Deadly Fall by Ann Bruce Page A

could’ve sliced through concrete. His next words were very low and very succinct. “Go to hell.”
     
    Ethan made an exasperated sound. “Use your brain, damn it, not your dick.”
     
    Nick rose from his chair.
     
    Ethan, correctly reading the murderous intent in Nick’s eyes, raised his hands in concession. He turned his palms out and started to say something. But Nick’s attention shifted and his gaze locked on the figure coming towards them. Augusta Langan, looking as ready to commit murder as Nick had felt mere seconds ago. The stirring was neither dead nor anxiety, but, perverse as it was, anticipation.
     
     
     
    When the officer at the front desk had refreshed her memory and told her the general direction of Nick Markov’s desk, Augusta had only tunnel vision. Anger, fury, outrage burned away everything else, leaving her oblivious to all that had made her uneasy upon her initial visit to the station house. Augusta weaved through the pandemonium that was the station house, eyes trained on one person and one person only. She halted not two feet away from the man she held responsible for the sudden upheaval of her quiet life.
     
    Head tilted back so she could glare into his eyes, Augusta slapped a rolled up newspaper against his broad chest, regretting not having anything handy that could do real damage.
     
    “ This is all your fault, Detective,” she gritted out between her teeth, voice low and lethal, a perfect accompaniment to the daggers shooting from her eyes. She hit him again with the newspaper. “I can’t believe you did this to me. And to believe I almost—” Her words ended on a strangled sound.
     
    Nick caught the paper before she could hit him a third time. A brief tug of war, then the paper was stolen from her grasp. He snapped it open and his gaze scrolled down the paper.
     
    Augusta narrowed her eyes. She knew a stall tactic when she saw one, and Nick Markov wasn’t being too subtle about it.
     
    “So,” Nick began, “do you want to hear an explanation in private or do you want to continue with this scene?”
     
    Augusta dismissed their audience, including Nick’s partner, with a flick of her wrist, but her voice lowered a notch. “What I want to know, Detective, is…is how could you?”
     
    To her disgust, she felt her eyes burn and quickly blinked. But it was too late. She saw an answering emotion very much like pity in Nick Markov’s eyes and took a step back, needing to move herself beyond his reach.
     
    But she underestimated him, in more ways than one. Without moving from his spot, Nick slid his fingers around her right hip to settle on her back and instructed for her ears only, “Come this way, Augusta.”
     
    She wordlessly did as he asked, trying not to think about the last time he had made her come with him. The large palm splayed on the small of her back directed her and did nothing more. And yet it took more than Augusta realized not to shrink from his touch and the astounding heat that seared her skin through the thick material of her skirt.
     
    They were halfway down a short hallway when Nick curved his fingers about her right hip and pulled her back. He then pushed open the unmarked door to their left and Augusta went in first, eager and, yet, disappointed, to escape his touch. The room was small, dim and windowless. Well, maybe not windowless, Augusta corrected herself, noticing the large sheet of glass that took up nearly the far side wall. But the window didn’t look outside. Instead, it looked into an even smaller room on the other side. A cheap, worn-looking table with three equally cheap, equally worn-looking chairs were in the center of the unlit room.
     
    She was looking through a two-way mirror, Augusta realized, and her arms tightened about her chest. She inhaled deeply, her nails digging into the fleshy part of her palm. Was he trying to intimidate her? Was that what he was trying to do by showing her the interview room he could’ve kept her