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I raise a brow. “But you’re giving me shit about it?”
“Damn right I am,” she grins. “You’re beautiful and lively, and there’s no reason you should be single. Nate is a fucking idiot.”
I laugh. “He’s a child punishing me for working too much, being too successful.” He’d resented my career success and how often I appeared in the news and press conferences. “I thought he’d get over it, but I was wrong.”
“Completely his loss.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to say that. He cheated and there’s no going back from that. I’m fine. My break has more to do with me and my focus than with any residual heartbreak. I promise.”
She takes a healthy sip of wine. “In that case, I have thoughts on your killer and his victims.”
I smile and lean forward. “I’m all ears.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Damien
I slip through the unlocked sliding glass door into Francesca’s house. The thrill of being inside her home sends a shiver down my spine.
Inside, the lingering scent of her perfume wraps around me like a lover’s embrace. The hint of jasmine and sandalwood, an intoxicating elixir. I can get drunk on that scent alone.
But I’m here for more than that.
I prowl through her space, a predator scenting his prey. The living room is immaculate, everything in its proper place—just like the detective herself, always in control.
Exploring each room, I soak up every detail. I’ll uncover all there is to know about Francesca DeMarco.
A few photos catch my eye. Frankie as a child, her big brown eyes full of innocence. She didn’t know the horrors the world had in store for her yet. Beside it, a photo from her police academy graduation. There’s a fire in her eyes now, a determination to take on the world’s villains. But it doesn’t faze her; she pushes through it, concentrating on the next case and the one that follows. The next criminal to catch.
I admire her ability to set her feelings aside, as if being emotional is some kind of virtue. But not Francesca. She’s unwavering, unshakable, regardless of the brutality or viciousness of the crime scene. She keeps that intense focus, the slightly bored expression that underlies her compulsion to make sure she gets justice for whatever asshole that’s lucky enough to have her investigating their death.
All of this makes me think she’s not as different from me as I initially thought, making her even more irresistible. A woman who shares my darkness? After decades of being a billionaire tech prodigy and the most sought-after bachelor, I never imagined such a creature existed.
Most of the women I go out with only see dollar signs when they look at me. Sure, some want to sleep with me just to say they’ve been with me, and others are hoping for an eighteen-year meal ticket, but none of them stick around because they aren’t right.
Frankie, on the other hand? She may be right.
At least for right now.
Each room unlocks another side of her personality. Her kitchen—also tidy—shows a vibrant, joyful aura that catches me off guard. The fridge, stocked mostly with fruits, veggies, yogurt and a bread loaf, hints at her health-conscious efforts. Yet the soy sauce, ketchup and duck sauce packets neatly arranged in the egg tray tell me it’s a constant battle against the convenience of takeout meals.
I mentally catalog her preferred coffee and milk brands, laundry detergent choice–even her favorite beer—nuggets to use later. Climbing the stairs, a devious grin spreads across my face as I near her bedroom, her innermost sanctum.
Her safe haven.
I touch the towels in her linen closet, note the brand of her shampoo, conditioner and body wash. Even the shaving gel she uses is ironed onto my memory. The scents she uses give me another glimpse into who she is, what she likes, the things she prioritizes in her life.
But it’s the bedroom where the real treasure lies. Decorated in a deep, sensual purple. Her sheets are silky, cool and inviting. I want to lay her out on the bed, map every inch of her body with my hands and mouth until she’s thrashing beneath me.
Focus, Damien. Business before pleasure.
Her closet reveals the duality of her nature, the split between her public and private lives. Work and play, neatly divided, just like the two sides warring within her soul. Even her shoe collection tells a story—sensible heels for chasing down criminals, strappy sandals for dancing the night away.
I drink in every detail, committing her sizes to memory with a satisfied smile. My first guesses were so close, just a hair off the mark.
The fabrics she chooses for her personal life are a delicious contrast to her professional armor. Silky, flowing, soft—a whisper of the woman beneath the tough exterior. “Oh, my sweet contradiction,” I say, trailing my fingers along an interesting dress.
On the surface, Francesca’s hard edges and cold logic, a detective through and through. But I see the truth lurking inside, the shadows that mirror my own.
