Free White Heat by Cherry Adair Page A

injured. T-FLAC had dispatched teams to the various locations.
    Business as usual.
    He stepped out onto the narrow balcony. Gripping the smooth stone balustrade, he looked down. There was still a stain on the driveway below. He felt nothing for the man who’d died there. Nothing but curiosity as to why he’d been killed. And even that would’ve been mild if Emily hadn’t somehow been dragged into whatever it was.
    Max had been offered the help of T-FLAC resources, and he’d taken them up on their offer. T-FLAC had the best—of everything. While this was a personal matter, he needed T-FLAC’s vast resources to bring the investigation to a close quickly. He had better things to do than look into the dark corners of the life of a man he didn’t know or like.
    Daniel must’ve had hundreds of enemies. Max decided he’d make a list, cross-check that with anyone connected to Emily, then check out the most likely suspects. Then leave the rest to the local police.
    This time when he left, he’d tell Emily good-bye.
    He’d be back at work by Monday.
    EMILY WALKED INTO DANIEL’S STUDIO AND INHALED THE FAMILIAR, pungent smells. Even though he’d been gone for weeks the stinky French cigarettes he’d chain-smoked, against doctor’s orders, warred with the overlying odor of paint thinner and brush cleaners.
The scent, and the organized chaos, made Emily’s chest ache with suppressed emotion. It looked as if Daniel had paused for a cigarette break and would be right back. Her throat constricted. It was hard to comprehend that a man as vital as Daniel Aries was dead.
    The double French doors leading out to the balcony were wide open. She imagined it was Max’s attempt at getting rid of the strong smells in the room. It wasn’t working, but no way was she going to shut the doors, despite the chill. In fact, she had no intention of getting anywhere near that balcony. Whether her friend had been pushed or jumped, she didn’t want to see where he’d spent the last few moments of his life.
    Max sat at his father’s battered antique oak desk in the far corner of the studio, his back to her. She’d heard his deep voice as she’d come up the stairs and she presumed he’d been on the phone. He wasn’t now, but he didn’t turn around. She’d bet her last American dollar that he knew exactly where she was as she crossed behind him, her socks silent on the paint-splattered wood floor.
    She’d love to paint him. Just as he was, limned by a stray shimmer of sunlight. His shaggy hair was damp, and, despite the lingering reek of stale tobacco, she could smell the soap on his skin. A shiver that had nothing to do with the damp air traveled across her skin.
God, it should be a crime for a man to be that sexy and appealing. And really, she thought, getting just a glimpse of his profile as he bent over whatever he was reading, he shouldn’t be appealing at all. Especially not to her. Once bitten, twice stupid.
    The problem was her brain and body weren’t in sync.
    Her brain, considerably more intelligent than her body, told her to hop that flight with Franco. To check into the hotel in Seattle and immediately jump his bones. They’d been dating for four months. He’d unknowingly paid for the mistake she’d made with Max, whom she’d fallen into bed with in four seconds flat.
    So far, Franco had been very patient.
    It had been so good with Max that she hadn’t been interested in okay. She’d wanted the bells and whistles. Unfortunately, her body—even though the guy had ditched her and she had no idea that she would ever see him again—had waited eleven months and so many weeks to see Max’s again. While her brain told her Franco was a good guy who genuinely cared about her, her body just wasn’t that interested.
    Her traitorous body felt urgent, aroused, and downright anticipatory just looking at Max. Who wasn’t a good guy at all. He was a womanizer, a liar, and a socially irresponsible player.
    Said womanizer, liar,