reflection.
"Paintball? Why wasn't there any paint on his clothes? In the photos?" he questioned.
His surprise appeared genuine. But the man had been insufferably observant. A good quality, if Christian were a solid member of her team. Yet given his past, the man would not change sides so easily. She had to consider him the enemy, or at the very least, a hostile participant.
A part of her remained guarded, so she lied. "We don't know what the substance was inside the pellets. All we know is that it wasn't paint."
"Guess now I understand why I'm top of your hit parade," he grimaced, with a slight shake to his head.
"Let's not use the word 'hit' in this place. Shall we? Gives me the willies." She smiled, then gestured toward the door. "Come on. I've had enough entertainment for one night. Give a girl some privacy while she pilfers, willya?"
Opening the front door, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm to show him the way out. Once he stepped across the threshold, he turned to ask, "My gun?"
With a sly look, she hesitated, making him wonder what she'd do. Then she reached into the pocket of her sweats and handed him the Glock.
"I shouldn't have to say this, but maybe you need things spelled out. Yellow tape across the door means stay out, police business. Am I making myself clear?" Before he shared his sarcastic wit, Raven beat him to the punch, "Wait for an invitation before you invite yourself to my party."
"I'll remember that." With an unchanging expression, he spoke quietly. "Maybe one day I can show you the same hospitality."
His words were like a double-edged sword. And his eyes didn't give any particular insight into his meaning. Delacorte clearly preferred ambiguity. So as he walked toward the elevators, she kept her eyes on him. Christian never looked back.
The way he moved intrigued her—fluid and commanding as a predator. Perhaps just as deadly. Yet with his guard down, when he allowed it to show, his eyes held the promise of kindness and good humor. He was certainly a puzzle. Hearing the elevator arrive, she slowly closed the door and let her mind wander.
Stepping into the room, she placed her hands on her hips and stared across the expanse. Finally, she settled on the study door. What had he been doing? Thinking back to when he walked into the foyer, she replayed the moment in her head.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Rushing into the study, she stepped behind the desk, her eyes searching for anything out of place. Nothing looked missing. "You had your gloves and jacket on, Delacorte. I thought you'd just gotten here, but what if you were just leaving. Damn it!" she fumed.
If he'd taken anything or been on Blair's computer, she might never know. But then again, she might have caught him in the act like she figured, before he'd done any real damage. Setting her jaw, she fought back her indignation. Had she been played for a fool? All the while she'd been posturing her authority, the guy might already have had a lead to follow.
Raven remembered the balcony looked onto the parking lot. If she hurried, she might catch him drive away. Yanking open the French doors, she stepped toward the balustrade, sticking to the shadows next to a wall. Snow swirled, casting a Norman Rockwell quality to a scene far from an image of Americana. As she expected, Christian stood by a black Navigator, the car door ajar casting a light on him. He stopped.
Turning slowly, he looked back toward the building, his eyes looking to the upper floors. Without thinking, she reflexively waved a hand. Raven shook her head, mentally chastising herself for the ridiculous display. Not possible he saw her from this distance and under these conditions—in the dark.
"You're acting like a schoolgirl, Mac. The man can't see squat," she mumbled.
Just as she spoke, Christian raised a hand and returned her wave. A simple gesture. It clutched her heart, caressing her like the tentative fingers of a first-time lover. For an instant, her breath caught
"Paintball? Why wasn't there any paint on his clothes? In the photos?" he questioned.
His surprise appeared genuine. But the man had been insufferably observant. A good quality, if Christian were a solid member of her team. Yet given his past, the man would not change sides so easily. She had to consider him the enemy, or at the very least, a hostile participant.
A part of her remained guarded, so she lied. "We don't know what the substance was inside the pellets. All we know is that it wasn't paint."
"Guess now I understand why I'm top of your hit parade," he grimaced, with a slight shake to his head.
"Let's not use the word 'hit' in this place. Shall we? Gives me the willies." She smiled, then gestured toward the door. "Come on. I've had enough entertainment for one night. Give a girl some privacy while she pilfers, willya?"
Opening the front door, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm to show him the way out. Once he stepped across the threshold, he turned to ask, "My gun?"
With a sly look, she hesitated, making him wonder what she'd do. Then she reached into the pocket of her sweats and handed him the Glock.
"I shouldn't have to say this, but maybe you need things spelled out. Yellow tape across the door means stay out, police business. Am I making myself clear?" Before he shared his sarcastic wit, Raven beat him to the punch, "Wait for an invitation before you invite yourself to my party."
"I'll remember that." With an unchanging expression, he spoke quietly. "Maybe one day I can show you the same hospitality."
His words were like a double-edged sword. And his eyes didn't give any particular insight into his meaning. Delacorte clearly preferred ambiguity. So as he walked toward the elevators, she kept her eyes on him. Christian never looked back.
The way he moved intrigued her—fluid and commanding as a predator. Perhaps just as deadly. Yet with his guard down, when he allowed it to show, his eyes held the promise of kindness and good humor. He was certainly a puzzle. Hearing the elevator arrive, she slowly closed the door and let her mind wander.
Stepping into the room, she placed her hands on her hips and stared across the expanse. Finally, she settled on the study door. What had he been doing? Thinking back to when he walked into the foyer, she replayed the moment in her head.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Rushing into the study, she stepped behind the desk, her eyes searching for anything out of place. Nothing looked missing. "You had your gloves and jacket on, Delacorte. I thought you'd just gotten here, but what if you were just leaving. Damn it!" she fumed.
If he'd taken anything or been on Blair's computer, she might never know. But then again, she might have caught him in the act like she figured, before he'd done any real damage. Setting her jaw, she fought back her indignation. Had she been played for a fool? All the while she'd been posturing her authority, the guy might already have had a lead to follow.
Raven remembered the balcony looked onto the parking lot. If she hurried, she might catch him drive away. Yanking open the French doors, she stepped toward the balustrade, sticking to the shadows next to a wall. Snow swirled, casting a Norman Rockwell quality to a scene far from an image of Americana. As she expected, Christian stood by a black Navigator, the car door ajar casting a light on him. He stopped.
Turning slowly, he looked back toward the building, his eyes looking to the upper floors. Without thinking, she reflexively waved a hand. Raven shook her head, mentally chastising herself for the ridiculous display. Not possible he saw her from this distance and under these conditions—in the dark.
"You're acting like a schoolgirl, Mac. The man can't see squat," she mumbled.
Just as she spoke, Christian raised a hand and returned her wave. A simple gesture. It clutched her heart, caressing her like the tentative fingers of a first-time lover. For an instant, her breath caught
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