To New York's Attorney | Completed

Chapter eighteen

★彡

Saturday 10th

She'd intended to come clean. To confide in detective Harrington the content of the notes she'd received on two consecutive occasions. That's why she'd requested his address, that's why she'd dropped by.

Why then was she perched on his thighs in nothing but Detective Harrington's T-shirt and a pair of her panties? And why did it feel completely normal?

Barron Harrington's fingers gently ran up and down her spine, coaxing shivers out of Christina. With her cheeks still blazing, an inferno, she glanced back up into detective Harrington's captivating grey eyes. Lust. His intentions were clear, reflected in his calm eyes. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. Christina watched breathlessly as his eyes studied hers with a silent intensity. His warm breath ghosted across her face. Christina shut her eyes in anticipation, waiting, wanting something, something she knew was oh so wrong, but would feel incredible, something she'd wanted for too long. She stifled a surprised gasp as his soft lips captured hers, causing her body to flush with heat. The heat seemed to travel through her veins, warming her. Her frigid shivers from moments ago long behind her. And Just as she felt a rush of euphoric bliss envelop her, just as he'd slipped his tongue between her parted lips and her heart began to cry, Barron drew away. She instantly missed the lovely heat curling within her.

She'd made a mistake coming over. But it was a mistake she was going to see to the very end.

"Christina," He'd breathed by his door, nearly startled by her presence. She didn't blame him. She would have been taken aback as well by the sudden appearance of a woman drenched by the evenings unexpected down pour. She'd liked to imagine that she'd come up with an excuse for bothering him at such an hour of the night, but she would be lying if she claimed she could bear the burden of the tall tale notes that were turning up. Perhaps she would have liked to believe that she were just in the area when her gas tank had run empty. He'd have too many questions. Questions she knew she wouldn't be able to answer. "Come in, hurry, you're going to catch a cold." He'd urged stepping aside and guiding her further into his condo.

Barron Harrington's apartment was the farthest thing from what Christina had anticipated. With her stomach alive with rumbling anxiety, she allowed her eyes dance across his apartment. The farthest thing from the bachelor pad she'd been anticipating.

The apartment was welcoming from the open door to the wide hallway. It screamed of wealth and luxury, it wailed his unique style. The kind of style that had her wondering just where he'd accumulated the funds to maintain such a lifestyle. Upon the walls were the photographs of women, bodies, art so explicitly illustrated. The floor was a modern hardwood covering, the walls, a blend of deep homely browns and beige, a modern fresh start.

She wanted to believe she wasn't bothered by the paintings on the wall, that she wasn't peeking through her peripheral vision and wondering if these faceless women hung on the wall over his couch had known him. Were these all women he'd slept with or were these artworks collected for some strange reason?

"How about I get you something to wear while I throw your clothes into the dryer?" He'd asked by the entrance, almost like he'd been uncomfortable with her presence. She was clearly a burden, a bother, but she'd be the last to believe that she didn't fit in to a single situation. She nodded willing to part with the displeasing feeling of damp clothes clinging to her slender frame.

Unsure whether to sit or remain standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room, Christina had decided rather to take a closer look at the paintings on the wall. There was a darkness to the oil paintings, a story. But there was also a name etched at the bottom, as well as a title; Patrick Palmer, Ethereal nude.