Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  Eventually, I come back to the here and now, having been on a trip through the encyclopedia in my mind. “There’s no obvious answer to the heavy metal levels in Horne’s blood. By all accounts, he was a healthy guy with no risk factors.”

  Blake looks down at the paper again and hums. “Okay then, healthy guy drops dead of a heart attack with odd blood levels. His job, his lifestyle, nothing would expose him to high levels of heavy metals. What are we missing?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here,” I confess. Asking for help, or admitting that I need it, is not something I do. Yet here I sit.

  “I’m biased by my own experience with life insurance claims and immediately jump to foul play, especially with how the widow is acting.”

  That gets my attention. “What do you mean? At the scene, she was calm, almost numb.” I tilt my head, remembering “No . . . no, it was more than that, if that makes sense. She was just watching, and then, when she saw me looking at her, she went hysterical. Like wailing dramatics, all for show.”

  “When she came to see me, she was almost annoyed by the whole process,” Blake says. “Like she had a car salesman waiting on the check or something. Definitely not the grieving widow. My exact thought was that her inner theme song was, heyyy, must be the mon-ayyy! and I believe that even more after she went full-throttle and started threatening lawsuits to get the money faster.”

  My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “People do that?”

  Blake shrugs, unconcerned. “Yeah. I won’t say it happens a lot, but it’s not my first time seeing it.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment and I whisper what I think we’re both thinking, “Suspicious, at best.”

  Blake raises one brow and adds dramatically, “Murder, at worst.”

  I laugh, smacking gently at his arm. “I wouldn’t jump that far ahead. We don’t have anything to back that up.”

  “The facts, ma’am,” he deadpans. “Just the facts.”

  Pointing at the paper in his hand, I agree. “Exactly.”

  “So, now what?”

  The question makes me stop. I’d love to say this is where Jeff takes over, but I’ve never had a case that was actual suspicious foul play before. I’ve dealt with too many car accidents and two suicides that were clear even without my work. Other than that, I proclaim death and do autopsies so families can get some closure, but it’s always been a pretty straightforward case.

  There was a hunting accident once where we needed to be sure it was an actual accident, but again, my part was relatively simple. I pointed out where the bullet entered, the bullet lodged, and left the rest to the detectives. A member of the team, but not the driving force. That’s always Jeff.

  I suspect that if there were a clear murder, Sheriff Barnes wouldn’t even call me, he’d call the State Police. We’re just too country out here in Williamson County for that.

  “You know anything about investigation?” I ask hopefully.

  Blake shakes his head slowly but then grins. “Nope, but I bet two smart people like us know a lot about research.”

  He’s right. I’ve written dozens of research papers, read hundreds, and I keep current on everything I can get my hands on in the forensic sciences. It’s not the same as what the sheriff does, but it’s a start.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Blake gets up to grab his laptop, setting it on the edge of his desk in front of me. “So let’s start over. What could cause Ol’ Dick to have these metals in these quantities?”

  His question leaves me fluttery. Not because it’s all that unique. I’ve been asking myself the same thing. But once again, he’s letting me be the lead. Most folks in the department are so ready to get out of my presence that they don’t ask me anything other than ‘where’s the written report?’ before laying tracks for the nearest door.

  He looks at me expectantly, waiting patiently for my input, and right in the middle of my chest, I feel another flutter.

  Which reminds me . . .

  “I think we need to leave out the heart attack as a symptom for our initial inquiries because it’s an acute event. More like the signpost, but not the road. The metal levels are indicative of a longer, chronic condition. Maybe if we can figure out how it started—”

  “We can figure out how it ended,” he finishes. “Makes sense.”

  I click into a browser and begin searching out possibilities. I know most of them, but there have to be some that I haven’t crossed off yet.

  Blake watches me, reading over my shoulder as I jump from website to website. We discuss dozens of possibilities and discount them all.

  Hours later, or so it seems, we’ve reached a dead end.

  “So the oddest thing is the presence of this particular combination of heavy metals. Typically, exposure is to one metal, but Dick’s insides have basically been doused in everything—lead, mercury, and arsenic.”

