Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(31)

He settled her on the little couch, then sat down beside her, taking up about two-thirds of it. His left arm was behind her, her right side completely up against his left. He was effectively embracing her but that felt just fine. As a matter of fact, she had to clench her fists to resist the temptation to lean more heavily into him, to let his strength surround her.

His face was set and hard. He had placed the big black pistol on the coffee table, but close to hand, the butt facing him so he could pick it up and use it immediately if necessary. Though he was sitting, she could feel the coiled tension in his big body. At regular intervals, his eyes kept quartering the room, his gaze like a searchlight, only dark. She knew he had taken the measure of every person—two more technicians had joined the crime scene squad technicians milling around—and every object in the room. Something told her he was aware at all times of the position of every person and every object. And of her.

He might protect her, but he wasn’t going to comfort her. He was as remote and as untouchable—except in the most physical sense of the term—as someone on the moon. And yet he kept within touching distance of her at all times.

Bud sat down across from her, looking at her somberly, then he looked over to John. He pulled out a notebook.

“Okay, want to tell me what went on?”

John turned to her. You first, his look said.

Okay.

She ran a hand through her hair. It was still a little tangled, the quick swipe with the brush she’d allowed herself in the bathroom not enough make it smooth. She’d managed to wash her face and brush her teeth, though, which made her feel better. She put her hand down to straighten up and encountered iron-hard male flesh. John’s thigh. She snatched her hand away, only to find it caught in his.

His palm was hard, callused, his fingers curled tightly around hers. She didn’t pull her hand away, surprised at the comfort in that single touch.

Bud noted her hand in John’s but didn’t say anything. He looked at her expectantly. “Where do I start?” Suzanne asked.

“Why don’t we take it from when you came home last night? What did you do?” Bud looked at her expectantly and she felt a spurt of panic swell up in her chest. He wanted to know about last night?

“Last night?” she breathed, shocked.

Oh God, she couldn’t talk about it. The heat and the sex. Not in front of Bud. And how on earth could Bud know she and John had—

Oh.

It was after midnight. By last night, Bud meant a few hours ago. He didn’t mean—tell me about you and John and the wall. He meant—tell me about you and the dead man. Which was almost easier than the sex.

“Tell me about your day. Did you notice anyone following you? Anything unusual happen?”

“No, of course not.” Anyone following her? What a ludicrous idea. She started to shake her head then thought about it. She’d entered a new world, one in which she didn’t know the rules and had no survival instincts. In this new world, anything could happen. “I mean,” she corrected, looking at Bud and John, “maybe someone was, but I didn’t notice it. I probably wouldn’t. I guess I don’t think that way. But if anyone was following me, he had a very boring day. I met with a cloth importer, Cathy Lorenzetti, at nine o’clock in her office on Glisan. At ten I met with a colleague, Todd Armstrong, at his home. We had tea and discussed business. I spent the afternoon with a new client, going over the plans for the redecoration of her apartment. Not exactly the stuff thrillers are made of.”

Bud absorbed this information, making careful notes. “I’m going to be needing addresses and phone numbers.” Suzanne gave them to him. “And you got home around when?”

“Eight. It had been a long afternoon.” Very long, Suzanne thought. And tedious. “I was tired. I took a bath, had a light meal and turned in to bed.”

“That would be around what time?” Bud asked. He was taking copious notes, though she couldn’t imagine she was saying anything of any importance.

“Ten o’clock. I checked my watch and I remember hearing the grandfather clock—the one over there in the corner—chime ten.” Bud turned around to look where she pointed and nodded. “I read for about twenty minutes, then turned out the light. I might have dozed a little, off and on, but I was feeling restless.” Suzanne could almost feel John’s intense scrutiny beside her. He seemed to be listening to her with every cell in his body. Surely he must know he was a big reason she’d been unable to fall asleep. “Then I heard the clock chime midnight and I realized that I was having trouble falling asleep so maybe I should heat up some milk.”

“You had to walk through this room to get to the kitchen, right?” Bud gestured with his head.

“Yes. The house is a little odd in the layout because it was originally a factory. Industrial spaces are laid out quite differently from residential spaces. A residential space is divided up into day areas and night areas but this one isn’t. Essentially, my apartment is four large rooms, one after the other. My office first, the public space, and then the private spaces—the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom. The bedroom’s through there.” She pointed, shivering inwardly at the memory of huddling in fear in the closet. John’s hand tightened on hers.

It was large and hard and callused. Suzanne suddenly had a very vivid sensory memory of the hard calluses on his fingertips brushing over her breasts, brushing lower. He’d opened her roughly before plunging inside her, the calluses on his hands grating very sensitive flesh…