Sizzling desire and office politics don't mix ... do they?
Forensic specialist Stevie Daniels will be day-shift supervisor. She's earned that promotion. But first, her boss has tasked her with digging up dirt on Vin Vasher, the rebellious night-shif...
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At his office door, Vin found a single request sitting in the box. He lifted it out, his blurry eyes straining to read the small type on the bright white paper. Double...homicide. Wonderful.
He rested a temple on the doorframe. The cold metal stung, but it offered a scant moment of relief from the upsurge of heat overrunning his body. What he needed was a hefty shot of morphine, not those pissant over-the-counter aspirins that had proved useless against his crippling headache.
Before unlocking the door, he sniffed the back of his hand. Good. The alcohol fumes he'd scrubbed from his skin hadn't yet percolated back to the surface. The situation was bad enough. An unsteady hand had prevented him from trimming his beard to its usual impeccable appearance, so he didn't need to smell like a scruffy bum too.
He bypassed flipping on the overhead lights, choosing the desk lamp instead. The incandescent glow revealed the mess he'd left that morning and brought the whole day full circle. Up until a few minutes ago, he'd held onto the teeniest of hopes that it had all been a bad dream, and no vixen would be waiting for him.
The weight of his stupidity crushed down on him as if he wore a necklace made of sandbags. Nice going dummy. He was already down a strike, and she hadn't even thrown a single pitch. Vin closed his eyes and hugged his soft midsection, trying to still the Olympic-sized visceral summersaults stirring up the coffee in his stomach. Surely this humiliating defeat to Butthead would lessen—in time. He hoped.
Sucking in a deep breath, he opened his eyes. If I'm going down, might as well go down swinging. He heaved his shoulders back, gave a tug to the bottom of his jacket, and headed back to the breakroom. Once inside, he hoisted the request in the air. "We got a double homicide with—"
"I'll take it!" Juanita jumped to her feet and dashed across the room. Before she reached Vin, his other two specialists, Shane and Carlos, rose from their chairs, claiming their spots on the case.
"Hey, Vasher," Ryan said. "Can I go too?"
Wanting to be alone, he sputtered, "Ahh...sure. Lauren, you go too. But take a separate vehicle in case I need some of you later."
"Cool." Ryan turned to Ms. Daniels. "It was great talking to you." He leaned closer and whispered something else.
Vin watched the two younger team members leave, then turned back to Ms. Daniels, who was tapping a rolled up journal against her leg. He cast his attention to the gray-speckled resin floor, wishing he could blend into it. "It might be a good idea if you went out with them. I'm not feeling very well tonight."
"Would I be the reason you're not feeling well?"
He heard a footstep approach and another. "No, not directly." He shoved his hands into coat pockets. "It...it's mostly my doing."
"I see."
Any paltry desire he held to restore his character in the eyes of the woman he regularly mused over went—POOF. Her heels clicked on the hard floor until her black boots came into view. He lowered his head another notch and hid behind a curtain of hair. Great. Now she thinks I'm a drunk on top of being a dick. Another wave of dry heat flared from his chest and up to his neck. His face broiled from the inside out.
