attorney who sincerely felt every clientâs pain.
Brennaâs smile, that wonderfully imperfect smile, wavered the moment she recognized Downing. Nothing personal, Christensen knew. Just her gut reaction to cops in general. She coasted to a stop a chaste distance from both men, then seemed to force the corners of her mouth back up again.
âDetective Downing. How long has it been?â Brenna shook Downingâs extended hand without enthusiasm.
âTwo years, Iâd say.â Downing made no effort to disguise his wink. âWorking a little overtime, counselor?â
Chapter 4
The old green marshmallow of a chair wasnât meant for this. With its overstuffed upholstery, the BarcaLounger was the perfect Sunday afternoon receptacle for a high-density Steelers fan. But as Brenna moved above him, knees braced on the worn padded arms, Christensen thought maybe his dadâs old throne was just now enjoying its best years.
In the darkness, he could feel her long, fine hair more than he could see it. It tickled his face, neck, and chest as she touched her forehead to his, then kissed his eyelids. Except for the chairâs rhythmic creaking, they were quiet, not for lack of passion, but because a child monitor on the windowsill transmitted every cough and rustle from Annieâs bedroom, where his five-year-old and Brennaâs four-year-old son, Taylor, were sleeping. The kids in the adjoining main house couldnât hear
them,
he reminded himself, but still. Plus, noisy passion didnât seem proper here, in Mollyâs writing room. Her photo enlarger was still in one corner.
Christensen buried the thought. Brenna deserved his full attention, without the irrational guilt he felt about this place, this woman. As their movements quickened, he forced himself to think of less erotic thingsâthe tried-and-true stalling tactic of men given to early release. His mind fixed improbably on the BarcaLoungerâs history. His parents had exiled the once-proud centerpiece of their den to the basement as the 1970s fascination with avocado shades began to dim. He and Molly gave it a reprieve when they got married, offering it a prominent place in the living room of their graduate-school apartment. Two houses and two kids later, it finally ended up in the garage loft he built for her overlooking the house he now shared with their two daughters.
Brenna arched her back, shuddered, and lurched forward, biting his upper lip. He pulled her to him, lost in the moment. They moved together on warm leatherette, Brenna cradling his head to her breasts as he guided her hips through their fevered, clutching climax. It would have been memorable even if the recliner hadnât tipped backward and spilled them both onto the carpet beside his desk.
They knotted again, laughing, and held each other for what seemed like days, listening to the cold rain.
âImpressive,â she said. Her voice was like spilled honey after they made love. âI do believe youâre getting the hang of this.â
He sighed. âMaybe we should stick to the futon.â
âBoh-ring.â
He felt that way with her sometimes, worried that his fondness for routine wasnât adventurous enough. This was a woman who once dove off the New River Gorge Bridge, then complained that her bungee cord had been too tight. He admired her appetite for thrills, but it was a little intimidating.
âSo thatâs all he wanted then? To see how you and the girls were doing?â
Christensen opened his eyes, pulled from the edge of sleep.
âHmm?â
âDowning.â
Oh, right. The conversation theyâd postponed forty minutes earlier when, with Annie and Taylor finally asleep, theyâd retreated to the loft. âSort of. He needs a favor.â
Brenna sat up, shifting her weight to one arm and with the other pulling the hair away from her face. In daylight, it was the color of a new penny, and just as bright.