No One Left To Tell

'Turn around. Hands on the wall, assume the position.' Her voice stern, she jutted her chin and held firm to her .38, showing she meant business.

His jaw dropped. 'You've got to be kidding.' Delacorte stood his ground, hands still chest-high.

'I rarely kid with a gun in my hand. Now turn around. Up against the wall and spread 'em.' She scowled. 'Just be thankful I'm in a good mood.'

Gloved hands placed head-high against the wall, he leaned and spread his legs. As she expected, the move had been well worth her time. Glancing down to admire the cut of his jeans, she wrestled with a smile.

He sighed and dropped his head. 'Yeah. Counting my lucky stars. Now what are you—' He gasped when she answered his question with an abrupt move.

Stepping closer, she raised his sweater, sliding cold fingers across his bare chest, dawdling along the soft curls of hair spread along his pectorals and down his stomach. The warm skin of his taut belly sent a rush of heat to her face.

'Ah. Watch it.' He jolted at her touch; his voice cracked faintly. 'Your hands are cold.'

'Just don't move. I'm not done.' Raven fought to keep the mischief from her voice. She retrieved the Glock from his leather holster inside his jacket. Slipping his gun into a pocket of her sweats, she leaned nearer his ear. 'Nice piece.'

Rolling his head back, without turning around, he exercised his right to sarcasm. 'You talking about the weapon?'

'Oh, yeah. That, too.'

Sliding a hand down one thigh, then up his hamstring, she took her time with both legs, dawdling at the small of his back. He never voiced an objection, but fidgeted and huffed as she took liberties with the search.

At first, Raven had launched into the arrest procedure without thinking, hoping to impress her authority on him. It should've been an automatic motion. She'd done it countless times. Reaching under his sweater hadn't exactly been an approved search method. She'd improvised that twist to get his attention, keep him off- balance.

But with Delacorte, the act felt intimate and sensual, as if she'd exploited him and taken unfair advantage. Her intention to drag out his lesson in humility backfired, hitting her squarely between the eyes. Now blood scurried to her face.

To his credit, he stood his ground, subjugating himself to her abuse of authority until—

'I'm not well-versed in the arrest process, never having gone through it myself, but aren't you taking a little too much time for the pat down?' he asked.

'You complaining?' The flirtatious retort caught her by surprise.

With the men she worked with, a snappy comeback was a requirement of the job. But with Christian, the remark sounded brash. No doubt, dealing with the scum of Chicago had hardened her. Uncertain how to tap into her femininity, she desperately wished for a softer, feminine side to surface.

Reality check! Frisking a man at gunpoint would tend to inhibit her womanliness. Granted, the move got the guy's attention, breaking the ice of etiquette, but it lacked subtlety. She closed her eyes for an instant, wondering about her sanity. Maybe she could blame Delacorte. Ever since she'd met him, her world had taken a tumble.

Now her cheeks burned. She waited for his reaction to her reckless comeback. You complaining? Her taunt replayed fresh in her mind, making her cringe to think what he'd say-It took him a moment to answer. Then he shook his head and stifled a grin. Looking over his shoulder, he found her eyes.

'No. No, I'm not.'

His smile knocked the wind out of her. A sucker punch to the gut, followed by an uppercut inflicted by his dark green eyes. His usually serious expression warmed, softened with humor. Hell, why did he have to smell so damned good? Raven needed to regain control, shift it back to business as usual. Since she'd initiated the detour, it was up to her to get it done.

Stepping back, she wiped the grin from her face. 'Now turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.'

Tilting his head, he kept his hands raised. 'Don't you think this is a little over the top? Even for you?'

Her gun leveled to his chest, she held her position, then slowly dropped her arms, gun at her side. 'Is this what you call the spirit of cooperation? I could arrest you, except you'd probably get a perverse enjoyment from the handcuffs.'

He lowered his hands. His expression held no remorse for the break-in. Quite the contrary. A hint of amusement spread across his face for an instant, then faded.

'You've caught me red-handed. Nothing to say in my defense. I'm throwing myself on your mercy.' With audacity in his eyes, he added, 'If you have any.'

'Nice apology. You sound like a politician caught with his pants down,' she quipped, glaring at him.

'I figure if it works for the Oval Office, no sense completely reinventing the spiel,' he replied without hesitation. Leaning against the door jamb of the study, he folded his arms over his chest in defiance. 'What? Do I lack sincerity?'

'No, I'd say you're full of it.' She stepped closer and raised an eyebrow. 'You trying to charm me into forgetting about your little break-in?'

'No, just keeping up my end of the conversation.' His interest in the debate waned, his somber expression reappearing. 'We could banter all night. Even as entertaining as that might be, I have another idea.'

'Oh, this I gotta hear. You know, this isn't the world of high finance with the Dunhill Corporation. You can't just negotiate your way out of—'

He interrupted her. 'I'd like to propose a truce. Just for an hour or so. We can cover more ground if we work together. Since neither of us is big on sharing, let's ditch the spirit-of-cooperation bullshit. You're the one who wanted the cards on the table, so here's my compromise.'

'You're in no position to negotiate anything, studly.'

His eyes never wavered. He stepped toward her and closed the gap of her comfort zone.

'Come on. You came here for a reason. You don't want to hassle with my arrest. That'd just make for a very long evening for both of us.' He stared at her, waiting for an acknowledgment she wasn't about to give so easily. So he forged ahead, 'If we work together, and you drop the arrest talk, whatever we find tonight, we share. Deal?' Removing a glove, he extended his hand to seal the agreement.

Now he'd turned into Mr. Handshake! He'd turned the tables of getting caught in the act to one of mutual collaboration. Well, no way, buster! Yet after considering the words he'd chosen about 'dropping the arrest talk,' she wasn't exactly assuring him she wouldn't arrest him at all. It only meant she'd stop talking about it. If it came to snapping on the cuffs, she hoped he'd appreciate the subtle distinction.

'So where's the compromise, Delacorte? Sounds pretty one-sided to me.'

'I had the displeasure of knowing Mickey. Can you say the same?' he challenged. When she found herself mute on the subject, he continued, 'And I know computers. While you search the other rooms, I can—'

'Oh, no. I've got a specialized forensics team coming in here tomorrow to seize Blair's computer. You're not messing with my chain of custody report for any evidence found on his PC. If we come up with something of interest, I'll consider making a call to you.' She glared at him, enjoying her advantage. 'You haven't exactly given me a warm and fuzzy in the trust department.'

Mr. Subtle let his guard down enough for her to see his resentment. His main purpose for the late-night home invasion had undoubtedly been centered on Blair's computer. Given his background, it was one of his specialties. With that not an option, she figured his 'spirit of cooperation' would be in the dumper.

Raven was ready to slam the door shut on him, kicking him out on his delectable ear. But she saw this confrontation as an opportunity, one she couldn't pass up.

'Tell me why you came here. And not something I already know.'

With his head down, Christian took a deep breath, deliberating her demand. Walking by her, he finally raised his chin and faced the living area with hands on his hips. She waited for his answer.

With barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke. 'I think your instincts on Mickey's lifestyle were dead-on. He subsidized his income. His closet is filled with designer duds—Armani, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. And I can't explain it. As head of security, I know his salary. And by tomorrow, you will, too.'