Criminal Intent by Laurie Breton

Author:Laurie Breton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

Annie woke up alone. The sun was shining brightly, and her body ached in places she’d forgotten it could ache. She stretched and glanced at the clock, saw that it was nearly nine-thirty. Eek! Sophie could come home at any minute, and the last thing she needed was for her daughter to come in and find her sprawled out on the floor, naked as a jaybird, all sticky and smelling of sex. It wasn’t exactly the kind of example she wanted to set for an impressionable adolescent daughter. Annie scrambled to her knees, gathered up the clothes that were flung haphazardly around the living room, and wrapped the comforter around her.

Hunter had left a note on the table. She scraped back her unruly hair, wadded up the comforter, and padded over to read it. Thanks, it said. For everything. I’ll call. D.

Annie crumpled it up and buried it in the trash so Sophie wouldn’t see it and ask questions she didn’t have answers to. Wrapping the comforter more tightly around her, she trudged to the closet she and Sophie shared, gathered up clean clothes, carried them to the bathroom and set them on the john. Dropping the comforter, Annie studied herself critically in the mirror. Her body was in decent shape for a woman in her midthirties who got her exercise the natural way, by working hard instead of working out. She was still taut and toned. No paunch, no saddlebags, no sagging skin beneath her arms. Her stomach was still flat, and her breasts weren’t yet showing signs of succumbing to gravity. Her eyes were still the same clear, bright blue, her hair still the sunny blond of her childhood, in spite of the fact that she was approaching forty. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, but the strain of the past six months had taken its toll on her. She could see it in her eyes, in the shadows beneath them, could see it in the tiny vertical lines that bracketed the corners of her mouth, lines that hadn’t been there six months ago. The running, the lying, were making her old, and she was tired of it. Tired of hiding who she was. Tired of pretending to be somebody she wasn’t.

Staring into her own eyes, she wondered if Annie Kendall and Robin Spinney were truly one and the same, or if they were distinct, separate people. Last night, with Davy Hunter, the sex had been so—oh, God. She closed her eyes, remembering it. Lush and wild and uninhibited, so hot that just thinking about it brought a heated flush to her face. She’d never had sex like that. If she’d been asked, she probably would have said that Robin Spinney didn’t know how to have sex like that. Yet Annie Kendall hadn’t seemed to have any problem following Hunter’s lead last night. He’d brought out a side of her that she didn’t know existed, one so startling that this morning, she’d almost expected to see a stranger looking back at her from the mirror.

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