Masked Innocence

Twenty-Three

I was in the middle of one of those incredible dreams, the kind where you win the lottery, then find out your yard boy is Channing Tatum, and he has just decided to prune your hedges naked, when my cell rang. I reached out blindly, knocking over half of the items on my bedside table before I hit the silence button. I drifted back, seeing his gorgeous profile, his muscular arms reaching up, up—and my damn phone rang again. I reached out, this time connecting with it the first time, silencing it so quickly that dream redemption should have been easy pickings.

I floated down, down, into absolute nothing. My subconscious searched wildly, searching for a fragment, a tendril, anything. I would have been happy with Channing Tatum’s chest hair at that point, not that the man had any. But...zilch. It was gone.

I opened my eyes to dark silk and reached up, yanking the eye mask from my face. Shit. I groaned, reaching over and grabbing my phone, grumbling as I unlocked it to display my call history.

Brad. Two missed calls. I traded one imaginary hunk for a real one. It should be a good thing. Channing Tatum never brought me to my first orgasm, though I had certainly tried hard enough before chucking my first vibrator into the trash. But seeing Brad’s name brought back reality, and reality brought back Broward’s dead body and the Magianos’ probable involvement. An involvement that Detective Parks had dismissed without a second thought. No matter what he said, I knew what I had heard. And despite Broward’s strong words, there had been fear in his voice. And then he had been killed. The circumstances were too strong to ignore.

The phone rang again, startling me.

I rolled my eyes, my mouth curving despite myself. “Whaaaat?” I groaned into the phone, fighting to keep the smile out of my voice.

“You’re starting a habit, answering the phone like that.” His deep voice weakened my flimsy shield, and I giggled despite my best intentions.

“You’re starting a habit of power calling.”

He chuckled. “You can’t be busy, seeing as how I gave you the day off.”

I smirked into the phone. “Don’t even start thinking along that path. I’ll report to Clarke before I’m under you.”

“There are so many places I could go with that statement, but seeing as I’m not alone, I will keep it clean. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” I stretched, stifling a yawn. “Right now I’m waiting with bated breath to find out what my day will look like tomorrow. Has anyone sent out an email?”

He swore under his breath. “Shit. I’ve got to have someone do that.”

“Sounds like a Clarke assignment to me. He seems by far the most responsible out of the remaining two partners.”

“You’re right. I’ll call him next.” There was noise in the background, and then he was back on my line. “Are you mine tonight, or should I make other plans?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

He made an unintelligible sound, somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Whatever. I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up at seven?”

“All right. Let me get back to my warm bed. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, baby.”

I ended the call, halfheartedly attempted another return to Tatum-land, then gave up, swinging my legs out of bed and standing. Stretching, I headed to the shower, determined to wash away the day’s ugliness.

At 5:12 p.m., an email from Lisa Strong, Clarke’s secretary, titled “Broward Staff” hit my in-box. It was brief, listing the day and time of Broward’s funeral—Sunday, 3:00 p.m. It also stated that the Broward staff would be off on Thursday, but was expected to work normal hours on Friday.

I skimmed the email and then packed an overnight bag. A good dinner, sleeping late in Brad’s bed and a home-cooked breakfast sounded pretty good right now.