Page 232 of Chameleon Killer

I had spent the better part of the last week analyzing everything.

The Auditor.

Simon.

Guy Reardon.

Missing medical records.

Synthetic surveillance.

Elliot Brewster.

Flint.

Especially Flint.

Right now, I didn't want to analyze a damn thing.

I wanted to lie here, listen to his heartbeat beneath my ear, and pretend the rest of Chicago had ceased to exist.

The buzzer went off. Again.

Dammit.

Neither of us moved.

I lifted my head enough to look at him.

Flint stared at the ceiling.

The buzzer stopped.

“Excellent,” I murmured.

His hand resumed its slow path along my back.

I settled against him again. Thirty seconds passed. Maybe forty. The buzzer sounded again.

Flint's chest expanded beneath me with a long, aggrieved breath. “Persistent.”

“It could be important.” As much as I hated to even consider it.

“Nothing important happens before noon on Sunday.” His grumble was adorable.

“It is after noon.”

He frowned. “Then nothing important happens before Monday.”

I smiled against his skin as I tried to bury a laugh.

The buzzer stopped. Neither of us moved. Maybe whoever it was had finally taken the hint.

Flint shifted beneath me, and for one hopeful moment I thought he was planning to roll me beneath him again.

Instead, he reached down.

Right. Condom. Reality had rules.