Thomas Riley is at Elderberry Farm when he learns of a deadly crane accident in Cleveland. The forensic investigator suspects sabotage and amid the rubble and mangled metal he uncovers a web of lies and deception. At the center of it all is a beautiful brunette who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Both fiercely independent, they must learn to work together––inside and outside the bedroom––to unravel the mystery and clear her uncle’s name.
The bath was full enough. He programmed the controls for the jets and created a jacuzzi, setting her in the center. The surprise on her face receded when he kicked his shoes off and went for the hem of his shirt.
“Go slow,” she said, sinking into the warm water. She winced a little, the salt doing its job on those abrasions. Lower and lower she went until the water danced around her shoulders. “I’m waiting.”
Total. Turn on. With the number of encounters Tom had, the removal of clothing was sometimes frenzied, sometimes foreplay. At times it had been clumsy, and once it had been perplexing. Never had it been scintillating. Just the way she looked at him made him nearly cum.
He turned his back to her, slowly raising his shirt. Tightening his abs, puffing out his chest, he rolled his hips. With each circle, he lifted the shirt higher.
He couldn’t see her and hoped to hell he looked as sexy as he felt. He wasn’t breathing, just for her.
“Turn around.” Her voice was deep, full of need.
He didn’t comply immediately but drew it out. Over his shoulder, he saw her face. Her lids were heavy as she licked her lips. Her cheeks were flushed, and he suspected it was from more than the bath.
He bent one knee to remove his sock. There was no sexy way to remove a sock, so he just did it fast. He raised his arms, showing off the results of time invested in the gym. His stomach carried a six-pack over his long frame; he tightened it, posed as if for a magazine. Then came his pants. The button at the top went in one move. His gaze was on her as the zipper went down…down…down. Her breathing was faster now, her eyes dazed. One hand gripped the edge of the tub and the other…
“Go slow,” she said, sinking into the warm water. She winced a little, the salt doing its job on those abrasions. Lower and lower she went until the water danced around her shoulders. “I’m waiting.”
Total. Turn on. With the number of encounters Tom had, the removal of clothing was sometimes frenzied, sometimes foreplay. At times it had been clumsy, and once it had been perplexing. Never had it been scintillating. Just the way she looked at him made him nearly cum.
He turned his back to her, slowly raising his shirt. Tightening his abs, puffing out his chest, he rolled his hips. With each circle, he lifted the shirt higher.
He couldn’t see her and hoped to hell he looked as sexy as he felt. He wasn’t breathing, just for her.
“Turn around.” Her voice was deep, full of need.
He didn’t comply immediately but drew it out. Over his shoulder, he saw her face. Her lids were heavy as she licked her lips. Her cheeks were flushed, and he suspected it was from more than the bath.
He bent one knee to remove his sock. There was no sexy way to remove a sock, so he just did it fast. He raised his arms, showing off the results of time invested in the gym. His stomach carried a six-pack over his long frame; he tightened it, posed as if for a magazine. Then came his pants. The button at the top went in one move. His gaze was on her as the zipper went down…down…down. Her breathing was faster now, her eyes dazed. One hand gripped the edge of the tub and the other…
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Raised on America’s Rock Coast in Cleveland, Ohio, Anita was born while the river burned. Music, food and family shaped Anita’s life and provide much of the fodder for her stories. Her love of mysteries and puzzle solving came from her Grandpa John, who introduced Anita to her first detective hero – Nero Wolfe. Food was as central a character in Anita’s life as it was in Nero’s, where Sunday dinner at Nonna’s table was a command performance.
Anita has been writing scorching mysteries and suspense since 2006 with stories ranging on the heat index from a “nice spicy little pepper” to “pass a mop for my forehead, please.” Check out tastes of Anita’s stories and like her on Facebook. Anita is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
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