she’d walked into a time fugue and ended up in the middle of the drama.
Frustrated with herself, with him and with the undeniable attraction she felt for a man she probably had nothing in common with, she forged ahead. “Look, I’m sorry if it seemed like I was coming on to you. The profiles happened to intrigue me.”
“So you’re saying your sudden interest in threesomes didn’t have a damn thing to do with me?”
“Correct.”
He grinned. A slow, sexy, I’m-going-to-have-you grin that incited a sensual shiver down her spine. “Good. Because I’m not the kind of guy who shares.”

TEMPEST was still recovering from that grin two hours later as Wes clicked through profile after profile, searching for some clue on his murder case.
She might have been able to forget about their exchange if she hadn’t been subjected to reading through all sorts of kinky sexual fetishes and fantasy requirements for every woman in search of a date on the MatingGame site. But honestly, how could she think about motive and intent when every page that scrolled over her screen referenced a new sex act she’d never tried?
She was beginning to feel very deprived and inexperienced, but she had no intention of allowing Wes to read any hint of hunger in her eyes. Restless and on edge, she sprang up from her chair.
“I should take Eloise for a walk.” Seizing on the idea like a lifeline, she started picking up their popcorn dishes along with some Thai food take-out containers from the dinner Wes insisted they eat.
“I’ll go with you.” He unfolded his tall body from the unforgiving wooden chair that had to be damn uncomfortable by now.
“That’s okay. You finish up and I’ll be back in a minute.” Maybe then she could reclaim her apartment and her wayward sexual thoughts.
“And what if your apartment is being watched?” He took the empty containers from her arms and dumped them in the wastebasket they’d left in the middle of the studio during their clean-up efforts. “If my murder case is linked to your break-in, then you’re dealing with a dangerous threat. My guess is the killer came here hoping to erase her profile from the MatingGame database and when she didn’t find the Web site files on the computer, she trashed the apartment and left the message to scare you.”
If Tempest hadn’t been frightened before, she sure as hell was starting to worry now. Almost enough to pack up her stuff and sleep at her family’s ostentatious place on Park Avenue, but not quite. “Don’t you think this murdering prostitute chick was a little excessive in wrecking the apartment? She broke every statue I ever made.”
“Don’t forget we’re dealing with a criminal mind. Studies show a high percentage of these people are mentally unbalanced in one way or another.” He whistled to Eloise, who came bounding over, pink tongue lolling out one side of her mouth. “All the more reason to let me go with you tonight.”
“You haven’t seen Eloise in action.” She couldn’t let Wes start thinking he needed to look out for her. She hadn’t even managed to free herself from her family business yet, so she definitely couldn’t afford to get mixed up with anybody who might start having expectations of her. “She might look sweet and friendly, but she’s as kick-ass as any police dog when it comes to watching my back. I couldn’t ask for better protection.”
“Unless the killer shoots her.” Wes pulled Eloise’s leash down from a hook by the front door like he’d been living there all his life. “I’m not trying to scare you, Tempest, but you owe it to yourself and your dog to be careful until I catch this person.”
She willed herself to nod her head. He was right, and she knew it.
Tempest just hadn’t figured out how to reconcile her need for independence with her desire to stay alive. The choice might not have been so difficult except that she wanted to stand on her own two feet and Wes Shaw looked like a man well-versed in sweeping women right off them.

4
WES STUMBLED over his own feet the next morning, bleary-eyed and fuzzyheaded after too little sleep. Blindly he fought his way through the maze of gym equipment that accounted for the sum total of his living room furnishings. Despite his best efforts, he stubbed his toe on a dumbbell and unleashed a string of curses that brought his St. Bernard, Kong, running from the bedroom with a woof.
“All clear,” Wes shouted to the dog whose protective instincts would have made Miss Independent Boucher break out in hives.
She’d practically hyperventilated the night before when Wes suggested he spend the night at her place for safety reasons. Suddenly, she’d developed all sorts of plans for beefing up the security around her apartment, insisting she’d be fine without his help. He’d tried to convince her to go back to her family’s place where she apparently stayed during the week, but she’d been stubborn on that count, too.
Damned independent woman. Thinking of her there alone had cost him plenty of shut-eye.
He’d stayed up half the night thinking about her, after checking and re-checking every lock in her apartment. Her door had shown no visible signs of tampering, but the only way into the third floor space had been through the front entrance or the door to the fire escape, which had a dead bolt whose lock was collecting dust. Wes had talked to her superintendent along with the old woman who lived a few doors down and had been home during the break-in. Neither of them had heard or seen anything unusual.
After forcing himself to leave her building, he’d gone back to the precinct to go over his case file on the murder and enter an incident report about Tempest’s intruder. But late-night brainstorming with Vanessa hadn’t helped them figure out the connections between their murder investigation and Tempest or MatingGame.
At least they’d eliminated Tempest as a murder suspect since she had an ironclad alibi for the victim’s time of death. A lady photographer caught her date with a local coffee shop owner on film for a tabloid column, and Wes ended up with the distinct displeasure of confirming with the guy that he and Tempest had taken in a movie together that night. Too bad no amount of the man’s assurances that they were just friends did a damn thing to improve Wes’s mood. Obviously, he shouldn’t care who she dated, but it irritated him to picture her with the artsy-fartsy coffee shop guy who managed to weave Kafka references into conversation on two separate occasions.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Wes now discovered he’d lost his taste for coffee.
Reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of some bogus energy drink, he chugged a few swigs and started thinking through his day. First and foremost was making a phone call to authorities in Mexico for some more information on Tempest’s father. Not that he didn’t trust foreign cops—he just didn’t trust any cop outside his own precinct.
A suspicious nature came with the badge. And Wes had all the more reason to be careful with Tempest since his instincts couldn’t be trusted where she was concerned. He planned to check her out ten ways to Sunday so the next time he showed up on her doorstep, he wouldn’t have to hold himself back from the attraction that had gnawed at him ever since he’d first walked into her apartment.
Because the next time she leaned and stretched or wriggled those oh-so-fine curves of hers in his direction, he had every intention of showing her how appreciative he could be.

