Read Online Their Summer Heat by Kitty DuCane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kitty DuCane
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to answer any questions without representation, and you know I can be extremely difficult to work with unless you give me a good reason to be reasonable.” Max paused, as if giving the men the opportunity to consider his statement. “Telling her what this is about would be a good start to making me less difficult.”
The easygoing Max who’d made love to her hours earlier had vanished, and in his place was the New York Shark. Only this time, she wasn’t the object of his steely gaze or icy voice; this poor man named Bates was on the receiving end. The two men had a history, had encountered one another before—or maybe Bates had just heard about Max’s reputation. Either way, she didn’t want her Max to be anything other than the sexy man who had fucked her senseless.
“Well, that’s fine with me,” said Bates. “Because you and your brother were next on our list.”
“Really?” Max smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Then I advise us all not to answer your questions.”
Summer hid a smile at Max’s quick wit.
The tall man huffed and stepped in front of Shorty. “Miss Heat, I’m Detective Sam Connors, and this is Frank Bates. Do you know Margo Swenson?”
“I know of her. I’ve only been in the same room with her three times in my life. I spoke to her for the first time at the gala Friday night.”
Lord, what was up with Margo? Did she want a refund because the Prestons hadn’t fallen into her bed after dinner last night?
“So, the last time you saw her was Friday night at the gala?” asked Bates.
Isn’t that what I just said? Summer bit back the smart-ass answer and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And you two?” asked the tall man.
“The last time was during dinner Saturday night at the Strip House at eight o’clock, but you already know that because it was all over the news,” answered Logan. “Margo arrived by herself and left by herself at around 9:30.”
“And where were you three between two and five this morning.”
“In bed,” said Max.
“Me too,” replied Logan.
At their answers, Summer experienced a shocked jolt. Four sets of eyes landed on her. She tried to think professionally. Answering in the affirmative would be the truth, but if Detective Connors were any good, he’d ask all of them if anyone could verify their alibis. Max arched a brow at her, and she knew he wanted her to follow their lead.
“Before I answer that, can you tell me why you are inquirin’ about Miss Swenson?”
The two detectives exchanged looks before Connors relented. “Miss Swenson was found dead in her apartment this morning.”
Summer swayed as her brain tried to process the impossibility of what her ears had heard. Good Lord, she’d just talked with Margo two short days ago. The fact the detectives thought she had anything to do with Margo’s death sent a lightning surge through her system.
“How…about…we take this inside my apartment,” offered Summer. She spun and walked back to her door, needing to escape the fetid air in the hallway.
She wiggled the key to get it into the ancient lock that had to date back to World War One. It was a temperamental thing on a good day, and her hands shook so hard, Logan had to take the keys and let them in.
Summer stepped into the room and halted as her belly dropped like an elevator from the twentieth floor. Dingy stuffing from her small, seventies-model dark green vinyl couch was strewn about like dirty snow, her yellow thrift-store ginger jar lamp was now a jigsaw puzzle, and the bookshelf had been overturned. A quick glance told her just about everything she owned had been upended or busted.
Logan immediately pulled her behind him. The two detectives drew their weapons, and Summer found herself sandwiched between the brothers, Max’s hands resting gently on her shoulders.
Even if she didn’t have much, what she did have was neat and tidy and hers, just hers. Her hands trembled, and she clenched them to hide the shakes, forced herself to
The easygoing Max who’d made love to her hours earlier had vanished, and in his place was the New York Shark. Only this time, she wasn’t the object of his steely gaze or icy voice; this poor man named Bates was on the receiving end. The two men had a history, had encountered one another before—or maybe Bates had just heard about Max’s reputation. Either way, she didn’t want her Max to be anything other than the sexy man who had fucked her senseless.
“Well, that’s fine with me,” said Bates. “Because you and your brother were next on our list.”
“Really?” Max smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Then I advise us all not to answer your questions.”
Summer hid a smile at Max’s quick wit.
The tall man huffed and stepped in front of Shorty. “Miss Heat, I’m Detective Sam Connors, and this is Frank Bates. Do you know Margo Swenson?”
“I know of her. I’ve only been in the same room with her three times in my life. I spoke to her for the first time at the gala Friday night.”
Lord, what was up with Margo? Did she want a refund because the Prestons hadn’t fallen into her bed after dinner last night?
“So, the last time you saw her was Friday night at the gala?” asked Bates.
Isn’t that what I just said? Summer bit back the smart-ass answer and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And you two?” asked the tall man.
“The last time was during dinner Saturday night at the Strip House at eight o’clock, but you already know that because it was all over the news,” answered Logan. “Margo arrived by herself and left by herself at around 9:30.”
“And where were you three between two and five this morning.”
“In bed,” said Max.
“Me too,” replied Logan.
At their answers, Summer experienced a shocked jolt. Four sets of eyes landed on her. She tried to think professionally. Answering in the affirmative would be the truth, but if Detective Connors were any good, he’d ask all of them if anyone could verify their alibis. Max arched a brow at her, and she knew he wanted her to follow their lead.
“Before I answer that, can you tell me why you are inquirin’ about Miss Swenson?”
The two detectives exchanged looks before Connors relented. “Miss Swenson was found dead in her apartment this morning.”
Summer swayed as her brain tried to process the impossibility of what her ears had heard. Good Lord, she’d just talked with Margo two short days ago. The fact the detectives thought she had anything to do with Margo’s death sent a lightning surge through her system.
“How…about…we take this inside my apartment,” offered Summer. She spun and walked back to her door, needing to escape the fetid air in the hallway.
She wiggled the key to get it into the ancient lock that had to date back to World War One. It was a temperamental thing on a good day, and her hands shook so hard, Logan had to take the keys and let them in.
Summer stepped into the room and halted as her belly dropped like an elevator from the twentieth floor. Dingy stuffing from her small, seventies-model dark green vinyl couch was strewn about like dirty snow, her yellow thrift-store ginger jar lamp was now a jigsaw puzzle, and the bookshelf had been overturned. A quick glance told her just about everything she owned had been upended or busted.
Logan immediately pulled her behind him. The two detectives drew their weapons, and Summer found herself sandwiched between the brothers, Max’s hands resting gently on her shoulders.
Even if she didn’t have much, what she did have was neat and tidy and hers, just hers. Her hands trembled, and she clenched them to hide the shakes, forced herself to
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