Got Your Number

an odd angle, looking away from the camera. She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. He looked like a mannequin, a prop in a weekend murder-mystery game.
    Another photo was taken standing over his body, this one clearly showing the scarf wrapped around his neck. Her scarf. Roxann gulped air.
    Close-ups of different parts of his body and clothing—his hands, his feet, his shirt, his house shoes—one on, one off.
    And then his face. Unrecognizable as the handsome, confident man she had known. He was cartoonish and swollen, his cheeks and forehead puffy. His head was turned to the left, his eyes slightly open. Just enough that if she looked hard enough, she could imagine their bright blue color. The photos slid from her fingers and bounced on the carpet. She choked on a sob.
    "Hey, hey," Capistrano chided, his arms going around her from behind. "You shouldn't be looking at those."
    She turned into his chest and nodded, inhaling a clean, evergreen scent. His skin was damp, and he wore only the pajama pants. She felt petite against his frame and safe in his arms. God, was it good to feel safe. Everything female in her reared its head, and her arms went around his neck. His kiss took ownership of her fear and anxiety, offering comfort and refuge in return. When she moaned into his mouth, he pulled her up and against him, deepening the kiss. But he let her take the lead, let her decide when and if the kiss would go from comforting to carnal. A few skipped heartbeats later, she lifted her leg and hooked it around the back of his knee—an unmistakable signal, she figured.
    His hands moved down over her back and inside the baggy sweatpants to mold her into him. When he encountered the thong underwear, a groan of pure male appreciation moved through his body, and she laughed. He grinned and lifted her off the floor to set her on the edge of the bed. The outline of his arousal against the thin fabric of his pajamas sent moisture to her thighs.
    He knelt before her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, with more intensity and a probing tongue that hinted of other intimacies. Her neck loosened and her bones turned elastic. She kneaded the skin on his shoulders and back, reveling in the solid maleness, the stability of his body.
    "Let me see you," he murmured, his hands already undoing the ridiculous jacket she wore. She allowed her silence to be her acquiescence. The slide of the zipper sent chills over her shoulders. It would be good for them to get each other out of their systems, she decided. Good to get it over with so they could go their separate ways when this mess ended.
    Her jacket fell to the floor, then the shirt of his she wore. He never took his eyes from her, drinking her in and smiling with pleasure. He kissed her neck and collarbone before wrapping his arms around her waist, nudging down the straps of the filmy white bra and kissing her breasts. His lovemaking had an edge, a restrained power that seemed instinctual to him. Even the guttural whispers and moans he breathed over her skin were animalistic. She had always presumed that big, macho men used their strength to threaten and intimidate—she'd certainly been exposed to enough of them through the Rescue program—but the detective's determined mouth pushed her closer to the edge than she'd imagined was possible while still wearing panties.
    He certainly knew what he was doing, she noted as she gasped for air. But did she ? He was so different from any man she'd been intimate with, she felt almost virginal. Maybe she should have given that making-love-to-a-man book a refresher read.
    But once the underwear came off, it was amazing how quickly everything came back to her. In fact, things were going quite well until a knock sounded at the door.
    Capistrano stopped what he was doing—much to her chagrin—and walked to the door, grabbing his gun on the way. There was something so... arresting about a naked man wielding a gun. She scrambled for something to cover up.
    "Who's there?" Capistrano asked, pointing his weapon in the air.
    "Officers Jaffey and Warner, Detective. Open up."
    Capistrano mouthed a curse, lowered the gun, and retrieved his pajama bottoms from the floor. He waited until she was haphazardly clothed before he unlocked the door.
    They charged past Capistrano into the room. "Roxann Beadleman, you're under arrest for the murder of Carl Seger."
    Okay, so arresting had been an unfortunate word choice.

Chapter Twenty-five

    IT HURT