TEMPEST DIDN’T APPRECIATE the stomach-clenching fear her intruder had instilled in her.
She might have given in to her worries and spent the weekend at the Boucher family home if it hadn’t been for Eloise. Her dog had slept by her all night, ready to keep away any returning criminals or stray bogeymen who threatened her safe haven. Too bad her faithful canine wasn’t as effective at keeping away men who threatened her peace of mind.
This morning, Tempest had been awake since dawn, cleaning and organizing the studio until she’d achieved some semblance of its former order. Now she reviewed the summary of her missed Days episode online while she told herself she wasn’t listening for Wes’s footsteps in the hallway.
She’d read the same line three times about the latest character to come back from the dead—normally a topic she loved—when Eloise ran to the door and barked.
Tempest peered through the peephole in time to spy a familiar figure striding down the hall. Obviously, her dog was even better attuned to the new man in their lives than Tempest. By the time Wes rapped on the door, she was already opening it.
“Did you even check to make sure it was me?” Wes frowned at her, his vintage suit replaced by faded jeans and a blue T-shirt underneath a long tweed wool coat.
In a word—yum. The more fitted clothes were put to good use on a man as ruthlessly toned as Wes Shaw.
“Eloise told me it was you.” She opened the door wider, her gaze flicking south as he walked past her into the apartment.
So she noticed he had a great butt, okay? That didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it. Slamming the door shut behind him, she braced herself for another round of temptation. She’d already decided today would be all about clearing her name with Wes and helping him find out what was going on with MatingGame.
“She told you?” He leaned down to pet her pooch’s ears before tossing a folder on the boxes of debris she’d stacked by the front door. “Lucky for you, I own a dog, too, or I might think you were losing your mind.”
“You have a dog?” She shouldn’t ask him about it, didn’t need any reason to like this guy any more than she already did, but curiosity got the better of her.
“Kong. She’s been with me since—For about two years.”
She sensed more to that story, but it didn’t look like he’d be sharing any more of it since he backed closer to her computer.
“Kong’s a girl?”
“Trust me, it fits. She’s not a girlie girl.” He bent over her keyboard and scanned a few lines about her soap opera before moving his hand to the escape key. “You mind if we pick up where we left off last night?”
Her heart slugged in her chest at the pImages** that idea conjured. What if they picked up right at the point when Wes had been sitting beside her, his steely gray gaze drifting down over her mouth? Lingering.
She blinked hard, waiting for her clearheaded thoughts to return. Daydreaming about Wes wouldn’t get anything accomplished today and she refused to let a little sexual attraction delay his progress on clearing her business’s name.
“That’s fine. I placed a call to the MatingGame head Web mistress who still oversees the day-to-day operations of the company. She’s out of town until Wednesday, but I left her an urgent message that we needed to discuss the business. I can’t imagine MatingGame is involved in anything improper, but if there is trouble in the company, this woman will know exactly where to look for it.”
“Good. Were you able to access her files for the site?” Wes slid into the seat in front of the computer and clicked a few buttons to review recently downloaded material.
“Her assistant sent a disk over by courier. It’s in the drive now.” Tempest watched him go to work on the files, his computer savvy obvious as he opened windows and accessed files.
“Can I get you some coffee?” She could do that much at least, since she would have offered the same to any other visitor.
He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and then asked for tea.
Three hours and numerous cups of tea later, Wes hadn’t found anything unusual in the computer files. He’d forwarded names and addresses to his police station, checking out the women—and even some of the men—who posted profiles on MatingGame. So far not a single person had been linked to prostitution or violent crime. He’d flagged two sex offenders who had snuck through the screening process, however, and reported them to police stations in California and Wisconsin where the profiles originated.
Tempest couldn’t help but admire his thorough approach to his work and the noble intentions behind it. She could appreciate the importance of his job, even if it put her on the defensive as owner of the dating company.
Sipping from a small glass of orange juice, she stole past the small desk for the tenth time in the last few hours, curious about his work but not wanting to get too close to him. He’d warned her about sitting beside him last night and she’d taken him at his word. No way would she send him any signals that implied sexual interest.
Even if she felt it.
“If you told me what you were looking for, maybe I could help you find it.” She set down her juice to wave her laptop in front of him. “I could work at the table and review files from there.”
But Wes scarcely seemed to hear her, his concentration devoted to the text onscreen, which he’d enlarged. “Take a look at this.”
She started to lean over his shoulder and then decided she’d be better off just pulling up a chair, since he seemed engrossed in his work anyway. Settling next to him, she retrieved her juice in an effort to keep cool around the sexy detective. “It’s the coding for one of the profiles, right?”
Her gaze scanned along the text that suggested the woman who’d written it was especially adept at blow jobs.
Tempest nearly spewed her orange juice.
“Yes. But it’s unusual coding since it includes this graphic of an asterisk here and I can’t see any explanation on the site for what significance an asterisk has. Do you know?”
Blinking her way past the shock of blow jobs written in sixteen-point font, Tempest tried to focus on his question and not wonder if there was actually a technique to good blow jobs. What other key pieces of sex advice had she been missing out on all her adult life?
“I don’t know what the asterisk means. Perhaps it only has significance to the site managers?” She congratulated herself on her calm, intelligent words despite her ridiculous thoughts. “Maybe it means the woman in question is a repeat customer or received a good rating from her dates or something.”
“But why put it there unless the Web site wants customers to see it?” Wes turned toward her, swiveling in his chair until he faced her head-on.
“Valid point.” She half wondered if the asterisk denoted adept blow job givers. “I can put in another call to the MatingGame people and see what they say.”
“What if it denotes the prostitutes in the crowd so that visitors who are aware they’re available can make sure they choose from the right pool of women?”
“I don’t know.” Shrugging, she found it hard to believe MatingGame had anything to do with prostitution. Or was it just that she couldn’t bear for her business instincts to have been so dead wrong? “Did you check out other women who have the asterisk graphic on their page?”
“I’ll put someone on it. I know you don’t want one of your companies to be found guilty of trafficking in sex, but one way or another, I have to get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m just as eager as you are to figure out what’s going on.” She didn’t need her board of directors questioning her business decisions now.
Reaching down to the floor, she picked up her laptop to show him how helpful she could be in his case.
Except that her arm brushed his leg as she moved.

