Page 32 of The Body in the Backyard
“God, you’re sexy when you get all investigate-y.”
“Are you sure it isn’t just the dress?”
Nick rose from his chair and held out a hand to her. “It’s the whole package, baby. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as he led her away from the table.
“It’s my birthday. I’m gonna dance with my girl.”
Nick twirled her once on the dance floor, then drew her into his arms just as the cellos and violins eased into an instrumental version of “Love Me Like You Do.”
“Birthday boy’s got moves,” Riley observed.
“Just wait until I get out of this straitjacket. Then I’ll show you some moves that’ll make your eyes roll back in your head.”
“And people say romance is dead,” she teased. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“My aunt Nancy was an amateur ballroom dance competitor who was always between partners. By the time she moved on to her next hobby of real estate mogul, all of us cousins knew how to bust the right moves.”
“How many cousins do you have?”
“It feels like hundreds. Let’s not talk about my screwy family. Let’s talk about us. You know how much I like working for myself? Not answering to anybody? Setting my own schedule?” he asked.
“I am aware.”
“You make it all ten times better.”
Her feet faltered, but Nick didn’t let her miss a step. “I don’t know what to do when you get all sneaky sweet on me like that,” she admitted.
“Maybe you should try getting used to it,” he suggested, spinning her out only to reel her back in.
“I’ll take that under consideration,” she said, appreciating the warmth of his body against hers. She was the lucky one, she realized as Nick dipped her low, holding her effortlessly. Just a few short years ago, she’d been in a very different position.
Her eyes were drawn to a movement over his shoulder. “Oh, hell. Griffin!”
“I realize I’m wearing a mask, but I thought the height and general charm would have tipped you off, Thorn. I’m Nick,” he said, still holding her in the dip.
“No! Griffin!” she said, pointing.
He pulled her back to her feet and spun them around. “Crap,” he muttered.
Their client was balanced precariously on the top step of the grand staircase, waving at the gathering like he were some sort of benevolent despot. The shadows behind him seemed to be moving. There was a flash of white, and warning bells rang in Riley’s head. Someone was standing behind Griffin.
Nick was already on the move, fighting his way through the crowd. Riley picked up the skirt of her dress and jogged after him just as Griffin pitched forward down the stairs.
9
1:58 a.m. Friday, November 1
“Can I have a glass of warm milk?” Griffin asked pitifully from his eight-thousand-thread-count bed linens.
He had a satin eye mask perched on top of his head. His cheek was bruised, he had a bandage on his jaw, his right arm was in a sling, and the doctor at urgent care had handed over an inflatable doughnut for the next week’s worth of sitting.
Riley almost felt sorry for him.
Nick had no such feelings.
“No, you can’t have a fucking glass of warm milk. What are you? Three years old?” he snapped, double-checking the locks on the bedroom windows. “Holy fucking shit. What is that?”
