How did Emerson Hawk, of utter stink and stolen designs know my new beau, Pike? Which is actually kind of a stupid name (unless you’re a fish, natch) but still, it should never have been able to come out of Emerson’s halitosis-filled mouth.
Pike held up an expensive looking camera. “Photo essay for the contest. But . . .”
Emerson pointed. “Reginald Fairfield.”
“I was supposed to shoot the three finalists.”
Emerson cocked out a hip, still pointing. “Meet finalist number three. A photo shoot is not going to happen.” Her voice was remarkably unaffected and I cringed. Maybe I wasn’t the only one without a soul.
“Is something going to be done about—”
But his deep voice was cut off by the wail of sirens and the marching band-like clatter of police officers as they thundered into the building. They spread out, corralling us as crime scene techs surrounded the body and studied the scene.
“We’re going to need to clear the premises.” The police officer didn’t look at us as he said it, but no one dared challenge him. “But don’t go far. We need to take statements.”
Emerson, Felipe, Pike, and I stumbled out into the hallway, keeping our distance from the flurry of activity flowing in and out of Reginald’s apartment. Felipe was quiet, nose a heady red, cheeks chapped from the constant flow of tears. I patted his shoulder awkwardly. He sniffled and shook like a wet Chihuahua.
“I’m really sorry, man,” Pike said slowly.
Felipe continued to stare straight ahead, teeth chattering, but otherwise catatonic.
I heard Pike suck in a sharp breath and jam his hands in his pockets. As a dead man was hanging not thirty feet away, I shouldn’t have noticed the way that motion—hands in pockets—pulled Pike’s jeans just a little tighter over his ass, exposing his perfect, peach-shaped bottom, but I did.
I remembered the sweet, juicy taste of peaches and licked my lips, savoring the memory on my tongue.
Then Pike turned those mesmerizing cozy brown eyes of his on me. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. You must be Nina, right? I’m Pike.” He held a hand out—a big, wonderful hand that made me think of the old adage about big hands and feet—and I slipped my hand into his feeling dainty and demure—which was refreshing when I’m most often referred to as any variant of “soulless bloodsucker.”
I brushed my long, black hair over one shoulder and pulled back my shoulders—or stuck out my breasts, depending on how you looked at it—and pasted on my most beguiling smile. I may be a little short in the soul/life department, but when it came to flirting, I was a star student and Pike warmed to my gaze.
“Yes, I’m Nina LaShay. And this,” I said, touching Felipe lightly on the shoulder. “This is Felipe. He is—was . . .” I choked on the word and Felipe’s eyes went round and heart-breakingly big. “He was with Reginald.”
“Dios mio!” Felipe started again, huffing and tearing at his hair. “Mi osito de peluche es muerte! Muerte!”
One of the paramedics came toward us and snaked an arm around Felipe, talking in a low, soothing voice and leading him away.
Pike shook his head. “Poor guy.”
There was an uncomfortable pause and I briefly thought of Googling “How to flirt at a murder scene.” I decided to go with the tried and true.
“So you’re—Pike?” I could feel my eyebrows scrunching together unattractively and Pike offered a small smile, his eyes completely transfixed on mine. It was like we were speaking our own incredibly sexy language.
I had every intention of making that language clothing optional.
“It’s short for Paikea.”
Well sure, that was better.
“It’s Maori, but I’m actually Hawaiian.”
I was thinking of my Pike, greased up in suntan oil and smelling like coconuts.
“You have quite a strong grip, don’t you?”
I snatched my hand back, embarrassed, wishing for once that I had an ounce of blood to wash a cute crimson blush across my cheeks. Instead I just smiled demurely, glancing at my soulmate through lowered lashes.
“You could probably get out of here, Pike. There’s not going to be any photo shoot. At least I’m not doing one.” Emerson turned on her heel and disappeared into her apartment, slamming the door behind her.
“Ah, Emerson,” Pike said. “A regular breath of vile air.”
He leaned back against the wall, looking very Diesel-commercial chic. His eyes went over my head, scanning the activity in Reginald’s apartment, and I took a quick moment to revel, taking in every inch of