Bulletproof Hearts. Brenda Harlen

he didn’t confirm it, either.”

      Her frown deepened. “No.”

      “How did you know where to find him?”

      “He gave me the address and I scribbled it down while I was on the phone with him.” She rose and moved toward the desk, her knee brushing against his thigh. Silk against denim, yet the brief contact sparked like flint on steel.

      She froze, her wary gaze locking with his for just a second. But in that brief moment of connection, he saw it in her eyes: awareness, attraction. Then she turned away, rustled through her briefcase.

      Dylan had to remind himself to breathe, to remember the purpose for his visit. He was here to do his job—it was his only hope of getting justice for Beth.

      She handed him a single page with the hotel insignia at the top. He gave it only a cursory glance.

      “That’s the address he gave me,” she told him.

      “The address the caller gave you,” he amended.

      “That’s what I said.” She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling slightly. Was she shaken by their brief contact—or was her nervousness a result of the topic of their conversation?

      It didn’t matter—he was here to investigate Merrick, not the A.D.A. The reminder didn’t cool his hormones, but it at least focused his thoughts. “What if I told you that Roger Merrick didn’t make that phone call?”

      “But—but I spoke to him.”

      “Had you ever spoken to him before?”

      Natalie shook her head. “Why would I?”

      He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “How long did it take you to get to Merrick’s apartment after you left here?”

      “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t remember.”

      “Approximately?”

      She shrugged. “Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.”

      He’d followed the route earlier that evening. It had taken twenty-two minutes to drive from the hotel parking lot to the front door of Merrick’s apartment building.

      “Did you leave your room as soon as you got off the phone?”

      “No.” She studied the contents of her glass rather than meeting his gaze. “I tried calling you first. And when I didn’t get an answer…”

      She hesitated, and he thought he saw a touch of color rise in her cheeks.

      “When I stopped to think about it, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving across town at that time of night on my own,” she admitted. “It took me a few minutes to talk myself into it.”

      The embarrassment, the hint of vulnerability, made him want to reach out to her, to offer comfort and reassurance. But he wasn’t her friend, he was a cop—and he needed to act like a cop. “A few minutes—five? Ten?”

      “Maybe ten.”

      “Which would put you at his apartment by one o’clock?”

      “I guess so.”

      He nodded. He’d been paged about fifteen minutes later, which corroborated her version of events. Almost.

      He folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes locked on her. “I just don’t understand why Merrick would ask you to meet him on the other side of town if he was already here.”

      Natalie frowned. “What do you mean?”

      “We checked the hotel’s phone records,” he told her.

      “And?”

      “The call that came into this room was made from one of the courtesy phones in the lobby.”