“Is that right?” He slammed a fist against the elevator’s stop button without looking toward the control panel. “Never?” he probed.
There wasn’t much space to retreat. Correction: there was no space to retreat when one shared an elevator with the likes of Samson Melendez. Avra cleared her throat but refused to show any other trace of unease.
“Is this crowding supposed to intimidate me or have me panting like an idiot and hoping you’ll do something I didn’t know I wanted?”
The unexpected challenging inquiry softened Sam’s
copper-kissed features with thoughtfulness instead of humor.
“Have you put much consideration into me doing something like that, Av?”
She rolled her eyes, edging away from him in one cool move. “Is this your way of making me change my opinion of you?”
Sam leaned on the opposite wall of the car and raked his pitch stare down the rigid line of her back, which she’d turned his way. “What’s the point in tryin’ to better myself when you’ve already told me it’s pointless?” He studied the lines in his palms and waited for her answer.
Avra looked up at the floor number, which had lit up when Sam stopped the car. “I’d never tell you it’s pointless to better yourself, Sam.” She turned her head a fraction. “It’s only pointless to think bettering yourself will get me in your bed.” She didn’t need to turn around. She could feel his wide frame less than an inch away.
“I never said it had to be my bed.”
His words preceded touch. Avra bit her upper lip and swallowed when one of his big hands smothered a small yet full breast. Not long after, he’d worked the nipple into a firm nub beneath her shirt and eased it past the barrier of her bra.
Avra didn’t try resisting. She already knew she couldn’t. Instead she moved against the subtle, pleasurable massage. Barely there, breathy sounds slipped past her mouth as she pressed her nipple deeper into his palm. She was moments from turning to him when she snapped to.
Sam had hit the elevator’s stop button again. The car continued its ascent. He put space between them, giving Avra time to fix her clothes and collect herself. She kept her back turned for the duration of the trip. Once the doors whispered open, she bolted from the car.
Alone then, Sam allowed his smug playfulness to vanish. Pressing a thumb to the corner of his eye, he sighed heavily. “Nice, Sam, nice…” he muttered.
He left the car reluctantly and was more than a little surprised to find Avra holding open the door when he arrived at the condo. He crossed the threshold as reluctantly as he’d left the elevator. His dark gaze was astute, alert as he observed his surroundings in the event that an anvil or some other destructive device might come crashing down on his head. He moved no farther than the foyer.
“Drink?” Avra slammed the door and moved past him and into the condominium.
Sam continued to tread slowly. Hands in his pockets, the alertness in his eyes transitioned into something more akin to curiosity. He watched her kick off the chocolate pumps that complemented the mocha and tan of her blouse and accentuated her shapely long legs beneath the flaring hem of her wrap skirt.
Avra prepared a gin tonic, took a sip then wiggled her glass in silent inquiry to Sam.
“Got any Jack?” he asked, relaxing just a smidge.
She dutifully prepared the drink and then crossed the room while sipping her gin. She handed him a beaded glass and waited for him to drink.
“Why is my dad protecting yours?” she asked when he nodded his approval of the liquor.
Samson blinked deliberately, his attempt at ease sailing right into oblivion. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Right.” Avra shook her head. “I see your dad shares about as much as mine does.” She demurely sipped more of her drink.
Sam downed the rest of the Jack Daniel’s. “I’m still confused, Av.”
“My dad called a meeting today and basically threatened to fire his reporters if they so much as sniffed at the Melendez story. Why would he do that? Protect MM that way?”
Sam was twirling the empty beaded glass in his hands. “I haven’t got one damn clue, Av.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Darlin’—” he grinned wearily “—I sure as hell would if I knew where to start. All I have are bits and pieces of junk that may or may not be anything.”
Avra believed him. Especially since her own luck at finding answers had proven to be just as dismal. She was certainly in no position to share what she had,
either.
“I’ll get my stuff packed,” she said and set her glass on an end table before scooping up the shoes she’d kicked off. “Won’t be long,” she called over her shoulder.
Alone in the living room, Sam went to help himself to another drink. He scanned the room and looked thoughtfully toward the mound of files and papers lying on the coffee table.
* * *
“What the hell is this?” Brad Crest’s tanned face was a study in frustration and confusion. One of his men had just set the last of eight boxes on the counter in his office at the precinct.
“Boxes contain things taken from Martino Viejo’s home,” Detective Gregory Roth explained.
Brad straightened on the sofa at the mention of the latest Machine Melendez murder victim. “What do you mean things?”
Greg shrugged, his low brow crinkling with agitation. “Just that—a bunch of stuff that could mean nothin’, but given the fact that we’re leavin’ no stone unturned and the nature of some of this stuff…”
Brad braced his elbows to his knees, his mouth curved downward as he considered Greg’s point. “Show me what you got.” He shrugged.
Greg motioned to the other man in the room, and together they brought four of the boxes to the coffee table set before the long sofa in Brad’s office. Dutifully, Greg passed his boss a box of latex gloves and waited on Brad to put them in place.
Mild surprise mixed with curiosity soon claimed Brad’s face. Despite the latex gloves, he seemed hesitant about touching the photo he stared down at. “Is that…?”
Greg was already nodding. “Senator Herbert Willins.”
Carefully, Brad picked up the plastic-sleeved photograph. Willins and Martino Viejo were both grinning broadly, arms linked about one another’s shoulders. A luxury yacht had been captured in the background of the picture.
“I knew this guy’s job put him in the company of some pretty influential folks, but…” Brad’s voice trailed off into silence as he studied other photos of Martino Viejo looking chummy with other influential types.
“Dawson’s son?” Brad took a closer look at the picture of Viejo and the lieutenant governor’s oldest son.
Greg tugged on his earlobe. “The man himself’s in a few, as well,” he said in reference to Lieutenant Governor Logan Dawson.
Brad whistled. “Impressive list.” He tossed the photo back to the coffee table. “Makes it even more pressin’ for us to find out who’s behind this ASAP.”
“We’re just now finishing up documenting all the photos,” Greg explained, grimacing toward the evidence boxes. “They’ll be on the way to the lab soon, but there’s more here than snapshots, boss. With your permission, I’d like to request extra help to go through it all.”
“Well, what else have you found?”
“Boxes of journals