Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,6

part.

But she took her time, righting the chair, taking off her peacoat and draping it over her bag. At last she turned to face him, and for the first time, he got a close look at her in the light. She was even more attractive than he’d expected with her wary green eyes and delicately winged brows, that long tumble of auburn hair. Her mouth was evocative and full, her high, sculpted cheekbones tinged with pink. A smattering of freckles dusted her small nose.

He raked his gaze down the rest of her—over her small, high breasts and slender waist, slim hips clad in low-slung jeans—and his heart began to thud. She looked amazingly like the computerized image, but softer, far sexier. More vulnerable.

Vulnerable? He stifled a snort. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He returned his gaze to hers. And without warning, a sense of awareness arrowed between them, a deep tug of sexual attraction that caught him unprepared. His belly went taut, a rush of adrenaline accelerating his pulse.

He bit back hard on a curse. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely the wrong woman, considering she was a potential suspect in his brother’s death. And her reaction didn’t help—her eyes going wide and dark, her breath catching on a quiet gasp, impacting him even more.

“I need a drink,” she muttered, spinning around.

That made two of them.

“You want one?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “Whiskey?”

“Sure.”

Disgusted by his reaction, he looked away, but the sudden memory of her silky skin prompted another swarm of heat in his blood. So she appealed to him. So she attracted him in a gut-deep, visceral way. He had to nip his reaction fast.

Needing some mental distance, he took stock of her kitchen, the pile of junk mail spilling out of her trash can evidence of a recent trip. Then he shifted his gaze to her front room. This room was messier, more lived-in with magazines scattered about and a red sweater tossed over a chair.

But what really snagged his interest were the photographs arranged in groups on the walls. He eyed the nearest group—half a dozen shots of abandoned buildings in various stages of ruin—and couldn’t help but be impressed. She used shadow and light to bring out subtle details—peeling paint, ripples in the weathered wood—to stunning effect. The photos pulled at something inside him, managing to churn up his emotions somehow. The buildings seemed alive, forlorn, haunting in their decay.

Even more intrigued now, he slid another glance her way, watching as she fixed their drinks. Then he edged farther into the room, lured to a series of photos of street kids this time. The mix of innocence and betrayal in their faces slammed through him like a kick to the solar plexus, impossible to ignore. She’d captured the shocked dullness in their eyes, the weary cynicism made more poignant by their startling youth.

This woman didn’t hold back. She didn’t soften the brutal truth. She depicted these traumatized children with an intimacy born of experience, demanding a response.

Making him wonder who had betrayed her.

That rogue thought stopped him cold. He didn’t care about her past. He didn’t care why she’d run away from home. Somehow, this woman held the key to Tommy’s death—and he couldn’t forget that fact.

Turning back to the counter, he picked up the tumbler she slid toward him and took a sip, savoring the smoky taste as the whiskey glided down his throat. He arched a brow, impressed. “Great whiskey.”

Her gaze tangled with his, another wild flurry of attraction tripping his pulse. This close, he realized her eyes weren’t the green he’d originally thought, but a deep, slate-blue with golden starbursts—definitely unique. But nothing about this woman was typical, from her lethal street-fighting skills to the outrageous talent in her work.

Another flush suffused her cheeks. “I don’t see the point of drinking rotgut.”

She could definitely afford better, given the money her photos earned. “So what does the B in B. K. Elliot stand for?” he asked.

“Brynn.”

That suited her. “Why the pseudonym?”

“I like my privacy.”

“Most people would like the fame.”

“I’m not most people. Is that a crime?”

No, but running away from a murder scene was. Not to mention pulling the trigger. “I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he said, getting down to business. “What do you know about his death?”

“Nothing. I don’t know him. I told you that before.”

Right. He set the tumbler on the granite counter, pulled his brother’s old photo from his wallet and slapped it down. Then he pinned his gaze