by Paula Graves
"Well, for one thing, she spoke in pretty blatant sexual innuendo." He told her what the professor had said about coming prepared to participate next time.
"That sounds innocent enough," Hannigan disagreed.
"You didn't hear her tone. You didn't see the look in her eyes."
"And maybe you were prone to reading sexual innuendo into her words," Hannigan pointed out, trying not to sound waspish. "You clearly find her attractive. Any man would."
"I wasn't looking for a come on," Brody protested. "There's a difference between seeing a woman's sexual attractiveness and wanting that sexuality focused on you."
She lifted one eyebrow. "Did you feel violated, Brody? Should we file a harassment charge?"
"I'm serious. Think about how she dresses, Hannigan. How she sits. How she crosses her leg, so slowly. So deliberately."
"You've noticed it, certainly." She sounded more snappish than she'd intended, earning another glance from her partner.
"There are such things as female serial killers," he said. "I know they're rarer than men, but—"
"A woman hit on you—ergo she must be a serial killer?"
"The hitting on me is just a symptom," he said, sounding frustrated by her skepticism. "She sexualizes everything. Have you ever had an American Lit teacher bring Fanny Hill into her discussion of Puritan literature?"
She thought back to her college days. "Um, no."
"She dresses provocatively. She speaks provocatively. She enjoys the sexual attentions of her male students."
"Some of the females seem to think she's hot, too," Hannigan drawled.
"Exactly."
"But how does that make her a potential serial killer?"
"The people who are dead are people who skipped her class to go make out with other people. I checked—all the murders took place on nights the class was in session, except Morehead's. And they all took place after the class would have been over." Brody turned toward her, vibrating with restless energy. "What if she can't bear the thought that someone would choose another person over time spent in her class with her? What if she considers it a personal rejection?"
Hannigan tried to follow his train of thought, but she couldn't get past how attentively he seemed to have watched the professor crossing and uncrossing her legs. "Why is Morehead the exception, then? Why go after him if he wasn't skipping class?"
"I don't know. It's something to think about, anyway." Brody sat back against his seat with a sigh. A few minutes later, he turned and looked at her again. "Did you ever skip class for a guy, Hannigan?"
"I've made my share of bad choices for the sake of a guy," she said.
"Were they really bad choices?" In the darkness, Brody's voice took on a seductive edge. She tried not to look at him, but she couldn't help herself.
He was watching her, his eyes dark and glittering in the pale blue moonlight drifting through the Chevy's windshield. With no floor console between them to pose a barrier, he was closer to her than she expected.
Was that why she'd wanted to take her car this time? To remove the barriers between them?
"You have to have priorities." The lack of conviction in her voice made her want to go hide.
"All work and no play make Hannigan a dull girl."
She looked at him again, tension knotting so tightly in her belly that it ached. "Do you think I'm dull?"
He held her gaze with the ferocity of his regard. "No."
"I've heard it said I'm a humorless automaton."
"Not you."
"A joyless ball breaker."
"Sheer idiocy."
She smiled and turned her gaze forward. "Thank you."
"You're a riddle." He had moved closer; she felt his breath hot against the side of her neck.
"A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma?" Keeping her voice light, she darted another look at him and found him only a few inches away.
"If you think you can distract me with Churchill quotes—"
Recklessly, she turned to face him, her heart rat-a-tatting like a snare drum. "Distract you from what?"
Headlights flashed across them, lighting up the Impala's interior. They backlit Brody, casting his face in deep shadow so that she couldn't read his expression. But hers, no doubt, was perfectly spotlighted, baring her raw desires to her partner.
"One of the cars leaving?" he asked in a soft exhalation.
She nodded.
"Danielle Brubaker and her boyfriend?"
Swallowing hard, she looked across the parking lot. "No, they're still here." She peered through the window, her eyes still blinded by the afterimage of the car headlights. "They're not really doing anything. Just...talking."
Brody's eyebrow lifted. "On a sixth anniversary? Pikers."
"Some women find communication to be an aphrodisiac."
"What about you?"
"You know me, Brody. I'm not a talker." She tried to make the words sound like a joke, but somehow, to her ears at least, they came out sounding like a plea.
Brody lifted his right hand to her cheek, his fingertip sliding a strand of hair away from her eyes. "Some things need to be said, don't you think?"
No, she thought. Don't say it.
His hand lingered, resting lightly against her cheek, his thumb sliding over the curve of her chin. "This is quicksand."
She nodded, aware of what he meant. "Fraught with peril."
His lips twitched upward. "Peril indeed." He leaned toward her until his forehead rested against hers, so close that her eyes crossed trying to see him. She closed them, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain he must be able to hear it. "But there's something I know about you, Hannigan."
"What's that?" she whispered.
He lowered his hand to her shoulder, moving his thumb in slow, seductive circles over the ridge of her collarbone. "I know that beneath those tailored suits you like to wear, under the crisp cotton blouses and sensible shoes, beats the heart of a danger monkey." He curved his hand to cup her chin, tilting her head toward him. She opened her eyes and found him gazing down at her with burning eyes.
"Brody—"
"You never met a challenge you could walk away from."
