people.
Through the glass, she spotted Roger Reinke standing with three other agents. Agent Norton wasn’t present. Roger, Charlie Grayson, and Mitch Reeve, she knew. The third man was Assistant Director in Charge Samuel Faber, their boss. So far he’d distanced himself from the investigation. Apparently that was about to change.
All agents present were dressed identically: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright sheen. No wonder bureau agents were frequently identified as the men in black .
Brad Jackson, the county coroner, worked over the body. His skin was pallid from a life spent under fluorescent lighting, drinking too much coffee, and exercising too little. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, the result of many late nights laboring over the dead.
Callie tapped on the glass.
Reinke glanced up. There wasn’t a sign of familiarity or warmth in his eyes in his acknowledgment of her arrival. He was in his work mode: stone cold, formal, and absolutely focused. Seeing her, he beckoned her inside. His gesture seemed to say, “hurry up and get your ass over here.” The day was going to be a long one and these guys wanted to get on with business.
She walked to the door, braced herself, then opened it. Though outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. “Death waits for no one,” she murmured under her breath.
Set to a chilly sixty-five degrees, the air-conditioned room was like a salve on her flushed skin. All shiny metal and cool white tile, the autopsy room was immaculate, close to germless. The cleaning solutions used to sterilize and sanitize scorched her nostrils. Death, however, still lingered. Not exactly an actual smell, but more a psychological one. In Callie’s mind each person’s passing seemed to have a different odor—some not so bad, others reeking.
This one reeked.
Reinke broke away from the group examining the body. A strapping, no-nonsense veteran of the streets, he was all sharp edges and razor creases. Standing well over six feet, he not only entered a room, but filled it. Not only with his size, but with his commanding personality. Raw energy radiated around him.
Roger’s intense gaze studied her a moment. “Agent Whitten. Glad you made it. We’ve been waiting.” He didn’t allow his expression or tone to give away his thoughts.
Her heart rate sped up. Roger had fifteen years on her age-wise, but that meant nothing. At forty-five he was vital and vigorous, having twice the energy of a much younger man.
Figuratively speaking, seeing Roger was like having shards of glass ground into her eyes. It hurt. “I came as soon as I got the messages.” There was nothing else to say that would be appropriate, so she said nothing. Callie could only look at her ex-lover.
And remember.
Seeing him so close, a fierce urge to beg him to take her back shot through her mind. How in the name of God had she gotten along without him for six months? If she closed her eyes, she easily pictured him naked, palming her hips in his huge hands, fingers digging tightly, almost painfully, into her skin, pushing the tip of his cock against her clit, teasing but not entering. Roger enjoyed making her beg for it.
She’d begged.
Remembering his possessive touch, her skin responded with fire. The air in the cramped room seemed to evaporate. She was suddenly burning up despite the chill. She unzipped her jacket.
Roger’s eyes caught the move. A secret knowing smile crossed his lips. He knew exactly what lay under her clothes. She might as well have stripped down to her skin by the hungry look lurking in his eyes.
She turned away. Damn, that man’s gaze was an eyefuck almost as satisfying as sex itself. She’d believed she was ready to work with Roger again, despite the ugly end of their affair. She was mistaken. She was far from ready. She had no business accepting this assignment.
The rhythm of her heart sped up. She cursed herself for allowing her emotions to simmer. In the
Through the glass, she spotted Roger Reinke standing with three other agents. Agent Norton wasn’t present. Roger, Charlie Grayson, and Mitch Reeve, she knew. The third man was Assistant Director in Charge Samuel Faber, their boss. So far he’d distanced himself from the investigation. Apparently that was about to change.
All agents present were dressed identically: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright sheen. No wonder bureau agents were frequently identified as the men in black .
Brad Jackson, the county coroner, worked over the body. His skin was pallid from a life spent under fluorescent lighting, drinking too much coffee, and exercising too little. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, the result of many late nights laboring over the dead.
Callie tapped on the glass.
Reinke glanced up. There wasn’t a sign of familiarity or warmth in his eyes in his acknowledgment of her arrival. He was in his work mode: stone cold, formal, and absolutely focused. Seeing her, he beckoned her inside. His gesture seemed to say, “hurry up and get your ass over here.” The day was going to be a long one and these guys wanted to get on with business.
She walked to the door, braced herself, then opened it. Though outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. “Death waits for no one,” she murmured under her breath.
Set to a chilly sixty-five degrees, the air-conditioned room was like a salve on her flushed skin. All shiny metal and cool white tile, the autopsy room was immaculate, close to germless. The cleaning solutions used to sterilize and sanitize scorched her nostrils. Death, however, still lingered. Not exactly an actual smell, but more a psychological one. In Callie’s mind each person’s passing seemed to have a different odor—some not so bad, others reeking.
This one reeked.
Reinke broke away from the group examining the body. A strapping, no-nonsense veteran of the streets, he was all sharp edges and razor creases. Standing well over six feet, he not only entered a room, but filled it. Not only with his size, but with his commanding personality. Raw energy radiated around him.
Roger’s intense gaze studied her a moment. “Agent Whitten. Glad you made it. We’ve been waiting.” He didn’t allow his expression or tone to give away his thoughts.
Her heart rate sped up. Roger had fifteen years on her age-wise, but that meant nothing. At forty-five he was vital and vigorous, having twice the energy of a much younger man.
Figuratively speaking, seeing Roger was like having shards of glass ground into her eyes. It hurt. “I came as soon as I got the messages.” There was nothing else to say that would be appropriate, so she said nothing. Callie could only look at her ex-lover.
And remember.
Seeing him so close, a fierce urge to beg him to take her back shot through her mind. How in the name of God had she gotten along without him for six months? If she closed her eyes, she easily pictured him naked, palming her hips in his huge hands, fingers digging tightly, almost painfully, into her skin, pushing the tip of his cock against her clit, teasing but not entering. Roger enjoyed making her beg for it.
She’d begged.
Remembering his possessive touch, her skin responded with fire. The air in the cramped room seemed to evaporate. She was suddenly burning up despite the chill. She unzipped her jacket.
Roger’s eyes caught the move. A secret knowing smile crossed his lips. He knew exactly what lay under her clothes. She might as well have stripped down to her skin by the hungry look lurking in his eyes.
She turned away. Damn, that man’s gaze was an eyefuck almost as satisfying as sex itself. She’d believed she was ready to work with Roger again, despite the ugly end of their affair. She was mistaken. She was far from ready. She had no business accepting this assignment.
The rhythm of her heart sped up. She cursed herself for allowing her emotions to simmer. In the
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