Slow Heat by Lorie O'Clare Page A

Microphones could pick up conversations easily a block away while a couple of bored cops sat in their car and listened.
    Micah cleared his throat. “Welcome to my home, Miss O’Malley.” He leaned on the doorknob with one hand and stared at her bright blue eyes. “Are you going to stand in the doorway and interview me, or come in?”
    Maggie shot him a scathing look. It disappeared quickly and she took a step into his living room. Micah began closing the door, forcing her to enter farther. He watched her look around his place. When she turned and faced him, clasping her hands together, her expression was blank, relaxed, and impressively unreadable.
    “Since this is your area of expertise, and not mine, I don’t feel there is a need to interview you. I’m here to hire you to find whoever is truly guilty of this money-laundering crime the police believe I committed. How much do you charge?”
    Micah hid his smile. Already she was reaching for her purse. If she paid him cash, he’d be obligated to turn the money in and determine if it was part of the cash being laundered. He doubted she could write a check. Micah was pretty sure her accounts had been frozen.
    “That all depends on what you want me to do.” He closed and locked his front door then moved around her, leaving the living room for his adjoining dining room. There was no dining room table—just two sets of bookshelves and his extra dresser, where he housed clothes he didn’t wear as often and other odds and ends he preferred not to be on display if anyone were to come over. Such as his guns, and the knife collection his uncle had given him at his confirmation. “Apparently you believe, as the police do, that Larry Santinos was only a front man and not the brains behind all this.”
    “Uncle Larry still claims he hasn’t done anything wrong,” she said from behind him. It wasn’t clear by her tone if she believed that or not.
    Micah entered his kitchen, flipped on his light, and opened his refrigerator. He would process her slowly. “Do you want a beer?”
    “No, thank you.” She was still in his living room.
    Micah twisted off the cap of one bottle of beer and held another bottle in his hand. He kicked the refrigerator door shut with his boot and sauntered back to his living room. Maggie remained in the middle of the room where he’d left her.
    “You sure?” He held up the unopened bottle.
    Maggie shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking,” she began, and looked around his living room. She looked everywhere but at him.
    Micah set the unopened bottle of beer on his coffee table then walked around it. He cleared the stack of newspapers from the corner of the couch, dropped them to the floor by his feet, then sat. He wasn’t going to take the lead here. Taking a long sip of the cold beer, he studied Maggie O’Malley.
    “What am I thinking?” he asked, tilting his head and watching her as she appeared to become more and more uncomfortable. He hadn’t asked her over to his place. This was her show, and he’d let her play it out. He didn’t see any reason to go out of his way to make her comfortable. Unless, of course, she thought that he was considering how she would look naked. In which case, if she were to oblige and show him, he’d make her very comfortable.
    She was thin, but not anorexic like too many women were these days. The straight-cut tan skirt she wore hugged her curvy hips and flat tummy. It showed off long, slender legs that at the moment were pressed tightly together. Her anklebones touched each other and her brown sandal straps draped over slender, small feet. Her toenails and fingernails were both painted pink.
    He let his gaze travel back up her in the next moment. Micah had no intention of making her anymore uncomfortable than she was making herself. He didn’t have to gawk to appreciate how her sleeveless fluffy-looking sweater had a deep V-shaped collar. It ended just above the middle of her breasts. This was the