Then he’d met his cop, his mate, the love of his life, and he’d arranged for the painting of the lonely figure to be “found” and returned to its owner.
Then he’d bought it, legitimately.
He’d done the same with the other bits and bites he’d still had inside the plump pies baked on the shady side of the line. Divested of them, given up those dark little thrills.
A small price to pay, he thought as he moved on, found the second sock, for the woman now leading him through the maze of
his own home.
She never failed to fascinate, frustrate, and fulfill.
Doubling back, was she, he mused, spotting some loose credits she’d likely pulled out of her pocket. And he spotted a door open an inch or so, to lure him.
Sliding the credits into his own pocket, he moved on, as he knew the room to be linen storage for that section of the house.
Then doubled back himself, as he wouldn’t put it past her to decide they’d have sex in a bloody linen closet.
Apparently not, he thought, when all he found inside were linens.
The game took on fresh interest when he found her trousers tossed over the banister of a stairway leading up to the next floor.
Intrigued, he started up, mentally going over the floor plan.
Ballroom level. Sitting rooms, baths, a staging area for catering, storage, a small, efficient kitchen and butler’s pantry—again for catering—another separate area for any staff hired for a party to break or gather, another storage area, a game room.
The ballroom, of course.
He found her shirt hanging over the door of one of the sitting rooms, considered, and decided that after the hunt, a sitting room ranked very low on the scale.
Then turned the other way.
He found her pocket debris—the lockpicks he’d given her, her pocketknife, her communicator, her ’link, even her badge—all together on the hunt table outside the wide doorway, and stepped inside the ballroom.
She sat in the shadowy light, perched on the arm of one of the sofas.
“I wasn’t wearing enough to cover the house,” she said. “Next time I’ll have to gear up.”
“You managed to cover considerable ground, nonetheless. Lights on, ten percent.”
The grand chandeliers overhead flickered on, soft, quiet light.
She wore her white support tank, her simple white panties. And her weapon harness. Long, long legs, tousled hair, a smug, smug smile. Was it a wonder he went hard as rock instantly?
“I’ve never been up here when there hasn’t been a party or the prep for one. How come you have furniture in here when nothing’s going on?”
“Something’s about to.”
She grinned at him. “That’s a point, a good point.”
“And so you come to the only area of the house without an actual bed.”
“Anybody can have sex on a bed,” she pointed out. “How many have sex in the middle of a big-ass ballroom?” She rose, walked to the center of the room.
She pointed at the floor. “Right in the damn middle.”
“We might as well do it right then.” He moved to a panel, flipped it open, danced his fingers over the controls within.
The enormous fireplace flared on, blazed. Music, something low with a lot of bass, streamed on.