Seconds later, the elevator chimed its arrival at the building’s top floor. The doors glided open; a tall man stalked on, his shoulder ramming into Jake’s.
“Sorry.”
Though the man uttered only one word, Jake registered his thick accent.
“No problem.” As he stepped into the hall Jake’s gaze swept the man’s face. His eyes narrowed while the cop in him cataloged the familiar sharp cheekbones, olive complexion and black mustache over the mouth set in a hard line. Jake made the connection just as the elevator doors slid closed. The Latino.
His thoughts scrolled back to Bill and Whitney’s wedding reception. He’d watched Nicole tuck her business card into the man’s breast pocket while he gazed down at her with simmering desire. Today, it had been anger in the man’s eyes. Jake wondered if Nicole had another unsatisfied customer on her hands. If so, why?
He strode down the quiet, carpeted corridor that led to a waiting area furnished with coral-colored sofas and glass tables. As he approached the desk that rose from a pool of shell-pink carpet, he was aware of the low strains of classical music drifting on the air.
“Welcome to Meet Your Match.” The woman behind the desk was a good-looking brunette with big, wide-set eyes. She wore a trim, midnight-black suit and candy-red lipstick. “Are you interested in speaking with one of our relationship counselors?”
“If your boss is one of the counselors.”
“Do you have an appointment with Miss Taylor, sir?”
“I don’t need one.”
The woman’s perfect mouth thinned a fraction. “I’m sorry, sir, Miss Taylor is unavailable. I’ll be happy to arrange a consultation with one of our other counselors.”
Jake shoved back one flap of his sport coat to reveal the badge hooked to the waistband of his jeans. He was aware that only a few months ago he would have grinned, slid a hip onto the brunette’s desk and charmed his way into her boss’s office. Maybe even invited the receptionist to meet him for a drink after work. If the chemistry was right, finessed her into his bed. Those days were over, he acknowledged with grim acceptance. The I-don’t-give-a-damn lifestyle he’d embarked on after Annie and the twins died had led to the murder of a woman he’d dated and resulted in his being set up to take the fall for eight homicides. If it hadn’t been for Whitney’s dogged belief in his innocence, he’d probably be locked in a cell right now.
Those sobering experiences had opened his eyes, made him realize he had to face the pain of losing his family and live with the hand fate had dealt him. Fine, he was working on that. What he didn’t have to do was leave himself open to having his heart ripped apart again.
“Sergeant Jake Ford,” he said while the brunette’s gaze scanned his badge. “Please ring Miss Taylor’s office. Now.”
“Of course.” Nerves had the woman’s hand shaking as she snatched up the phone.
Seconds later, she shook her head, replaced the receiver and rose. “Mel—Miss Taylor’s assistant—isn’t at his desk. I’ll need to escort…” Her voice drifted off when the phone trilled.
“Better answer that.” Jake pointed toward a softly lit hallway behind the reception desk. “Her office that way?”
Lifting the receiver, the woman moistened her red-glossed lips. “Yes, but you can’t—”
“I can.” Letting the flap of his jacket fall back into place, he stepped around the desk and headed down the hallway.
The next waiting area was cozier, its pale upholstered chairs, polished tables and soft watercolors lending a more personal atmosphere. An oak desk with a computer and empty swivel chair sat to one side of a door marked Private. A nameplate at the desk’s front edge read Mel Hall.
Because his natural inquisitiveness had paid off more times than he could count during past homicide investigations, Jake strolled to the desk where a single file folder lay. Using a fingertip, he turned the file his way, read the label. DeSoto Villanova. Jake lifted the file’s cover. The Latino’s smiling face stared back at him in vivid color, which emphasized the man’s swarthy good looks. Clipped on the opposite side of the file was a form titled Confidential Questionnaire with all the blanks neatly filled in. Pursing his lips, Jake closed the file, wondering again what had riled Villanova.
Turning from the desk, Jake neared the closed door. What he now recognized as Nicole’s just-under-the-smoldering-point scent settled around him. Without any effort, he again felt her soft flesh beneath his palm as their bodies swayed to the pianist’s love song. He clenched his teeth. Never before had he known a woman who could haunt and inflame.
Annie, his first love, his only love, had been comfortable, solid, a part of his soul. Nicole made him feel as if a flare had ignited inside him.
The knowledge of how just her scent affected him hitched his irritation level up a notch. He rapped once on the door; without waiting for an answer, he shoved it open, then froze. All of his senses zeroed in on the compelling sight of a barefoot Nicole bent nearly double in front of her desk, her trim, skirt-clad bottom tilted upward. Her hands were clamped onto the desk’s front edge, and for a split second Jake wondered if she was trying to shove the solid piece of mahogany toward the far wall where a floor-to-ceiling window gave an impressive view of the Oklahoma City skyline.
He might have sworn off women, but the hot ball of lust that lodged in his gut sent the message he was far from dead. Slanting one shoulder against the doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest and enjoyed the enticing view of woman. Seconds later, Nicole’s hips did a quick, enthusiastic twitch and he swallowed back a whistle. After it appeared she might wiggle indefinitely, he figured he’d better make his presence known.
“Waiting on a date, Taylor, or will you take pot luck?”
At the sound of his voice, she bolted upright and whirled to face him. “What are…?” Color flared across her cheeks as she raised a hand to smooth her sleek French twist. “Sergeant Ford, usually visitors don’t just barge into my office.”
Last night, she’d turned an oversize shirt, leggings, white socks and workout shoes into a fashion statement. Now she looked incredibly polished in a trim, traffic-stopping red suit. It occurred to Jake the woman could wear a gunnysack and look good.
“I knocked,” he said, angling his head toward the reception area. “Your secretary’s not around.”
“My assistant, Melvin…Mel, is in the kitchen making tea. I always have tea after my daily yoga session.”
“Yoga? Is that what that was?” Pushing away from the door, Jake roamed into the office, cataloging the chairs and sofas upholstered in peach, gleaming wood tables and glowing brass lamps, all arranged against a background of soft tan walls. “I thought yoga was where you sit on the floor with your legs crossed and your palms up.”
“That’s a different discipline. I study under Sebastian.”
“Under?”
Her chin lifted. “He’s my instructor. Sebastian says the best positions are those that put you into the moment.”
Jake paused inches from her. The smoldering scent that had settled around him in the outer room now snaked into his lungs. He felt the quick, helpless pull of need, and damned both himself and her for it. “Sebastian has a point,” he agreed. “That position certainly put me into the moment.”
Nicole could feel the hammer of her heart against her ribs as she gazed up into Jake’s dark eyes. His black hair skimmed the collar of the white dress shirt he wore beneath a blue sport coat. A bright paisley tie hung down the front of the shirt; his faded jeans accentuated his lean, muscular thighs and rangy build. He looked, she thought as her stomach muscles knotted, irresistibly handsome.
The spicy male tang of his cologne drifted around her, conjuring up the heady moments she’d spent dancing in his arms.