The child’s expression was so earnest, Marin didn’t have the heart to disappoint her despite the fact that she was already feeling woozy. “I would love that, sweetie.”
Marin climbed into the big bed, pulling a blanket over her weary body. Arabelle walked to the other side and carefully spread the books out on top of the coverlet. “Which one do you want me to read first?”
“You pick.”
“Oh! I almost forgot.” Arabelle raced over to the chair, coming back with a worn stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. She carefully lifted the blanket off Marin and tucked the toy next to her. “This is Ellie. She always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
The supply of Marin’s tears seemed to be endless because her eyes welled up again. Arabelle flipped the pages in the book, retelling from memory the story that she’d likely heard a thousand times about a moose who wanted a muffin. Marin drifted off to sleep dreaming of muffins shaped like moose, vowing to make them for Arabelle’s birthday.
* * *
Griffin wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and, with a glance at his reflection, confirmed he looked as crappy as he felt. He swallowed two acetaminophens with a bottle of cold water hoping like hell they’d kick in soon. Not that he didn’t deserve the throbbing in his head. He deserved that and more after losing control and taking things too far with Marin last night—way too far. Today, he needed to get his head—the one on his shoulders—back on the case. And that meant some serious rethinking of the evidence and the suspects.
He stepped out of the bathroom and abruptly halted in his tracks, astounded to find Leslie sprawled out on his unmade bed, an empty bottle from the mini-bar dangling from her fingers.
“Did you have a little party for one last night?” the FBI agent asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
Griffin glanced at the door, but given his condition the previous evening, he obviously hadn’t bothered with the security lock. Adjusting the towel more snugly around his waist, he met her amused gaze.
“What are you doing in DC, Leslie? Specifically, in my hotel room?”
“Aw, come on, Griff. The last time I surprised you in your hotel room, you were a lot”—she glanced in the vicinity of his crotch—“happier to see me.”
“This isn’t Rome, Leslie.” And Griffin wasn’t sure he’d be happy to see any woman in his present condition. Not when the taste of Marin Chevalier was still haunting him.
Tilting her head to the side, she rose from the bed and crossed the room to where he stood. She reached out a finger, presumably to trace the drop of water sliding down his pectoral muscle, but Griffin flinched before her finger made contact.
Pain flashed in her green eyes before she quickly shuttered them. Griffin felt like an even bigger ass. Apparently, disappointing women was becoming a habit.
“Huh,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “I’m here to investigate the homicide of the White House curator.”
“We turned that over to the local Feebs.”
“And they turned it over to me since the guy potentially died at the hands of a nasty counterfeit ring I’m investigating.”
The fact that she’d used the word ‘I’m’ and not ‘we’re’ wasn’t lost on Griffin. Nor was the fact that, given the trail of bodies the counterfeiters were piling up, this case could become solely that of the FBI at any moment. He needed to keep the peace with Leslie before she pulled the rug out from under him. But that didn’t mean he was going to have sex with her.
“It’s Easter Sunday. Shouldn’t you be hunting for Easter eggs with Dylan?” he asked carefully.
Her eyes shuttered again. “Dylan is with my ex this weekend.”
So she was lonely and deflecting with work. And, apparently, she’d hoped with Griffin’s body as well.
“I figured I could swing down here and piece through the evidence before anything gets cold,” she continued. “I brought Eric with me to dig through the curator’s personal computer. We might find something once we can access his email.”
“Eric’s one of the best at overriding a login password.”
“Well, if you’re not too hungover, we can take a ride over to the field office and see what he’s turned up.”
“I’m not quite dressed for it at the moment.”
Leslie’s mouth turned up at the corners. “You’re wearing too much if you ask me. Sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
“I’m not, um, at my best today, Leslie.”Said no red-blooded male ever.Griffin swore silently.
She had the nerve to laugh. “Not to feed your ego, Griff, but you at only half your best is a lot better than most men.”
Griffin sighed. “Thanks, I think. But I still need to get dressed.”