His voice pulled her back. "Now you. Tell me something about this investigation I don't already know." His eyes were demanding yet skeptical.
Turnabout was fair play. But had he been honest with her? She'd expected full disclosure from him; now it was her turn for a sign of good faith. What would she offer? Once again, she trusted her gut instincts regarding the man standing before her. She looked him directly in the eye, to emphasize the risk she took.
"After your little stunt here tonight, I don't owe you anything." After she'd captured his full attention, she began. "But I will offer this. You already know Mickey's throat was cut. But there were bruises on his body. We suspect paintball pellets caused the marks." She let the theory register with him. His eyes fogged in reflection.
"Paintball? Why wasn't there any paint on his clothes? In the photos?" he questioned.
His surprise appeared genuine. But the man had been insufferably observant. A good quality, if Christian were a solid member of her team. Yet given his past, the man would not change sides so easily. She had to consider him the enemy, or at the very least, a hostile participant.
A part of her remained guarded, so she lied. "We don't know what the substance was inside the pellets. All we know is that it wasn't paint."
"Guess now I understand why I'm top of your hit parade," he grimaced, with a slight shake to his head.
"Let's not use the word 'hit' in this place. Shall we? Gives me the willies." She smiled, then gestured toward the door. "Come on. I've had enough entertainment for one night. Give a girl some privacy while she pilfers, willya?"
Opening the front door, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm to show him the way out. Once he stepped across the threshold, he turned to ask, "My gun?"
With a sly look, she hesitated, making him wonder what she'd do. Then she reached into the pocket of her sweats and handed him the Glock.
"I shouldn't have to say this, but maybe you need things spelled out. Yellow tape across the door means stay out, police business. Am I making myself clear?" Before he shared his sarcastic wit, Raven beat him to the punch, "Wait for an invitation before you invite yourself to my party."
"I'll remember that." With an unchanging expression, he spoke quietly. "Maybe one day I can show you the same hospitality."
His words were like a double-edged sword. And his eyes didn't give any particular insight into his meaning. Delacorte clearly preferred ambiguity. So as he walked toward the elevators, she kept her eyes on him. Christian never looked back.
The way he moved intrigued her—fluid and commanding as a predator. Perhaps just as deadly. Yet with his guard down, when he allowed it to show, his eyes held the promise of kindness and good humor. He was certainly a puzzle. Hearing the elevator arrive, she slowly closed the door and let her mind wander.
Stepping into the room, she placed her hands on her hips and stared across the expanse. Finally, she settled on the study door. What had he been doing? Thinking back to when he walked into the foyer, she replayed the moment in her head.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Rushing into the study, she stepped behind the desk, her eyes searching for anything out of place. Nothing looked missing. "You had your gloves and jacket on, Delacorte. I thought you'd just gotten here, but what if you were just leaving. Damn it!" she fumed.
If he'd taken anything or been on Blair's computer, she might never know. But then again, she might have caught him in the act like she figured, before he'd done any real damage. Setting her jaw, she fought back her indignation. Had she been played for a fool? All the while she'd been posturing her authority, the guy might already have had a lead to follow.
Raven remembered the balcony looked onto the parking lot. If she hurried, she might catch him drive away. Yanking open the French doors, she stepped toward the balustrade, sticking to the shadows next to a wall. Snow swirled, casting a Norman Rockwell quality to a scene far from an image of Americana. As she expected, Christian stood by a black Navigator, the car door ajar casting a light on him. He stopped.
Turning slowly, he looked back toward the building, his eyes looking to the upper floors. Without thinking, she reflexively waved a hand. Raven shook her head, mentally chastising herself for the ridiculous display. Not possible he saw her from this distance and under these conditions—in the dark.
"You're acting like a schoolgirl, Mac. The man can't see squat," she mumbled.
Just as she spoke, Christian raised a hand and returned her wave. A simple gesture. It clutched her heart, caressing her like the tentative fingers of a first-time lover. For an instant, her breath caught in the back of her throat.
"How the hell do you do that, Christian?" she whispered.
Her words drifted into the frosty night, a moist vapor trail. Feathery snowflakes wafted to her cheeks and eyelashes, drawn to her warmth. After a long moment, well after he'd pulled from the parking lot, a faint smile curved her lips.
"And what were you up to?"
The serrated blade bloodied his plate as he carved into the meat. Slathering the fleshy wedge with steak sauce, he lifted the fork to his mouth. Logan dined alone.
His men would eat after him, feasting on a revolting concoction of spaghetti, when the dining room had been cleared of his setting. Anything better would be wasted on their crude tastes. He set the rules, including the one about not being interrupted while he dined.
Apparently, this rule was subject to interpretation by Vinnie Buck. The man stood at the entryway to the dining room staring expectantly at him, waiting for a gesture for him to enter. Glaring at his number two man, he continued with his meal, disregarding the rude intrusion.
Quietly, Logan chewed every morsel, ignoring the bastard. Only the sound of utensils scraping the plate filled the small room, punctuated by Logan's contentment at his full stomach. He sighed and wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. Still, Vinnie waited.
"This better be important, Vin." His tone was soft and even, yet clearly filled with contempt. "You've disturbed my meal."
"I'm sorry, Logan," he muttered, stepping into the room with his head lowered. "It's just that I thought you'd want to know."
Silence. The idiot expected his prompting.
"Know what, Vinnie?" His voice seethed. Fear showed in Vin's eyes, making them bug out of his head like a macabre carnival doll.
"I accompanied a team to follow both cops, like you ordered." The man squirmed, making Logan suspect he'd fucked something up. Such a simple assignment. Leave it to this asshole to mess it up.
The man's lower lip trembled as he continued, "The team I was on got the job done. We followed the Mexican cop home after the press conference. We know where he lives. But team two waited for Detective Mackenzie outside the police station for over an hour. They must've missed her."
"It was your assignment, Vinnie. There is no such thing as 'they missed her.' The failure is clearly yours." Logan stood and tossed the napkin to the table, keeping his eyes on Buck. Without looking down, his left hand found the serrated steak knife. By the look in Vin's eyes, he saw the move, too. "Say it. You lost her, right, Vinnie?"
He inched closer and clutched the knife. Before the man stammered his excuses, Logan quickly closed the gap between them. He launched a powerful backhand across the face of the repulsive sycophant. He dropped the man to the floor and knelt on his chest, stifling his breath. Shifting his weight, he dug his knee into fleshy ribs and yanked at the man's hair. Vin yelped.