  “Arsenic?” Blake repeats. “That’s been used as a poison for centuries. Before it was traceable, it was known as ‘inheritance powder’ because it was commonly used by beneficiaries if dear old Dad wasn’t dying fast enough. Slip him a mickey and boom, you’ve got the keys to the kingdom. Is that what Mrs. Horne’s trying to do?”

  He’s talking about murder for money, and all I hear is his pulling out historical trivia like a boss. A very sexy, smart boss. I stumble over my factual response, trying to let the heat his intelligence ignites die down. “Doubtful. We’ve all got some arsenic in our bodies. A lethal dose, though . . . definitely unusual. Arsenic is easily and routinely screened for now, so it’s a pretty stupid murder weapon.”

  “Yvette Horne doesn’t strike me as the intelligent sort,” Blake retorts with a smile. It’s so distracting, so easy and light. I want to smile like that, as though the world isn’t a cruel place where things get ripped away from you as soon as you get attached to them.

  Focus, Zoey. Think about Richard Horne, lying face down in his morning breakfast with juice puddled in his lap.

  That image is enough to bring me back to our research. “True, but we can’t discount the other two metals.” Blake nods, and we go back to clicking and reading, reading and clicking.

  Sometime later, I have no idea if it’s been minutes or hours, Blake puts his hand over mine to stop my mouse scrolling.

  I glance up at him and have to blink away the dryness in my eyes from staring at the screen. “What?”

  “C’mon. We might not get the answer tonight, but I need to feed you.”

  My brows knit together, confused. “I’m not hungry. And what if the answer is in the next paragraph? Or on the next website?”

  “Then that paragraph and website will be there tomorrow,” Blake reminds me. “And what if it’s not? Plus, your stomach’s been growling for the last fifteen minutes.”

  I slap my hands over my belly, feeling heat flush my cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t notice.”

  “I know. And you looked so cute, lips moving along as you read and light sparkling in your eyes as you considered every word. I couldn’t bear to stop you. But I need to get home to Chunky too.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “Sorry! I’ll let you go. I just . . .” I trail off, standing and scrambling to grab my purse and the toxicology report printout. “I lost track of time. I’ll let you get home. Sorry.”

  I try to hand the paper to Blake, and he tilts his head, eyeing me with a questioning look as he takes my hand instead of the printout.

  “Zoey.” His voice is firm and quiet, stopping me in an instant.

  Even my brain shuts up and tunes in to Blake. “Yes?”

  “I’m not telling you to go. I’m saying ‘let’s go’. The both of us.”

  There’s no question mark in what he’s saying, but the question is in his eyes. Along with his desire. “Oh.”

  Apparently, that’s all I can say, but he doesn’t need any more. He closes his laptop and puts it in a bag, which he throws over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” he tells me. No qu
estions at all this time.

  I consider arguing, once again trying to save his ass if he’s not inclined to do it for himself, but then he turns, and when confronted with that ass in slim-fitting business slacks, all I can do is follow him out the door like he’s the Pied Piper.

  Hopefully, not to either of our deaths.

  Chapter 13

  Blake

  For the third time, I glance up into my rearview mirror, but Zoey’s right there, just as she’s been since we pulled out of my office’s lot. She’s following me, and I count it as a major victory.

  I know I must seem like the most boring person to the world as I pull up in front of my little white house, a newer construction I bought partly because I know the builder and their safety record. But as she parks and takes that first step up my concrete walkway, I feel like I just won the Super Bowl.

  “Now, don’t judge,” I tell her as I pause, my key in the deadbolt. “You know, how I live.”

  “What? Do you live like a frat boy with just a black leather couch and a big screen set up on boxes?” Zoey teases.

  I feign offense as I peek in the window too high on the door for her to see in, as if I’m surveying the damage. “How’d you know?” But at her horrified expression, I can’t help but laugh. “Not anymore, but once upon a time . . .” I shake my head sadly, putting a hand to my chest in faux mourning. “Those were the days.”