"We can't—"
"We shouldn't," he agreed.
But when he touched his mouth to hers, she was lost.
Brody's blood roared in his ears, a raw and raucous howl of need. He demanded, she supplied, her small fingers clawing through his hair and tugging him atop her until his hips lay flush over hers. She opened her thighs, drawing the hardness of his body into the soft cradle of her own. The steering wheel dug into his ribs, but he paid it no heed, for at least it kept them both from sliding into the floorboard.
Brody pulled back, his breath coming in gasps. "Hannigan—Stella—"
She grabbed his jaw between her palms, her expression fierce. "You never call me Stella. Don't start now—" She kissed him hungrily.
He kissed her back, sliding his tongue over hers. She tasted like spearmint toothpaste and slick, hot passion. Her hands slid under the hem of his polo shirt, tugging the material out of the way until her fingers found the skin of his lower back. She made a low groaning sound, deep in her chest, the rumble of noise vibrating through him like the start of an avalanche.
He had to think. Catch his breath and remember the reasons why sex with Stella Hannigan was a bad idea. Too dangerous. Too much vulnerability. The stakes too high. Reasons eluded him, darting through the cracks in his control until he didn't remember any reason why he shouldn't surrender to the raging hunger of his body for hers.
Her mouth slid away from his and traced a soft, damp trail across his jaw line. "I thought you were appalled," she breathed against the side of his neck.
Leave it to Hannigan to try to have a conversation in the middle of foreplay. "Appalled by what?"
"When you touched my navel ring." She drew her head back, clearly ready to talk. "You knew it turned me on."
He silenced a frustrated groan. "Y
eah."
"And you ran away."
He pressed his forehead against hers. "Not because I was appalled."
"Then what?"
This time he did groan. "Hannigan, I'm trying to have a spontaneous, reckless moment here, and as usual, you're analyzing it to death."
She wriggled beneath him, trying to pull free. Unfortunately, her movements only inflamed his body's out of control response. He had to force himself to roll away, his body aching with incompletion.
"This was a bad idea," she growled, straightening her clothes.
"Yeah," he agreed, though he didn't think he meant it.
"I've done this before, you know."
He looked at her. "Necked with your partner on a stakeout?"
"Okay, not this exactly." She threaded her fingers through her hair, raking it away from her face. "Greg Kowalski."
His brow furrowed. "Kowalski? Vice Commander Kowalski?"
"He wasn't commander then."
"Did you sleep with him?" he blurted before he could stop himself.
The look she angled his way could have killed. "It was short and explosive. And I ended up out of Vice."
"Because one of you had to go?"
She nodded. "When it ends, someone always goes. So whatever happened here tonight can't happen again."
He could tell she was trying to sound firm and commanding, but all he heard was a chord of sadness echoing inside his own head. "What if it's like the horse?" he asked. "Already out of the barn?"
She pinned him with a fierce look. "Put it back in the barn, Brody. Box it up. Give it extra care and attention. But do not let it out again."
A bubble of surprised laughter welled up in his throat, but he had the good sense not to let it escape.
Her expression softened. "I can't screw this up with you, Brody. You're the best partner I've ever had, and I don't want to lose you."
He couldn't imagine not having Hannigan as his partner. The image wouldn't even come to mind. He started to reach across the seat, intending to touch her hand, but the warning light in her eyes stopped him. He dropped his hand to his side. "I don't want to lose you, either."
"So we're agreed."
He nodded, knowing that he should feel relieved. As usual, Hannigan's practical mind and good sense had snatched his ass out of a fire that could have destroyed them both.
But as she drove out of Magnolia Park and headed back into the city, he couldn't shake the suspicion that they'd just made the stupidest decision of their lives.
Brody's apartment was in the vibrant center of town, a loft above an old warehouse transformed a few years earlier into a thriving bakery. Hannigan didn't see how her partner could withstand the glorious smell of breads, cakes and pastries baking twenty-four hours a day. If she lived in his apartment, she'd have gained fifty pounds by now and probably earned a dozen citations for breaking and entering and petty theft.
Brody turned to Hannigan, his expression serious. "I agree we can't risk ruining our partnership," he said, his expression utterly smoldering. "But I'm not going to lie and say I regret what we did tonight. I don't." He stepped out of the car and closed the door but didn't move away from the curb.
Hannigan's heart thudded heavily in the center of her chest. What was he waiting for? For her to change her mind?
She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles going white. Just drive away, Hannigan. You know it's the smart thing, and you do the smart thing. That's your role in the partnership.
Her hands began to ache. She slanted a look toward the window and saw Brody was still there, only his torso visible through the window. His arms lay apparently relaxed against his side, but she saw the twitch of his wrist muscles as his hands clenched into fists.
Go, Hannigan. Go and don't look back.
She dropped her right hand to the key in the ignition. Her gaze still on Brody's twitching wrists, she started the car. His hands jerked but otherwise he didn't move.
Put the car in gear. Check your mirrors.
She dragged her gaze from Brody and checked for traffic in her side mirror. The street was clear. Nothing stopping her from leaving.
Nothing but her own foolish heart.
