Page 95 of Break the Ice
It takes me a minute or two just to crawl out of bed—my head’s a static mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
After a night like last night, can you really blame me?
I’m stuck between the morbid murder that went down, the hot, passionate sex in the middle of a dark forest, and the need that had pulsed through my body as Rafe kissed me and then demanded my trust and loyalty.
Two things I can never give him.
Two things, deep down, I wish I could…
It’s all too much. Too much noise in my head. Too much emotion for my ice-cold heart. So damn much that it feels like I’m sinking.
Soon I won’t be able to escape.
As the knocks on my door persist and I slide my satiny robe onto my shoulders, I remind myself I have to do what’s best for me. I have a ticket out of the country, and I will use it the first sign it’s necessary.
Sorry, Rafe. You’re kidding yourself if you think I’ll ever trust you…
I approach the door in my matching satin scarf and robe, still drowsy, and peer into the peephole.
The man on the other end makes my heart twitch in panic.
Detective Gomez waits another couple seconds, then knocks again. As if sensing I’ve approached the door, he says, “Ms. March, please open up. I have a few questions regarding Jasper Hawk’s murder.”
24. Marisse
Damn it.
I release a deep sigh and then snatch off my scarf and check my reflection in the glass mosaic mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway.
“Just a second, detective!” I yell, shaking out my head of thick curls.
For half a moment, I debate changing out of my nightie and robe, but then decide against it—Gomez is here on official police business, but he’s still a red-blooded male. A little suggestive skin might work in my favor.
Rafe wouldn’t like it.
The little voice comes back to remind me.
“I… don’t care what he’d like,” I whisper. “I’m doing what’s best for me.”
Detective Gomez is in the middle of impatiently checking his watch when I draw the front door open. A smile is already fixed onto my face, my tone bright.
“Please come in. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
He shakes his head, though his expression reads as someone who’s suddenly swallowed their tongue. He tracks behind me as I lead him through my apartment and fight off how amusingly simple most men are.
We settle in the living room on my sofa. I cross my legs, plenty of bare flesh showing, and I play it cool.
“What questions did you have for me, detective?”
“I’m sure you’re unsurprised it’s about the night of Hawk’s death.”
“I hope it’s to tell me you’ve found a lead.”
“A few of them,” he admits. He scratches his head, then references the tiny notepad he’s brought with him. Any certainty melts away. Whatever he was about to address, he’s losing the resolve. His gaze slips to my thigh. “I was wondering if you could provide more details about your whereabouts that night.”
Cold panic freezes my insides. On the outside, I remain as composed as ever.
“Can I ask for your reasoning behind your request?” I ask.
