Sinful Desire (Sinful Nights, #2)(50)

Her eyelids started to close. “I need to sleep,” she mumbled. “I can’t sleep at night. All I do is lie awake and stare at the ceiling and wish for the light to come.” She rested her cheek against the table. In a minute, she’d fallen into slumber.

And he was hardly any closer to knowing why.

Ryan sat there in silence ’til the hour ended, and the sturdy, brown-haired corrections officer returned to the room.

“Hey, Clara,” he said to the woman in the beige uniform.

She smiled. “Hey, Ryan. How’s it going?”

“Keeping busy. Trying to stay out of trouble. How about you? How’s the family?”

“My oldest starts high school in another month. Time flies, huh?”

“I remember when you were telling me about him starting kindergarten,” Ryan said, because it had been that long that he’d known her.

Clara patted his sleeping mom. “C’mon, Prince. Visiting hour is over.”

Dora raised her head an inch. A line from the table’s edge was pressed into her cheek. Her mouth was open and saliva had pooled in the corner of her lips. She blinked. Then she rose and held out her arms to Ryan.

He hugged her. “Bye Mom. Get some sleep.”

“Come by again, please. And stay safe. Stay away from the Sinners. Just stay away and you’ll be safe then.”

“I will,” he said and kissed her forehead.

He gave a quick wave to Clara. “Take care of yourself, Clara.”

“You, too. Will we see you later this month? She earned some more visiting hours. End of next week, I believe.”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best. Can’t seem to stay away from this place,” he said with a wry smile, and Clara patted him on the shoulder.

As he left, he wished he could simply Google “T.J. and K.” and know what the hell his mother had been talking about. But as he closed the door to his truck, it occurred to him he could do something else with the information. He was grasping at straws, but maybe someone else could make sense of this. Maybe it was time for Ryan to ask for help, to turn to another person who was trying to solve this case.

He dialed Detective John Winston, and passed on the initials T.J. and K.

“I really appreciate that,” John said.

“I don’t know that it means anything.”

“I don’t, either. But it might, and that’s what matters. A lead is a lead, and I’ll see what I can do.”

For the first time in a long time, Ryan felt unburdened.





Chapter Twenty


The scent of roasted rosemary chicken wafted through her penthouse as she turned off the oven and set the roasting pan on top of the stove. She leaned in to the bird, cuddled by potatoes and carrots, and inhaled the delicious scent.

“Mmm,” she said aloud, enjoying the savory aroma almost as much as she delighted in the yummy smells emanating from her second oven as the pie baked. She walked to the other side of the sink and tossed the summer salad, then placed it in the fridge to keep it cool and crisp.

She wiped the back of her hand across her chest since she’d heated up from all this cooking, even with the air conditioning blasting its cooling jets on this scorching July day. Still, she couldn’t complain. Project Termite had been officially terminated, and her brother had returned to his own home last night. Even though she’d enjoyed bumping into him now and then in the kitchen, it was nice to have her home to herself again, simply because it was possible for her to dress like this.

She wore red lace panties and a matching push-up bra, barely covered up by the flirty apron she had on as she cooked. Neat pleats lined the edges of the apron’s mini skirt, and a hint of lace peeked out at the hem that landed mid-thigh. A red satin bow cinched at the waist, and thick red ties were looped around her neck. She wore black, strappy pumps on her feet.

A timer dinged. She hustled to the oven, turned on the light, and checked the pie. Satisfied with its appearance and its mouthwatering scent, she reached one pot holder-covered hand into the oven, removed the dessert, and placed it on a cooling rack on the stovetop. She waved a hand over the dish, inhaling the fruity, sugary, ripe scent. She’d sliced a few extra peaches; they were in a glass bowl on the island and she planned to serve them on the side.

A sultry Billie Holiday number played on her sound system, piped through her entire home and bouncing off the white walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the blond hardwood floors. She loved this place. It was everything she wanted her home to be. Gorgeously appointed, but not cold or staged. Her home was bursting with everything special that she loved, with bright colored pillows on the couch, pictures of her family throughout, mementos from her parents, and gifts from her friends over the years.

A little later, as the great Billie Holliday crooned about these foolish things, her buzzer rang, the front desk likely alerting her that her guest had arrived. She pressed the button to respond. “Hello there.”

“Ryan Sloan is here. May I send him up?”

“Absolutely,” she said, and soon there was a knock on her door, and the sound made her chest tingly. She was so damn ready to see him.

She opened the door, and he nearly stumbled.

He opened his lips to speak, but no words came. His jaw simply hung open.

She fought valiantly to contain a victorious grin. Inside, though, she wanted to pump a fist for having rendered him speechless.