She pulled the Impala into traffic, struggling against the urge to cry.
Rosedale Drive was only five minutes away from Brody's loft, but the difference between the vibrant bustle of Brody's neighborhood and her own quiet residential street was stark. Two different worlds.
Two different lives.
Trying to join those lives, outside of the careful confines of their work relationship, would surely be a tragic failure. Wouldn't it?
She parked the Impala and trudged up the walk to her door. She had just inserted the key in the lock when she heard a footstep behind her.
Her hand went to her back before she remembered she wasn't wearing a holster. Her Smith & Wesson was in her purse. She swung around anyway, ready to fight. But the mild-mannered man standing on the footpath at the bottom of her porch steps looked about as threatening as a bunny.
"Dean Silor."
He looked apologetic. "I'm sorry—I suppose it's very late, but I had a thought about your investigation and, as they say, if you sleep on an inspiration, you may wake to find it has escaped without a trace."
"I should call my partner for this—" Any excuse will do....
"It's not so dramatic a thought as that," Silor said with another sheepish smile. "I suppose I could have written it down and waited for morning, but it came to me in my office, and your enrollment papers were right there."
Which explained how he knew her home address. "I should at least call him." The eagerness in her voice sounded utterly pathetic. It was almost a relief when the dean shook his head.
"Hear me out first," he suggested. "If it sounds like nonsense, then I'll have embarrassed myself in front of only you and not your partner as well."
"All right." She let them both into her house and led him through the small foyer into the cozy living room. She'd decorated sparingly, mostly with mismatched but well-made mission-style furniture she'd found during searches at yard sales, flea markets and thrift stores. Brody had once told her that for a pragmatist, she had the soul of an artist. "More Wyeth than Pollack," he'd elaborated with a smile. "A good thing when it comes to furniture."
His favorite piece was the rocker, built of sturdy wood slats and leather cushions. She took the rocker herself, trying not to examine the choice too closely, and waved Silor toward the sofa nearby. "Have a seat."
He didn't ask her to call him by his first name. Formal to the hilt. He sat rather primly on the sofa and smiled at her again. "Lovely home."
"Thank you." She tried not to appear impatient. "Would you like something to drink? I believe I have some iced tea, and water of course—"
"No thank you." Dr. Silor folded his hands together. "I found myself intrigued by our meeting Monday. How do the police approach a case where there's little physical evidence?"
She could tell it was a rhetorical question, and she found herself curious how he'd answer it. People had many peculiar notions about how detectives worked, few realizing the man-hours spent interviewing anyone and everyone who might have a motive, canvassing whole neighborhoods in search of that one elusive witness who might have seen the one person or thing that could break a case open.
He was right about one thing: there was an alarming lack of evidence in the Lovers' Lane murders. The killer appeared patient, waiting for the right time to strike. No impulse murders for him, not in the technical sense of the word. He might be driven by his emotions, but he had enough control to bide his time and pick his moments.
"The people killed have all been in Dr. Flanders' class," Dr. Silor began.
"Yes," she said, thinking of Brody's theory.
"You're aware, I assume, of Dr. Flanders' appeal to students." Silor smiled bleakly. "Even the highest-minded among us cannot fail to see she is a comely woman."
Hannigan hid a smile, amused by h
is choice of adjectives. "Certainly."
"She has a frank and earthy sense of the subject matter."
Meaning she had no compunctions about discussing sex with her students, all of whom were over the age of eighteen and many of whom had probably experienced sex already. "She has," Hannigan agreed. "And you think this has some bearing on the killer's motive?"
"I think it has something to do with how many students cut the course to practice a little carnality of their own," Dr. Silor said, prim once again.
"Why read it when you can live it?" She tried very hard not to think about Brody's hard, hot body stretched out over her own or his hungry mouth slanted over hers, making demands her body yearned to fulfill.
"I suppose you think my attitude old fashioned."
"I think pleasure has a place as well as work," she said, adding bleakly, "But not at the same time."
"Indeed." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Their parents pay a great deal of money for the privilege of their attending courses at the university."
She didn't correct him by pointing out he was a community college dean rather than the head of a university department. "I imagine some students spend their own hard-earned money as well," she added, thinking of Alvin Morehead, the janitor with a thirst for learning and, apparently, an itch he was willing to pay to have scratched.
"Ah, poor Mr. Morehead," Dr. Silor said. "Sad case. A young man from unfortunate circumstances, nevertheless determined to better himself. It's a shame, really, that it had to happen to him."
An odd tone in Dr. Silor's voice touched off a tingle in the base of Hannigan's spine. Brody called it her sixth sense, which she didn't believe in. She called it her cop's nerve, which really didn't make any more sense, empirically, but it sounded less like hokum.
Either way, sixth sense or cop's nerve, it was jangling like a son of a bitch. Unfortunately, she'd left her purse on the table across the room, and in it, her Smith & Wesson M&P compact .40. The little black pistol was deadly, but only if she had it in her hand.
She pushed to her feet, trying not to appear in a hurry. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?" she asked, moving toward the table in a pretense to be heading toward the kitchen instead. She reached for her purse—casually, as if in passing—but froze when she heard a soft click.