  Zoey pushes on my chest, scolding and flirting at the same time. Does she even know that she’s doing that? She pulls me in and pushes me away, verbally and physically, at every turn.

  But fuck if I don’t enjoy it.

  “I meant Chunky. I told you he adopted me, and that’s true, but it hasn’t been long, and his diet isn’t working as fast as I’d hoped.” I whisper the word ‘diet’ knowing that Chunky hates the very idea of it.

  “Diet?” Zoey echoes at normal volume.

  “Shh, he’ll hear you and get a complex. He’s very sensitive.”

  Zoey’s smile is full-wattage with humor. “Your dog, who is named Chunky, supposedly because of peanut butter, is on a diet and sensitive about it?”

  “Down seven pounds in six months,” I report proudly.

  She seems as ready as she’s gonna be, so I open the door and am almost immediately knocked to my ass by Chunky, who Superman leaps at me joyfully, all four of his doggy feet a solid twenty-four inches off the floor.

  Used to this flying canine greeting, I drop to one knee to catch him in my arms and turn my face away so his messy, sloppy kisses hit my cheek and not my mouth because he’s a French kisser if given the opportunity. “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are, Chunka-Chunka-Burning-Love. You’re my good boy,” I tell my squirming, slobbery dog as I scratch and pet him all over.

  Just as fast as the greeting started, it’s over, and he hops from my arms to run out into the yard. Squatting to pee—I know, he should hike a leg, but I’m working with him where he’s at—Chunky finally notices that it’s not just him and me, and he gives Zoey an interested and hopeful look.

  “No,” I tell him, pointing a finger his way, “she won’t feed you either. I’m all you’ve got, man.” I stare at Chunky, knowing he won’t get my words, but when I cross my arms over my chest, he gets the point. If he had hair, I swear he’d flip it as he turns to dismissively strut away and sniff around the fenced-in front yard. I just shake my head. “Drama king.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I finally have a chance to look at Zoey, who is grinning like a loon behind her fisted hand, which is doing absolutely no good at hiding her amusement.

  “I said ‘don’t judge!’,” I mock-growl.

  She laughs out loud now. “No, you said not to judge Chunky. I’m not. He’s adorable, and yeah, chunky as a well-fed tick. But I’m totally judging you.” She points a finger my way, smiling. “Because that was freaking adorable. You most definitely are a dog person, Mr. Hale.”

  I give her a shrug of concession. She’s got me nailed. “Of course, I am. Cats are weird. All the attitude and shenanigans.” I curl my hands into claws and give my best cat impersonation. “Hisssss.”

  Zoey laughs and leans to get away from my pretend cat scratches, but I catch her in my arms.

  Time stops and our eyes lock.

  She licks her lips, and I’m this close to kissing her when Chunky, that four-legged cockblocker, comes barreling past us back into the house, loudly demanding his dinner now that he’s done checking the yard for squirrely intruders.

  I set Zoey back right on her feet, feeling every inch of her body separate from mine and hating it.

  Seeing Chunky sitting by his food bowl, with one paw inside the dish making it stand up vertically to show how empty it is, she clears her throat. “Ahem, guess that’s your cue.”

  I sigh, knowing I spoil my damn dog. “Chunky, you’re getting nothing but kibble tonight, man,” I threaten, knowing I’ll give him the specially prescribed diet food I buy at the vet’s office, same as always. “Come on in.”

  I focus on putting Chunky’s food in his bowl, stirring it around with his special fork, and acting like I’m putting seasoning and spices in it. I even pop it in the microwave for a second and push the buttons, but don’t actually turn it on because it’ll spark the metal bowl.

  “Ooh, this is gonna be so good, Chunkster,” I tell him, and he pants in excitement, his tail thumping against the floor. I swear, if this dog could control the TV, he’d watch Food Network all day while I was gone. Okay, fine . . . I do sometimes turn it on for him. He likes it!

  “Are you pretending to heat up his food?” Zoey asks, and when I look over, she’s got that big smile stretching her lips again.

