His phone rang, pulling him from his funk. He glanced at his watch. Ten after eight. He suspected his guests from CPD had arrived, exhibiting their propensity for tardiness. Reaching his desk, he read the caller ID display—lobby security.
"Yes?" he answered.
"Mr. Delacorte. Burke here. You have two guests from the Chicago Police here to see you. They have an appointment?"
"Yes, send them to my office. Their appointment is with Human Resources, but I'll see them first. Give me ten minutes with them, then have someone from HR come to escort them."
After he hung up, a strange feeling gripped him. The dark eyes of Raven Mackenzie dominated his thoughts, along with the memory of her velvet touch against his belly. He found himself anxious to see her. With a slight shake of his head, he glared at the closed door to his office, chastising his foolishness.
"Damn it, Delacorte. You've got work to do."
The executive offices of the Dunhill Tower were beautifully appointed. Endless corridors were lined in plush rugs, adding texture and warmth to the lofty ornate ceilings, dripping with extravagant chandeliers. Framed in gold, massive canvases hung low on paneled walls, with subtle lighting to accentuate the vivid oils. The heady scent of fresh exotic flowers teased her senses, their elaborate arrangements surpassing the elegance of distinctive porcelain vases. Raven had never seen such fine decor.
She attempted to look nonchalant, but Tony gave them both away, openly gawking with his mouth open.
"Ay, Dios mio, Raven. Check this place out. If I worked here, I'd wanna bring in a mattress, stay awhile." Tony spun around, absorbing the ambience with all the finesse of a ball-peen hammer. "If Delacorte doesn't turn out to be a heartless, cold-blooded killer, you think he might hire me for his security team—that is, when I get ready to retire from the life?"
"And why would you be so picky as to exclude a murderer from your future employment prospects?" she joked.
"Excellent point, Mac. Maybe I shouldn't limit my potential."
Interrupting Tony's delusions, the receptionist greeted them. "Good morning, Detectives. May I take your coats?"
The young, petite brunette flashed a brilliant smile as they handed over their garments. "Mr. Delacorte is expecting you. Right this way." Stylishly dressed, the woman ushered them to a suite toward the right. "We have coffee and pastries inside, compliments of Dunhill. Have a nice day."
The sound of a delicate, high-pitched violin found its way to her ear, from speakers well-hidden. Classical music gave an air of serenity to the workplace. All of it, so civil.
The woman pushed open the massive door to Christian's office. As they entered, she announced, "Your guests are here. Anything else I can get you, Mr. Delacorte?"
"No, Denise. That's all. Thanks for indulging me this morning."
"My pleasure, Christian." The use of his first name, coupled with the inviting look in her eyes, told Raven that Christian had indeed been her pleasure.
Only another woman would recognize the coy move. Yet Delacorte appeared oblivious to her blatant flirtations. Raven knew his affairs were none of her business. Instead, she drank in the sight of him like she'd been wandering the desert for days without water.
Dressed in an elegant navy suit, pale blue shirt, and a tasteful tie in red silk print, Christian Delacorte stole her breath. A constant habit. Accentuating his tall, lean stature, the drape of his suit fit his body perfectly. The subtlety of his cologne embraced her. And as a welcome bonus, the feel of his skin teased her sense of touch, reminding her she'd taken liberties with him last night. She fought to hide a smile as she approached him.
Would he acknowledge his little escapade of breaking and entering into Mickey Blair's place last night in front of Tony? Raven didn't have to think about that for long. He'd be a fool to admit he'd broken the law. One thing was very certain—Christian Delacorte would never be mistaken for a fool.
Drawing closer, Raven noticed the pale blue of his shirt tinted his green eyes to a blend of deep azure. She'd always believed such perfection would be unattainable, featured only on exotic magazine covers using enhanced photographic techniques. Yet here stood living proof she'd been wrong.
Only the ever-present sadness in his expression reminded her his life was anything but perfect. Christian communicated all this in an instant. But perhaps she read too much into him again—a dangerous yet tantalizing addiction with a man like Delacorte.
He caught her eye and held her gaze long enough to communicate a special recognition. Then the flash was gone. Christian reverted to business as usual.
"Good morning, Detectives." He shook hands with them both, then offered, "I hope you like the coffee and feel free to enjoy the fruit and pastries. Someone from HR will be here shortly to escort you to your morning appointment."
Tony served himself a pastry and filled a china cup with coffee, looking back over his shoulder at his host. "Well, we appreciate your hospitality; the spread looks great. But before we head over to HR, we'd like to see Mrs. Dunhill, to thank her personally."
"Oh, no need for thanks, Detective Rodriguez. I assure you." Christian's face was unreadable.
"No, we insist." Raven asked. "Is she in today?"
His eyes fixed on her. "Actually, I'm not sure. I left the estate early, I didn't discuss her itinerary for the day."
"My, isn't that unusual, for the head of security to be out of the loop?"
If she hadn't been watching intently, she might've missed the subtle change in his expression. Playing cagey with Delacorte felt like challenging a grand chess master.
"That was more of a rhetorical question—just a general observation. I'm sure Fiona Dunhill is in very capable hands." She'd intended to make a point, but his sentiments shone on his face. Her insincere attempt to make amends fell flat.
"Are you always this obsessed with expressing your gratitude, Detective Mackenzie?" His eyes demanded an answer. "That question is not rhetorical. I'm quite interested in understanding the proper etiquette for coffee and cheese Danish."
Brick by brick, Christian erected a wall between them, using sarcasm for mortar. And she had only herself to thank for initiating the verbal tussle.
"We may have some questions to ask her." Loaded with nerve, she implied a skepticism for his version of the truth.
"You may have some questions? My, isn't that unusual for a detective to be so ambiguous. I haven't known you for very long, but aren't you a bit more direct?" Definitely on the assault, Delacorte found high ground and intended to hold it.
"Then how's this for direct. We want to talk to Mrs. Dunhill. How can we find her?" She folded her arms and stepped closer.
"Try her cell phone. I'm sure she'll be happy to make arrangements with you when you speak to her." Walking to his desk, Christian pulled open a drawer. He wrote on the back of a small card. "My business card. Her private cell phone number is on the back." Rejoining her, he handed over the card, along with a heaping dose of cynicism. "Please be discreet with the use of it."
"Discreet? I can do discreet." She qualified, "Or a fair facsimile."