Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I was too humiliated to ask questions, or to hold his piercing gaze for long. After the way I called him out last night, he probably thinks I'm a narcissist.
Why was he following me from bar to bar? Did he think his missing student would show up? That doesn't explain the way he watched me onstage. I didn't imagine the heat in his gaze and that cocky, devilish smirk. Did I?
Before I can make up my mind on that, the door opens and he steps into the room, a manila file folder in his hands. He catches my gaze and gives me a curt nod. The heat from the last two days is nowhere to be seen. He's all business.
He seems driven, focused. I can just imagine him doing the exact same thing in the bedroom―focusing completely on his partner and her pleasure until she can't take any more. I don't even know him, but my thighs clench at the thought of this man between them, wringing orgasm after orgasm from me.
I straighten up in my seat, shifting uncomfortably when I realize his partner isn't coming in with him.
It's just me, him, and my overactive imagination in this room.
Awesome.
I'm so screwed.
"Miss Kendall," he says, striding toward the table. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's okay," I mumble, wringing my hands together as his scent wraps around me. He smells amazing, like saffron and wood, with a deeper, darker note I can't place. Whatever it is, it's sexy as hell and fits him perfectly.
My stomach flutters. I fight the desire to lean closer and inhale that wicked, delicious scent.
Calm down, vagina. Today is not your lucky day.
He slides into the chair across from me, dropping his folder to the table. I keep my eyes on it instead of looking at him. My cheeks already burn with humiliation. I don't need to embarrass myself any further by drooling over him. A tape recorder lands on the table beside the folder, causing me to jump in my seat. My gaze flies to his, surprise shooting through me.
Why does he need to record our conversation?
What is going on?
The question is on the tip of my tongue when he speaks.
"Do you need anything before we get started? Water? A restroom break?" he asks, those gray eyes boring into mine.
"Um, no thank you," I whisper, licking my lips as that voice hits me in the gut again. It's even better in person. Hypnotic almost. I can absolutely imagine this man whispering filthy things in my ear while he takes me from behind, my hair wrapped around his fist and beads of sweat rolling down his body.
I squeeze my legs together again as that exact image flares to life in my mind.
Christ Almighty, I'm going to hell.
"Then we'll get started."
"Okay."
"Do you have any objections to me recording this interview?"
"No." I shake my head.
He turns the recorder on and then leans back in his seat, getting comfortable. He looks perfectly at ease as he watches me, his hands folded together on his stomach, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His hair is a little wild, as if he's been running his hands through it.
He is far too good looking. And, thanks to my run, I look like a hot, sweaty mess.
"Please state your name and date of birth," he says.
"Uh, my name is Ivy Kendall. I was born on July fifteenth."
"What year?"
"1997."
"Miss Kendall, do you understand that you are not under arrest and are free to leave at any time?"
Under arrest? My eyes widen as anxiety shoots through me. I thought I was just here to look at a picture and answer a few questions. The fact that he's telling me that I'm not under arrest as if that's a possibility in the future has my stomach churning.
My heart rate picks up.
"Miss Kendall?"
"Um, yes, I understand."
"For the record, do you have any objections to me recording our conversation?"
"N-no."
"Can you state your occupation?"
"I teach kindergarten at Grover Johnson Elementary. And I sing and play guitar around town on the evenings and weekends."
"Do you know why you were brought in today?"
"Something about a missing college kid," I mutter, my anxiety spiking again at how formal this whole process is. This isn't what I expected and it's scary as hell. Gone is the cocky man from the bars who looked at me like he wanted to devour me. In his place a hardened cop sits, grilling me.
"Miss Kendall, how do you know Rory Clark?"
I blink at the question. "Like I told you when you called me, I don't know him. At least, I don't think I do."
"You don't know him, or you aren't sure if you know him?"
"I don't know if I know him."
Detective Lewis flips open his file and slides a photograph out before placing it in front of me. I drop my gaze to it, scrutinizing the boy in the image. He's maybe eighteen or nineteen. He's cute in an All-American kind of way, with blond hair and blue eyes, perfect teeth, and dimples.