But the blood-free wound would be a little bit more difficult to explain than my completely plausible spontaneous combustion explanation.
“What are you?” Pike asked, his voice slow, his eyes wickedly alive with something that looked only vaguely human.
“A San Franciscan,” I tried.
The blade came a hair closer, and I heard the distinctive sound of muslin starting to split. “What. Are. You.” Every word was its own sentence, each punctuated by Pike’s wild eyes.
I considered letting him stab me, then breaking out of my mummy costume and ripping his idiot throat out. But UDA law strictly forbade that kind of thing, even if your local breather was a nosy asshat.
Or so fiercely handsome that this completely unfortunate situation left a fire between my legs while I tried to lean into his blade. There was something sexy, something so undeniably hot about Pike’s hard-set eyes, about the danger of that slick blade resting between my breasts.
I locked Pike’s eyes, hoping my coal-black ones were as hard or as deep as his. I ran my tongue over my teeth and my mouth dropped open as Pike leaned into me. I could hear his heartbeat speed up. I could hear the blood as it pulsed through his veins. Could feel the hot moisture from his lips as he breathed.
“I—”
“Apartment sixty-one A, right here on the right.” It was the landlord, his voice a combination of asthma and Jersey—and he wasn’t alone. Another voice—low, gruff.
“Detective Moyer,” I whispered to Pike.
His face paled when the doorknob rattled and before I knew it, I was staring at Emerson’s ugly carpet while Pike carried me over his shoulder and shoved me—and then himself—into the bedroom closet.
“What the hell are you—” I started to hiss but he stopped me with a scathing look and a finger pressed to his lips as we heard the landlord, the detective, and, I figured, one or two of the pup cops, filing into Emerson’s living room.
“Shut up or they’re hauling us both off to jail,” Pike said with a low hiss.
There was something about his sudden slip into alpha male that was sexy and, growing slightly more comfortable in my muslin shackles, I leaned back into Emerson’s patchouli-scented clothes until my shoulder blades went flush with the back wall. Pike ducked and joined me in the black depths of the closet, our bodies hidden by the shapeless black clothing. I would have commented on the horror of it, but Pike had to press up against me to stay hidden. His back was to the door, his front pressed against mine, his outstretched arms essentially caging me in.
Something inside me started to flutter.
Something inside him started to harden.
“I guess we know what turns you on,” I said slyly.
Pike rolled his eyes, edged over, and fished his knife from his pocket. I hoped he couldn’t see my face fall in the darkness and went back to my pissed-off girl expression. “How are we supposed to—”
But Pike clapped a hand over my mouth and pressed himself against me yet again. I trained my eyes to focus on the ceiling, suddenly glad my arms were bound to my sides because they were aching to wrap around him even as I tried to ignore how perfectly our bodies seemed to fit together.
“Looks clear in here, boss,” one of the pup cops was saying. I could hear him turning fabric swatches in his hands, then I chanced a glance at Pike. His eyes were hard and round, drawing me in, his lips a half-inch from mine. I watched him purse them into a small pucker and for a fleeting second I weighed the idea of mauling this man right here in a dead girl’s apartment. It seemed like the wrong thing to do, but I found myself pulling toward him, a stripe of desire running like razor wire down my spine.
“Gibbs,” Moyer barked, “this way.”
When Pike pressed a single finger against his puckered lips, I thought my innards would explode—with embarrassment, rage, or unquenched desire, I couldn’t be sure—but held myself statue-still when I heard the closet door open, a yellow orb of light penetrating the closet’s darkness.
Through a drooping lapel and a circa 1982 butterflied collar I could see Detective Moyer’s bloodshot eyes, his meat-hook hand directing the flashlight over Emerson’s clothes. Pike held his breath but his heart kept thumping against my chest.
“I don’t know,” Detective Morris said to the clothes. “I’m not convinced it’s the same guy.”
“MO was the same. Woman, twenty-three to twenty-seven, killed in her workplace with a weapon of opportunity. I’d say that’s our guy.” I could see Gibbs behind the detective, shrugging, just before Moyer closed the door on us.
“That guy’s a serial, and this Hawk girl isn’t his type.”
“So what do you think?”
I heard Moyer suck on his teeth. “You know what? I like that LaShay girl for this one.”
Pike looked down at me, and my eyes widened.
“The one with the black hair who found her? She’s a tiny little thing. She may have done in the second one, but you think she could have gotten Fairfield, too? She couldn’t have gotten him up there,” Gibbs said.
“She could have a partner. I don’t know; maybe this competition was that important to her. Important enough to kill. It’s supposed to be on TV, you know. That could have stressed her to the point of popping off her competitors. Between you and me, she seems a few slices short of a grilled cheese.”
I bristled while Pike clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. I glared at him, hoping to convey serial murderer seriousness, but he kept looking over my head.
Finally, I felt him let out a slow, shallow breath, as we heard the men move away from the closet.
“Yeah, a partner maybe,” the cop continued. “When are we interviewing the sister? She lives here, too, right?”
“She was hysterical. Guess the two were real close.”
I felt my brow furrow and Pike blinked at me. I shook my head and mouthed the word “no” as I had had the supreme displeasure of running into Emerson numerous times, but Nicolette only showed up this once.
“Medics took her to City General. Hilburn went with her, but I don’t think the girl has said anything yet.”
Pike started breathing again as Moyer and Gibbs left the bedroom, their footsteps getting lighter as they walked toward the door. I felt my shoulders slump and for the first time noticed sweat beading along my hairline. We started to loosen ourselves from each other but stopped when we heard Gibbs addressing the unknown cop in the living room.
“What do you think of the designer? The one who found her?”
“I don’t know,” the cop said slowly. “I’m not really into fashion.”
“As our murderer,” Moyer retorted, exasperation evident. “You saw the shears, right?”
“Heard about the engraving. And she certainly had motive.”
Pike looked down at me, his expression a combination of interest and suspicion. I did my best to meet his gaze with a menacing glare.
“She’s number one on the suspect list,” Moyer said.
“How do we feel about the photographer? I heard he and the vic used to date.”
Even in the darkness, I could see the blush washing over Pike’s face, could see the fear in his eyes.
“I can’t see why he’d do Fairfield in,” Moyer said.
“Maybe he offed the competition for his lady friend. She didn’t appreciate it so he whacked her, too.”
We heard Moyer cluck his tongue and then chuckle. “Interesting theory. Remind me to make you my deputy.”
Once the door clicked shut and the lock tumbled, Pike produced his pocket knife/rock-hard member again, silently slicing me out of the muslin. I left it in a heap in the depths of the closet, stepping over Emerson’s collection of thick-soled sensible shoes.
“So, you don’t know when you’re on fire and you’re a murder suspect.”
I put my hands on my hips, the heat that was roiling in my panties moving to an angry flame in my gut. “So are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not guilty.”
“Neither am I.”
Pike took me in from head to toe, his eyes so sharp and hard it made my own body go on high alert. Finally he turned, leaving me behind as he went for the living room. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he said.
“Well, I’m not sure I believe you,” I fumed. “Besides, why would I kill Emerson? I would have beaten her in the competition anyway. And it’s not like she was even—hey.” I clenched my hands, kicked my feet apart, and glared at Pike, who had turned to face me, slight interest on his face. “I don’t have to defend myself to you.”
He shrugged. “The guilty always overcompensate.” He went back to work gathering his things.
“No,” I said, yanking on his shoulder until he faced me. “The guilty always act nonchalant. They always point the finger of accusation.”
We both looked down at my index finger, extended, my hot-pink fingernail pressed up against Pike’s chest, slice of red sticker across it. I quickly withdrew, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
