Leslie crossed her arms beneath her breasts—breasts that used to turn him on. Not today. He was beginning to wonder if something was physically wrong with him.
“Don’t let me stop you,” she purred.
“Damn it, Leslie!”
She laughed again before she turned and walked to the window. “I don’t know why you’re acting so shy. It’s not like I haven’t seen your good stuff before. Or touched it,” she added slyly.
Griffin shed his towel, pulled a pair of boxer-briefs from his suitcase and quickly slid them on. He grabbed his jeans off the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and stepped into them.
“So how is your search for the White House thief going?” she asked, her back still to him.
Shitty. He’d spent last night counting the numerous ways he’d screwed the investigation up, chasing each revelation with a swig from one of the bottles in the mini-bar. He’d almost compromised the whole damn case by sleeping with Marin.Not that there would have been much sleeping involved.He snatched a shirt off the hanger and shoved his arms into the sleeves.
“Are you still concentrating on Max Chevalier’s granddaughter?” She looked over her shoulder at him.
If concentrating was the same as lusting over, then, hell yeah.
Griffin didn’t bother sharing that little bit of intel with Leslie, though. There was no chance in hell he was going to the wedding after last night, either. He’d have to look for a link to the Chevalier family from another angle. If there even was a link between the hotelier and the counterfeit ring.
“I’m beginning to think the pastry chef is a red herring.” He buttoned up his shirt. “The director has given me until the end of the day tomorrow to flush out suspects. I want to dig a little deeper into the sous chef. But, really, anyone working in the White House could have had access to the kitchen towels, so this whole thing might just be a damn wild goose chase.” He pulled on his socks and sneakers. “Until we can determine whether or not any other artwork in the House is forged, I’m at a standstill.”
Leslie turned from the window and walked to the bed to retrieve her purse. “Well, I wouldn’t write off the pastry chef as a red herring just yet,” she said casually. “She apparently literally stumbled over a dead body early this morning leaving her cushy penthouse.”
Griffin’s hands stilled in the act of tying his shoes. “What?”
“I know how you feel about coincidences, Griff. This one may be too big to ignore.”
He shot out of the chair, grabbing his badge and his holster. “I’m gonna need to talk to her.” Provided Marin didn’t kick him in the balls as soon as she laid eyes on him. But a part of him just needed to know she was okay—the very same part of him that he shouldn’t be listening to right now.
“Word is she was pretty shaken up. FLOTUS has her resting at the White House. Of course, if she’s our thief, it was the perfect way for the fox to get into the henhouse.”
Leslie’s accusation angered Griffin, which was ridiculous because he’d thought the same thing of Marin after the fire in the pastry kitchen. Clearly, he was going soft on a suspect. And that path led to all kinds of trouble.
“Let’s go,” he said as headed out the door.
“I’ll text Eric and tell him we’re on our way.”
“Not yet. We’re stopping at the Dupont first.”
CHAPTER9
“Iwas wondering when you’d show up,” the police detective who had interviewed him and Marin two nights before remarked when Griffin entered the lobby of the Dupont.
Griffin extended his hand to the white-haired gentleman. “Detective Bill Gerkens, this is Special Agent Leslie Morgan of the FBI.” He gestured to Leslie.
Detective Gerkens shook Leslie’s hand. “I wasn’t aware this was a federal case.”
“I’m not here in a formal capacity. Yet,” Leslie explained. “Today, I’m just tagging along with Agent Keller.”
“Can you fill me in on what happened here?” An unfamiliar tension had gripped Griffin as soon as Leslie mentioned Marin tripping over a dead body. He chocked the feeling up to the hangover because he was working hard at keeping Marin strictly in the suspect category.
The detective looked at him speculatively. “I would have thought you’d already heard the whole story from your friend the pastry chef by now.”
Griffin rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I haven’t spoken to Mar—Chef Chevalier.”
“Huh.” Detective Gerkens scratched his head. “Watching you two the other night, I figured you’d be the first person she called. She mentioned that you were the last one to leave the penthouse late last night.”
Griffin could feel Leslie’s eyes on him, but he ignored her. “We shared an Uber back from the White House.”