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“Don’t assume anybody is harmless.”
Sam was so close. Claire could feel the heat coming off his body. His lips were just inches away. And when his grip around her chin tightened, she knew he felt the connection as much as she did. Oh, man. Sam Vernelli shouldn’t be worrying about her virtue or safety, he should be worrying about his own.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away. She couldn’t think when he was touching her. “I got carried away at your expense.”
He let his hand drop back into his lap. “You had me going,” he admitted. “The watching thing was a little over the top. That’s what did you in.”
“Watching isn’t your thing?” she asked, suddenly feeling bold.
He stared at her, not blinking, maybe not even breathing. “I prefer to participate…”
About the Author
As a child, BEVERLY LONG used to take a flashlight to bed so that she could hide under the covers and read. Once a teenager, more often than not, the books she chose were romance novels. Now she gets to keep the light on as long as she wants, and there’s always a romance novel on her nightstand. With both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director, she now enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past his or her bedtime.
Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit www.beverlylong.com or like her at www.facebook.com/BeverlyLong.romance.
Deadly Force
Beverly Long
MILLS & BOON
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For Nick,
who has been a wonderful addition to our family!
Chapter One
Claire Fontaine sneaked a peek at her watch. Time hadn’t stopped but it was moving pretty darn slowly.
“I’ve given this a lot of time and attention, people,” her boss said. He stood at the head of the conference-room table, his arms flailing around as if they didn’t belong to his body. His hair stood on end and there was a little speck of spit in the corner of his mouth.
“The new tagline for Smith Pharmaceuticals is ‘When You Count Your Blessings, Count on Us.’ We’ll feature a modern family—a mom and dad both in business suits, three kids, all with smartphones, and lots of other technology in the background. We add an overlay, rolling across the screen, in old standard typewriter print. You know, High Blood Pressure, Type II Diabetes, High Cholesterol, Asthma. The contrast will be great. It’ll hit home. No matter how things change, taking care of your family is what it’s really about.”
Claire looked around the table. Pete Mission, the most experienced designer, winked at her. Hannah, with whom she shared a cubicle wall, raised her auburn dyed eyebrows. They all knew it was her idea, knew that she’d been working even later than usual the last two weeks getting the idea into production.
But if her boss wanted to take credit, she didn’t really care. She’d been lucky to get the job at Alexander and Pope. Not many advertising agencies were hiring and those that were all seemed to want at least five years of work experience.
Victor Santini beamed like a lighthouse. “Let’s call it a night, people. We’ll hit it hard again Monday.” He pulled a rubber band off a stack of envelopes. “I’ve got your paychecks.”
Nobody wasted any time. Claire reached for her check, folded the envelope and stuck it in her skirt pocket. She couldn’t remember a Friday when Victor had let them escape early. Even if it was only twenty minutes, it was especially fortuitous because tonight she was going to confront Sam Vernelli.
Detective Vernelli. One of the city’s finest. His picture had been in the paper a few weeks back. He and several other police officers had been honored at a luncheon and some reporter had decided that cops standing alongside the mayor was too good a photo op to pass.
It was terribly wrong that a man like him was responsible for enforcing the law. However, she wasn’t naive enough to think she could change anything. The police hadn’t been interested in what she’d had to say eleven years ago, so they certainly weren’t going to be interested now. He was safe.
She just wanted him to know that there was somebody who knew the truth. Somebody who knew that he’d gotten away with murder.
Hurrying, she shut down her computer, packed it away, pulled her running shoes out of her shoulder bag and bent down to put them on. When she left the room, she opted for the seven flights of stairs instead of the elevator. Once outside, she walked fast and then waited impatiently for the do-not-walk signs at the busy intersections to flip over. The mob of people on the sidewalk gradually thinned out as she left behind the commercial district and entered the residential streets, until finally after twenty minutes, she was the only one walking on the tree-lined sidewalk.
It was warm for late September and on any other day, the heat on her face, arms and bare legs would have felt good. But today, it made her hot and cranky and she was sweating and slightly out of breath when she reached Sam Vernelli’s brownstone. She checked his house number against the crumpled-up slip of paper she clutched in her hand.
It had been ridiculously easy to find him. The internet was a wonderful thing.
She looked at the brick three-story that matched all the other brick three-stories that lined the quiet street. The houses were narrow and deep, but not as close together as she’d seen in some parts of the city. These people actually had yards.
There were three steps leading up to the front door. Mail had been delivered and envelopes peeked out of the metal box hanging on the side of the house. A big pot, with a sprawling gold mum that looked as if it needed watering, sat next to the solid-wood door. There was a huge tree in the front yard with leaves that were turning a deep red.
It looked normal. Nice.
Did his neighbors know that they lived next door to a killer?
Did they wander out in the evenings, intent on watering their small lawns, and end up making conversation with him? Did they invite him inside for a cup of hot chocolate after he helped them shovel snow? In a month, would their children trick-or-treat at his house?
Did his past matter to them? To his coworkers? To anyone but her?
It wasn’t much, but at least tonight he would be reminded that somebody remembered. She’d intended to come that very same night after seeing the photo. However, when she’d gotten home from work, she’d quickly realized that her new flat-screen, some jewelry and half her underwear had been ripped off.
Welcome to the big city, country girl.