Suspicion Of Guilt. Tracey V. Bateman
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see we’re busy? Or do you want us to come down in our skivvies?”
He was almost sure he heard idiot added, but had no solid proof.
He put on his best smile and opened the door. Four professionally dressed people stood on the porch. One woman, dressed in a navy-blue suit and three men, similarly clad. They gave him the once-over, setting his defenses on edge. Couldn’t a guy wear a pair of shorts during his time off?
“I’m afraid we must have the wrong address,” the tallish woman said. “We’re looking for Miss Mahoney?”
“Yeah, she’s taking a shower.” Immediately he regretted giving into his wicked side—the side of him that loved to shock women like this piece of work standing in front of him.
“And you are…?”
“Oh, excuse me…” He wiped his hands on his apron—oh, brother, he was still wearing the apron—and offered his hand. “Detective Corrigan. I’m a friend of Denni’s.” He stepped aside. “Won’t you come in?”
With quadruple curt nods, they stepped inside, each set of eyes darting around the living room, beginning their perusal before they even got comfortable.
The doorbell chimed again, and Reece mentally prepared himself for another once-over. This time, however, Denni showed up, her disturbing floral scent breezing into the room ahead of her. “Oh, good, you’ve all met Reece.” She turned to him. “Would you please get the door while I show these guests to the dining room?”
Suddenly wishing for a three-piece suit, Reece realized he was staying for lunch.
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