Page 16 of The Wolves Come at Night
He groaned and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
“And here I thought you loved me.”
She gave him a grin. “I’ll love you more if you finish off those peppers and plate dinner. I’m famished.”
The lead story on the ten o’clock news was the suspected murder-suicide of the country singer Georgia Wray, supplanting the storm-damage story that imparted the unwelcome news: an EF-2 tornado had whipped through both Dickson and Mount Juliet; the damage was substantial.
Taylor cringed at that news, then again when the story switched to the murder-suicide. The cameras panned to her giving the statement, truncated into an appropriate sound bite.
“This afternoon, we followed a lead in the Georgia Wray homicide investigation to a home in East Nashville that had ties to Ms. Wray. We found a body in the house, whom we have tentatively identified as Justin Osborne, Miss Wray’s ex-boyfriend. We’re waiting on DNA results to confirm this identity. We can’t release the cause of death for either party at this time, but I can share that we are not looking for additional suspects. Autopsy results will be released at a later date pending toxicology. We are pursuing the theory of murder-suicide at this time, and the families request your indulgence to leave them in peace while they process this information.”
She wasn’t vain by any means, but wow, she was looking pretty rough. Tired. Circles under her eyes, drab skin. Just worn down by the world. She needed a vacation.
Baldwin slid into the bed beside her. He, too, was looking ragged. Soon, though, they could go away together. She made a mental note to start looking for a place. She’d surprise him. Make it a romantic getaway. The thought made her smile. It had been too long since they went somewhere just the two of them, without work—or death—looming.
“How’s it feel?” he asked, snuggling in, his long arms sliding around her.
“How’s what feel?” she replied archly, pushing her hips back against his. She was rewarded with a low rumble of laughter and a nip on the neck.
“I meant being back in the field, but if you have other things in mind…”
“I always have other things in mind.” She flipped off the television and rolled onto her back. Her hand threaded through his hair, and the inky night of Nashville bled into the room, the lights of the other buildings near them shining. It was never completely dark in the condo, despite the automated louvers installed between the glass panes of the windows. He kissed her neck gently, and she sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huston read me the riot act this evening.”
“About what?”
“Not following orders. I was supposed to do a presser midday, put it off. Didn’t call her immediately when we found the body. You know, power-play crap. Said my being in the field on this case was conditional and she’d slam me back to my desk without a second’s hesitation.”
“I assume you told her to go jump?”
“I told her ‘yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am, I’ll never do it again, ma’am,’ like a good little captain.”
Baldwin was silent. They could hear the faint strains of music drifting up from Lower Broadway, the honky-tonks in full swing. The city was vibrant until late in the night now; the tourists didn’t come here to sleep.
“She never used to be like this. I mean, she’s always been tough, but since I moved into management, she’s been quite the bitch. Toward me, mostly. Working for her is…complicated.”
“She knows your next step is her job. That makes people anxious.”
Taylor scoffed. “Captain is bad enough. Commander? No way, no how.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know. You can come work with me. Sam, too. You’d be a huge asset to the team.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but Baldwin, honey, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Metro brass is bad enough. The FBI would be even more stifling. No offense”—she stroked his arm—“but you’re much better at following rules than I am.”
She didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling. “None taken. Someone has to, or we lose all credibility. So what are you going to do? Open a restaurant? Italian food, homestyle. You know how much I love your meatballs.”
“Oh, the jokes, they write themselves… That’s tempting. Actually, though, I was thinking about the offer I got from Thierry Florian last year. You know, at the conference in Maryland.”
“To go to work for the Macallan Group? Really?”
He shifted onto his right arm, and she looked over. God, he was handsome, even in the dark. Especially in the dark. Black hair with strands of silver, moss-green eyes, sharp nose, full lips. He could have been a model but instead was the FBI’s most celebrated profiler. Beauty and brains. A small thump of desire lit her lower stomach. She could never get enough of him.
“He wants you too, you know.”
He spit out a wry laugh. “Like you, I have enough taskmasters.”