JUST AN ACCIDENT?
Wes might have written off the barely-there touch as unintentional, except that coincidences were piling up as fast as he could count them in this investigation. His murder case just happened to be linked to Tempest Boucher, who seemed to be the target of an intruder bent on destruction. And he still wasn’t comfortable with the fact that her father had died while out with a MatingGame client, same as the victim in Wes’s case.
Maybe the incidents didn’t have a damn thing to do with one another and it had all just been chance. But—more likely—the events were genuinely related. He was anxious to speak to the day-to-day operations manager of MatingGame to see if she was selling more than dating advice.
Either way, Wes had reached his personal coincidence quota today. Since Tempest had touched him, he could only believe that she’d meant it.
Shifting beside him, she hefted her small computer onto the desk, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Sorry.” She murmured an apology before cracking open the case of her laptop.
“Are you?” He studied her while she flicked through the opening screens as her computer warmed up. One brown curl grazed her temple while the rest remained knotted haphazardly at the back of her head with only a felt tip pen to keep it in place.
She blew the curl away from her eyes impatiently as she huffed out a sigh. “No, actually, I’m not a bit sorry. I can’t help you unless I can access the MatingGame site. It’s not my fault your he-man sprawl of legs takes up every square foot of space beneath the desk.”
He watched her brow furrow in concentration, her lips pursed while she tapped more keys on the laptop. His gaze lingered on her mouth, which appeared deliciously free of lipstick today.
No doubt about it, he wanted her. Her alibi checked out for his case, so he wasn’t worried about the ethics of the situation. And although he wanted to find the homicidal hooker who had taken down her victim a week ago, Wes didn’t really have any other professional interest in MatingGame. If some facet of the company was involved in prostitution, Wes would stake his reputation that Tempest Boucher didn’t know a damn thing about it. Either way, that wasn’t his department. Another cop would make that bust, not him.
From where he was sitting, there wasn’t a reason in the world not to pursue the only woman to capture his interest in longer than he cared to remember.
“I checked your alibi.” He tossed the comment out there, as he navigated his way through a few more profiles of New York–based singles on the MatingGame site.
“Alibi?” Her computer keys stopped tapping.
“For last Saturday night.” His gaze wandered over another curly-headed brunette on-screen but the vampish female whose profile touted her S and M expertise left him cold.
What was it about Tempest that set a torch to his libido?
“I almost hate to ask why I’d need an alibi for last Saturday night.” She swiveled away from her laptop to face him.

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