Page 112 of Bad Boy Next Door
Thirty-Two
Keagan
Isat across the table from the woman who held my life in her hands. She didn’t have a knife or a gun, but Marisol Flores held the power to destroy my life. The power to put me in jail.
And in spite of the serious nature of this interview, I couldn’t concentrate, because the Assistant District Attorney happened to be the sexiest creature I’d ever seen. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Not yet. Sure, she was pretty. That was obvious. But I knew lots of pretty woman. Lots of sexy ones, too, but Marisol Flores had something else.
Her conservative outfit almost had a librarian thing going on—a gray blouse, long-sleeved and buttoned up to the neck, and a shapeless navy skirt that still managed to hint at some curves without being in the same ballpark as tight.
Her complexion was several shades darker than mine ever got, even in summer, and her skin flawless and clear. The flush on her cheeks appeared natural, as did her thick, long lashes that perfectly framed her flashing brown eyes. She wore no make up or had put it on with a super-light hand.
I focused in. Her lashes had no tell-tale clumps or specking from mascara, and they were so long and lush that they had to be fake. Didn’t they? They didn’t look fake. Extensions? I longed to get closer to know for certain, or better yet feel them brush against my skin.
If, like I suspected, her lashes were real and without mascara they’d feel like feathers, like silk if they brushed against my cheek. I sucked in a long breath imagining the sensation, and how it would feel to hold her close.
Her dark hair was shiny and tied back, and her lips were tinted with a deep, rosy red shade. But her lips had none of that shiny, sticky business going on, and no caking, no discernible edge or signs of wear. Was it possible her lips were natural, too? Lips so lush and soft and red?
Desire spiked through me, waking my dick along with the desperate need to explore all the places on her body that might match the color of those lips, places on her body I wanted to suck on, to plunge into. Holy fuck, she was hot.
“Mr. Downey,” she said, her voice colder than her looks. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry.” I knew it would come off cocky, but couldn’t help smiling when I looked at her.
I fought the corners of my mouth, amused by her cool, prim expression with something else smoldering deep underneath.
“Did you ask a question?” I shook my head. “I haven’t slept in three nights, and I don’t know what’s going on here. My concentration’s a bit off.”
Compassion flashed in her pretty brown eyes—dark chocolate around the edges, melting into something closer to caramel near the middle—all of it gorgeous. Then she blinked and those long lashes kissed the tops of her cheeks.
“What were you doing at the corner of Middle Harbor Road and Maritime Street on Saturday night. At 1:57 am Sunday morning to be exact.”
I raked back my hair, desperate for a shower. “I already told your friends in blue. Several times.”
“How about you tell me, too. Just to make sure I have all the facts straight.”
“I’m flattered.” I leaned back in the chair, trying to pretend we’d just met at a coffee shop or a bar.
“Flattered?”
“How else should I feel when you’re so interested in where I hang out? Clearly you’re hoping to run into me again.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened and she brushed back a few hairs that escaped from her bun, tucking them behind her ear that sported a tiny red gem.
“It’s okay.” I grinned. “I like it.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re interested in me.”
She sat up straighter. “Mr. Downey. I assure you. I am only interested in your whereabouts as it pertains to criminal activities.”
I nodded, widening my eyes like I’d just figured something out. “Oh! You’re telling me it’s acrimeto stand at Middle Harbor and Maritime at 1:57am? I didn’t see the posted signs. Finally, I understand why I’m in here.” I lifted my hands in surrender. “I plead guilty.”
“You do, do you?” Her eyes clouded with suspicion. Not even a bit amused by my teasing.
“Yes, Ms. Flores.” I looked down at her left hand, long elegant fingers un-tainted by a wedding band. “Or is itMrs. Flores?”
“Ms.” She gave her head a sharp shake as if angry for taking that bait.
