Silk Confessions

Wes followed her gaze, his eyes slowing on a haphazard pile of lacy undergarments spilling out of a tall armoire. Black ribbons mingled with pink straps, bright blue satin billowed over yellow see-through netting. He’d have to be a dead man not to notice the distinctly feminine intimate apparel, but he refused to envision Tempest wearing any of the slinky outfits.

Although the thought tempted him. Mightily.

As a compromise, he told himself he would not only work on finding another girlfriend in the very near future, but he would also seek out one who had a taste for lingerie. Of all the times for his libido to make a comeback after staying in hiding for months.

“Consider if you have anything here that someone else really wants. Something with monetary value? Something with significant value to a particular person?” He studied her face for hints of guilt or subterfuge, but only found deep thought. “The level of destruction in the apartment indicates that the perpetrator conducted a thorough search for something specific, or else the person responsible holds a personal grudge.”

His thoughts ran to the old lady neighbor he’d seen peering out her apartment door earlier. Had she been monitoring the goings-on in the hallway for reasons beyond general nosiness? Maybe some of Tempest’s neighbors didn’t appreciate the inevitable media frenzy that followed young, beautiful socialites around New York.

Wes found himself wondering if she brought a lot of men back to this apartment. Was the unassuming address her rendezvous point for booty calls she hid from her ritzy family?

“Obviously my intruder didn’t think my sculptures were worth a damn.” She clutched the smoky crystal at her neck and Wes spied the rapid beating of her pulse there.

What would it be like to make this woman’s heart pound faster?

“You collect statues?” Of naked men?

Perhaps Tempest’s snooping neighbor was an old prude who resented anyone with such an obvious interest in male nudity.

“I am the artist.” She lifted her chin with vaguely injured pride. “I had been hoping to convince a local gallery to do a showing once I had enough of a collection, but now…”

Certain a wealthy heiress whose face frequently graced the social pages could buy her way into any gallery she chose, Wes wasn’t too concerned. He needed answers from Tempest Boucher and he certainly wasn’t getting them by being subtle.

Time to be a bit more relentless with his questions.

“Did you keep valuables here? Jewelry? Other artwork besides your own?”

TEMPEST STARED BACK at Detective Heartless Shaw and assured herself he must not have a creative bone in his body. How else could he ask her something so insensitive as whether or not she owned any artwork that was actually worth something?

Of all the damn nerve.

“As a matter of fact, my statues were the most valuable items here. I don’t keep much at the apartment besides the tools for my sculpting.” And a few pictures for inspiration. Could she help it if she liked to mold male bodies? Judging by what her first few pieces had sold for, she wasn’t the only woman who appreciated a naked masculine torso around the house.

Detective Shaw might actually make for great male inspiration himself if he didn’t have such abrupt crime-scene manners. With his close-cropped dark hair and classic Roman features, he possessed a timeless appeal women would have found irresistible in any era, though his dove-gray eyes and the hint of a dark tattoo curling around one wrist gave him a uniqueness she wouldn’t confuse with any other classically handsome male. He wore a vintage suit that had probably cost a fortune in its prime, but the threads had seen better days, settling into softer lines around angular shoulders.

Definitely the sort of shoulders a woman wouldn’t mind molding. In clay, of course.

He peered around her apartment as if to test the truth of her assertion that she only came here to work. Curse the man and his unwanted sex appeal. Wasn’t she the victim here? Shouldn’t he make a passing effort to ask her if she was okay? She’d never been a paranoid woman, but it seemed as if even the toughest of chicks would be shaken by the sight of their personal lives churned through a giant blender and spit out like an aftertaste all over the floor.

“As soon as we’ve finished collecting evidence, we need to do a thorough walk-through to see if anything’s missing. In the meantime, I’ve got some other questions I’d like to ask you about Boucher Enterprises.” His gray eyes slid back to her, fixing her with unsettling directness. And something more? She could almost imagine a hint of male interest there. Then again, she could be dabbling in big-time escapist thinking to drool over Wesley Shaw instead of focusing on the criminal act some scumbag had committed against her.

“You recognized the name?” She had rather hoped he wouldn’t want to discuss her connection to the famous family, but no doubt reporters would have jumped on the police report the moment it was filed anyhow.

Her misfortune would be all over the papers and would certainly prompt more irritated phone calls from her mother about the need to move back to the safety of the family’s Park Avenue building on a full-time basis. The media would discover the location of her weekend hideaway and make life in Chelsea impossible. And then there would be the outcry from the Boucher board of directors who never understood her desire to have a life separate and distinct from her commitment to the company.

“There aren’t many people in New York who wouldn’t. The Post ran a feature on you just a couple of weeks ago—”

“I remember.” How could she forget the story that implied she had a fixation with younger men? As if her last-minute decision to go to the cinema with the barely-legal performance artist who ran a coffee shop around the corner counted as a date. “Can we move on to your questions, please?”

