Page 31 of Sirens
No, he wasn’t talking to a deaf dog with one milky eye… He wasnotdoing that.
“What your momdoesn’tknow is that by giving me a key, she gave me permission to search the premises.” A devious smile lifted his mouth as he took in the chaos that surrounded Townsend Harbor’s newest addition.
For a moment, he stood there, contemplating the woman who could unravel sailors’ secrets from centuries past and yet couldn’t keep her laundry off the floor.
As if compelled by a force outside of himself, Trent lined her shoes up by the door and straightened a collage of periodicals with titles likeSerial Killers—A Psychological ModelandMurder Manual. He was about to meticulously search through Maggie’s mess and see if he could come up with anything he could use.
“An investigative mind, a cluttered place, an ass that won’t quit, and a dog that faints more often than a Southern belle?” He shook his head, chuckling despite himself. Trent McGarvey, deputy of Townsend Harbor, was knee-deep in something far more perplexing than any cold case file—he was wading through the layers of Maggie Michaels, and the waters were getting deep.
They became the fucking Mariana Trench when he found her living room.
Here was an oasis of organization in the chaos. Files stacked and consolidated and labeled alphabetically. Recording equipment gleaming and carefully maintained.
It unclenched the knot of disquiet building in his gut at the disorder.
Trent’s hand hovered over an accordion file folder next to a box full of papers, his lawman’s instincts warring with the personal intrigue that gnawed at his brain.
He should walk away, maintain that professional distance. Instead, his fingers betrayed him, flipping through the file marked “important personal paperwork.”
He knew he shouldn’t snoop, but the temptation was too great.
“Birth certificate, social security card…business paperwork for ‘Murderous Madams with Maggie Michaels,’” he read under his breath. Nothing too surprising so far.
But then he found it—the official document on that special linen paper used only for such certifications.
Certifications such as the marriage of one Margaret Michaels to Charles B. Wiggins.
“Shit,” he whispered, reeling from the implications. According to her driver’s license and birth certificate, she was still a Michaels. Was she married and hadn’t taken her husband’s name? Were they separated?
Shit.Did he just kiss amarriedwoman?
Trent’s thoughts spiraled as he aimlessly tidied up around the apartment. He replayed their flirtatious encounters, the passionate kiss they had shared. Was he merely a flirtation while she was away from home on business?
Galvanized by his discovery, he began pawing through the place, starting in the kitchen and finally ending up in her bedroom.
He very carefully did not start at the cluttered nightstand made a beeline for the dresser beneath the picture window looking out over Water Street.
All the drawers on the right were empty. And why wouldn’t they be? She had one of the most expensivefloordrobes he’d ever been privileged to see. And was that a?—
“Oh no she didnot.” With more care than he ever showed the dog, he rescued a Chanel camisole from where it was wadded on top of the dresser and folded it, enjoying the play of the violet silk against the whorls of his fingertips.
Soft Maggie dripping in silk?
He adjusted what was going on in his pants and opened the top left drawer, finding an explosion of silk and lace that immediately overflowed whatever lady magic she’d used to shove it all into the one drawer.
Trent couldn’t resist.
Was it an invasion of privacy?
Yes.
Was it illegal?
Not yet.
Was there anyofficialreason for him to be color-coding thongs that would grace the glorious globes of her ass?
Only psychopaths did shit like that.
