Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(5)

Not a white haired fatherly type at all. Not old. Not safe. He looked dangerous. That was it. That was what had Suzanne’s entire system on alert.

At first she thought the wrong man had come. He hadn’t looked like the president of a company. He looked rough, dangerous. Like a biker, not a businessman. A big man, shoulders so broad they spanned the chair back, black, close-cropped hair with a dusting of silver at the temples, eyes somewhere between a very dark blue and brown, impossible to guess at in the uncertain watery light.

Whatever the color, though, he’d looked at her as if he were about to swallow her up whole.

She’d never seen a man so blatantly…male. Of course, she thought, with a wry shake of her head, the men she met as a decorator were a little different from the men in the Navy. Still, the brute male power he’d exuded had been overwhelming.

He hadn’t done anything, had barely moved in his chair, never fidgeting or moving position, he hadn’t said or done anything untoward, but she’d felt her entire body go into overdrive. She’d kept her hands from trembling only by sheer force of will.

This was crazy and had to stop now. John Huntington was paying a lot of money for the rental—more money, actually, than it was worth, given the location. So she was going to have to start getting used to him as a tenant. She couldn’t afford to have to stand against a door and wait for her heart rate to slow down every time she saw him.

Maybe I should get out more, she thought. Stop working so hard. Start dating. Get a life.

Maybe the next time her bank manager asked her out, she should accept, instead of making an excuse. They’d dated a few times. Except Marcus Freeman was so pale, even by Portland white bread standards, and so boring. His hands were soft and white. Not broad and dark and hard like John Huntington’s hands…

Stop that!

Good Lord, what was the matter with her?

Feeling her legs steady now beneath her, and able to bear her weight, she walked back down the hallway to her office. Seeing the familiar objects, each one hand-picked, each one with a history, calmed her. She’d had such pleasure designing this place, with the hardwood floors, beveled stained glass windows and terracotta sconces. The color and shapes gave her a lift, brightened her day.

Odd how her design for the rental unit was so completely different.

One rainy afternoon, when she had nothing better to do, she had walked across the hallway into the part of the building she wanted to rent out. Four rooms, one after another. The spaces were big and empty, a blank canvas.

Designing always excited her and she was usually quick, but that day, as she sat cross-legged on the big, empty hardwood floor, back against the wall, the design had just come pouring out of her, as if she were sketching a vision already formed. As if she already knew something darkly powerful were coming.

Her own office and living quarters were colorful and feminine. But the rental had come flowing out from her hand in shades of slate and ecru and teal, sleek and streamlined. It was as if she’d had John Huntington in mind as she’d sketched, had sensed his power and strength.

She’d seen the look of recognition in his eyes and knew that somehow she’d designed something that fit him.

Somehow she’d known that he’d need an oversized armchair, in soft black leather. Somehow she’d known that a man like him wouldn’t like fuss or objects d’art—just a long linear desk made of titanium and black marble, open faced bookshelves, a teal and cream Chinese rug in geometric patterns.

For his bedroom, she’d choose an oversized bed with a mahogany headboard. An image of John Huntington in bed, naked, made her thighs suddenly tremble and clench. His pectorals had been visible beneath the sweater. His chest was probably covered with thick black body hair, narrowing down to…

This was crazy. She was crazy.

Shaken, Suzanne sat down behind her desk and tried to focus on something other than John Huntington’s body. Magnificent though it was…

Her hands clenched on the desk and she stared at her white knuckles for a long moment. She leafed through the phone book until she found the number she sought, then pulled out her cell and thumbed in the number.

“Portland Police Department,” a bored voice announced.

“Lieutenant Morrison, please.”

A click and then another voice. “Homicide.”

“I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Morrison.”

“Hold.”

There was a lot of background noise. Someone screamed, then she heard male voices shouting, the sounds of scuffling, then a deep voice came on the line. “Morrison. What?”

Suzanne smiled. Bud, normally cool as ice, sounded harassed and out of breath. “Bud, this is Suzanne. I wonder—“

“Suzanne.” His deep voice sharpened. “Hey, is something wrong? Has something happened to Claire?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

Bud was engaged to her best friend, Claire Parks. Suzanne had met him on a couple of social occasions. He was absolutely besotted with Claire, but Claire was beginning to have doubts. Too macho, too take-control, too protective, she’d said. Tall and tough looking, and a friend of John Huntington’s to boot, Suzanne could see Claire’s point.

“Claire’s fine. No, I’m calling about something else. I’m calling because my new tenant put your name down as a reference.”