Adopting her best all-business demeanor, she dismissed the topic, unwilling to think about what kind of man she would have rather been dating than the coffee guy. Tempest might not enjoy her role in Boucher Enterprises as a corporate bigwig, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t play the part when necessary. After coming home to a trashed apartment, finding her last year’s worth of work destroyed and missing Days to boot, she wasn’t really in the mood to put up with a lot of innuendo. And she definitely didn’t want to find herself daydreaming about the detective’s shoulders again.

Before he could say anything, however, one of the officers called Wes from the other side of the room.

“Looks like we’ve got a message from our perpetrator, Shaw.” Standing next to the computer armoire, the cop held a pile of clothes that had been draped over the monitor. Now that the mountain of lace and satin had been moved aside to reveal the screen, the neatly typed words in extra large font were visible from clear across the room.

You’re in the wrong business, bitch. Rising, Tempest read the message aloud as she stepped closer to the computer, her frustrations with Wesley Shaw forgotten in the sudden onslaught of cold, clammy fear.

The warning written on her computer screen—the cursor still blinking at the end of the last word—had been left by someone who knew her. The break-in was no random act of city crime, but a calculated plan carried out against her specifically.

The thought made her a little woozy. She’d fought so hard for a small slice of independence in a life filled with commitments to her family’s business. The unassuming downtown address and her sculpting gave her a taste of normal life where she wasn’t under the constant surveillance of security cameras or family bodyguards. But if her weekend apartment haven wasn’t safe, did that mean she’d have to return to the Boucher clan compound that was as secure as Fort Knox and just about as homey?

“Tempest?” Detective Shaw stood beside her now, his voice quieter. Softer, even. But the gaze he directed on her remained detached and—could she be reading him right?—suspicious. “I think it’s time we talked more specifically about your line of work.”

Tempest chewed her lip, trying to figure out what this man was driving at and why she’d roused his suspicions. Unfortunately, he’d roused a different sort of feeling altogether within her. But no matter what she thought of Detective Wesley Shaw, his brusque manners and undeniable sex appeal, she recognized him as her best hope of keeping her studio a safe retreat.

Somehow she would ignore this unwelcome hum of attraction and do whatever it took to help Wes with his case.

2

“HOW MUCH TIME do you have, Detective?” Tempest wrapped her arms around herself, clearly shaken by the note on her computer screen. “As the temporary CEO of Boucher Enterprises, I’m involved in overseeing many smaller companies in a wide variety of businesses. I also support my studio with my sculpting, so I consider that a line of work as well.”

Wes felt a tug of sympathy for her. He’d had enough years in law enforcement to be pretty astute about sizing up people’s stories, and Tempest was either a hell of an actress or genuinely surprised and scared to have found her home ransacked.

Of course, that didn’t clear her of wrongdoing. She could still be connected to his murder case, or have some hand in the prostitution ring his informant assured him operated under the guise of the MatingGame.com name. Her genuine fear and surprise might simply stem from dismay that someone was on to her.

Hell, for that matter, maybe his sudden eagerness to clear her name had more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t mind getting to know her better. Thoughts of her dressed in some of the skimpy lingerie scattered all over the apartment invaded his brain despite his most valiant attempts to staunch them. Was she wearing an outfit like that under her pantsuit right now?

Shoving aside the thought, he forced himself to focus on the case. On her valid worries.

“Do you have reason to believe any of your assorted businesses could be involved in illegal practices?” This was the revealing question, the one that could give her away if she hid an affiliation to a high-priced call girl ring. She certainly had all the right social connections to provide the city’s wealthiest men with escorts.

And damned if he didn’t really hate that idea.

The mountains of lingerie strewn all over her apartment took on a more sinister meaning.

“Detective Shaw, I assure you if I had any reason to suspect one of my companies engaged in illegal practices, it would already be shut down.” She fixed her tawny stare, eyes as cold and remote as the chunk of smoky quartz at her neck. “If you have any grounds for suspecting one of my businesses is involved in something devious, I urge you to fill me in immediately so I can put the proper balls on the chopping block.”

The threat seemed all the more convincing in light of the disembodied clay penis he’d unearthed earlier. He hadn’t expected so much fervor from a woman he planned to keep on his suspect list.

Did it make him sadistic that Tempest Boucher and her bloodthirsty promise were turning into the most interesting case he’d had in nearly two years? As the web of intrigue around this mystery tightened, Wes experienced the first hint of enjoyment in his job that he’d had in far too long. “Is that how Boucher Enterprises deals with employees who don’t toe the company line?”

“It is while I’m at the helm. My family has been through enough over the past eight months without adding the media frenzy any illegal businesses practices would cause.”

“Do you keep work-related files on your home computer?” His gaze strayed back to the PC where the officer had just finished fingerprinting the keyboard. Wes wanted to get his hands on that computer to see what secrets he could shake loose from the circuitry.

Besides, better to think about laying his hands on the computer than think about using them on the woman in front of him who needed to be off-limits for as long as she was a suspect.

“Nothing related to Boucher Enterprises, but I do the accounting for my sculpting work here.” She snorted. “Such as it is. It’s not exactly keeping me in high style. And now that all my inventory has been destroyed—”