  “Yeah, he’s picky.” I don’t offer any more explanation because I know I already seem a bit crazy, and it’s saying something when a ‘crazy’ recognizes you as one of their own.

  Not that Zoey’s crazy. Or that I am.

  But . . . yeah, we might be. A little. Isn’t everyone?

  I set Chunky’s bowl down, and he digs in, slurping and snorting every bit of it down in minutes. Honestly, he might actually inhale some of it. Hopefully, he’ll soon learn that no one’s going to take his food away and he can slow down and enjoy it. But today is not that day.

  “Good job. Go clean your face.” This is the one trick I’m thrilled to have taught him, not because it’s all that showy and flashy but because it’s useful.

  Chunky goes over to a hook on the cabinet, bites down on the towel hanging there, and then throws it to the floor. He then wipes his face, and any wayward dog food, picks up the towel, and carries it off to the laundry room to drop it by the washing machine. “Oh, yeah, who’s a pretty boy now, all fed and cleaned up?”

  Chunky sits and pants again, almost smiling as if he knows I’m talking to him. Meanwhile, I wash my hands, avoiding Zoey’s eyes. She’s watching the whole scene unfold seemingly comfortably, which surprises me. I figured she’d be freaking out six ways to Sunday just being in my house. It’s a big step for her. One she sees as risky even if I have no intention of rushing her into something she’s not ready for.

  Even if it kills me and my dick, which is damn near rock hard and standing at attention now that I see Zoey in my place.

  “Beer?” I offer, opening the fridge and grabbing two.

  “Sure,” she answers.

  I can hear the tension in her voice. Oh, so maybe not as comfortable as she seems? She hides it well . . . too well, as though she’s had to hide herself for too long, too many times. She takes the beer and swallows a healthy mouthful, nearly guzzling it as though she needs some liquid courage.

  “Zo, breathe. We’re just here to feed Chunky, look up more heavy metal stuff, and hopefully get to know each other a bit more. I already told you, no sex until we go on a date, so you’re totally safe here.”

  I teasingly hold my hands out to her, beer and all, as though she’s the one about to attack me for a dick ride.

  A laugh blurts out of her, along with
her second sip of beer, spraying me. “Oh, God! Sorry!”

  Her blue eyes have gone as wide as saucers and her skin porcelain pale, except for the rising pink on her cheeks. I chuckle, wiping at my shirt with my free hand and then letting her do it when she reaches forward to brush the already-soaked-in liquid from my chest. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Just breathe,” I repeat gently, as though talking to a cornered animal about to go wild and hurt themselves thrashing to get free, maybe reminding myself to get some oxygen too because the feel of her hands on my chest is better than I imagined.

  And I’ve imagined . . . a lot.

  She freezes and looks up to meet my eyes, words tumbling over each other, “No, you don’t understand. I’m not freaking out. I’m turned on. I’m thinking about sniffing your bed pillows like a weirdo, contemplating if it’d be better for you to bend me over the island or the couch, and my ovaries are basically exploding—pew, pew, pew—like fireworks because you’re so good with Chunky that I can imagine you as the one of those dads who’d play tea party with your daughter. And all of that is making me hot and nervous . . . and . . . and . . . I should stop talking now.”

  Her eyes drop along with her chin, and she locks her gaze on the button centered on my sternum. I stand there in the middle of my kitchen, dumbfounded and slack-jawed. And then it hits me all at once.

  Heat, lust, fire, need . . . desire.

  Everything I’ve been tamping down around Zoey, trying to control so I don’t scare her off, ignites in an inferno.

  I set my beer down at the same time I back her into the counter and take her lips, claiming her deeply. This is not a kiss, not a gentle get-to-know-you peck, but a fuck-I’ve-missed-you soul searing joining.

  How have I even missed kissing her? I’ve only done it twice before, but I feel like I’ve missed it my whole life. Unconsciously, I take her beer bottle and set it down too, and her arms go around my neck to hold me as if I’m going any damn where but right here. “Mmm, shit, Zo.”