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