A Taste Of Temptation. Carrie Alexander

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      Zoe knew she was missing something obvious. After a few seconds, she snapped to it.

      “But there is the second sample,” she said slowly. “The one that Jag planted in my bag. The analysis you’ve got there is of the sample taken by the officers when they raided the shop. Isn’t that correct?”

      Nicole went still. She said nothing.

      “So my sample has yet to be analyzed. Furthermore, it seems that the anecdotal evidence about that particular potion is quite convincing.”

      The detective raised her eyes. “Anecdotal?”

      Zoe leaned forward with a naughty smile, being a girlfriend telling tales. “My friend Kathryn says that Balam K’am-bi works magnificently.”

      A rather unprofessional squeak flew from Nicole’s mouth. “She’s used it, too?”

      Zoe only smiled.

      Briefly Nicole threaded her fingers over her face. “What has Ethan told you?”

      “He’s been absolutely discreet. But I can read by your expression how you feel about him.”

      “My, uh—” Nicole swallowed, staring down at her lowered hands. “Any feelings I might have for Ethan bear no connection to the lust potion.”

      Zoe didn’t believe her for a second. But she did believe that Nicole and Ethan’s relationship had developed beyond the gotta-have-you-naked stage. Kathryn and Coyote were on the same path.

      “Hmm.” Zoe tapped a fingernail on the edge of the desk. “There’s an interesting question for my article. Does the lust potion elicit feelings of romantic love or is it strictly about sex?” She straightened, holding her pen poised above the notepad. “What’s your opinion, Detective?”

      Nicole glanced at the squad room. Despite the knowledge that glinted in her dark eyes, she shook her head with unalterable vehemence. “No comment.”

      

      “ZOE,” DONOVAN SAID WITH a moan. Sleep had eluded him after he’d settled into bed for the night. Now the sounds of his pesky neighbor’s arrival home had permanently chased away his chance at the usual solid eight hours.

      He stared up at the ceiling. The residual irritation about her disruption was no match for the redheaded fantasies that had danced in his head since their encounter in his lab. If he got the chance to do it over again, he’d sworn to himself that he’d kiss her. He’d sweep her into his arms and kiss her as though it were the last frame of a movie. Only with no fade to the credits.

      It was time to find out where kissing Zoe led.

      He listened intently, having become fairly proficient at discerning the various levels and origins of her misadventures. There was the low-level annoyance of her typical evening at home—loud music or TV, ringing phones, pizza delivery, running in the stairwell, the shrieking laughter of friends stopping by. There were her parties—one long blast of noise pollution, frequently culminating in music and dancing in the street. Sometimes damage to the building, the landscaping, or even his car.

      But worst of all were the quieter times, when she’d brought a man home. From the balcony that adjoined both apartments, Donovan had seen the flicker of candlelight through her curtains. Through their shared walls he’d heard the low music—when he was weak, he imagined Zoe doing a striptease. That was followed by the long silences—surely the wet, smacking sounds were also his imagination—then the masculine groans, the feminine sighs, the thumps of a headboard knocking against the wall.

      Those were the nights that Donovan slept with a pillow over his head. Or didn’t sleep at all. A couple of times, when she’d been seeing a long-haired marine biologist who yelped like a seal at the crucial moment, he’d even taken to going for bike rides along the Embarcadero at three in the morning.

      He rose up on his elbows, straining to discern the sounds from the hallway outside his front door. A normal person didn’t make that much noise unless they were moving in, but this was Zoe, the traveling circus.

      And she was speaking to someone. Did she have a new lover?

      Unbearable. Donovan gritted his teeth against the jealousy.

      He had to know. He vaulted out of bed, so hell-bent he disregarded his robe and slippers and crossed the living room in nothing but a pair of cotton pajama bottoms.

      Zoe’s soprano rang out clearly when he pressed his ear to the front door. “I know you love me,” she said in a kissy-kissy voice, turning her keys in the lock. “But don’t be so eager. Let me get inside.”

      Donovan butted his head against the door, then winced at the resulting thud. Crap. If she’d heard, she’d know he was spying.

      He put his eye to the peephole. Zoe had heard. She was standing in her doorway, holding the half-open door tight against herself while staring toward Donovan’s apartment. “Shhh.” She made a motion to her companion, who’d apparently entered the apartment before her. “It’s Mr. Cranky. We have to be quiet.”

      Then she didn’t move or speak. Only watched his door.

      Mr. Cranky stopped breathing. He pulled his eye away from the peephole. He lifted his left foot and widened his stance so she wouldn’t see a shadow through the narrow crack at the bottom of the door.

      Mr. Cranky was acting like a child, not a grown man. If he wanted to talk to Zoe, he should damn well open the door and—

      Bing-bong.

      He didn’t wait a decent interval, only threw open the door before she rang again. “Good evening, Zoe.” He glanced at his wrist. Bare. His watch was laid out on the bureau, with his wallet and keys. “Or morning, as the case may be.”

      Her open mouth snapped shut. She swallowed and said only a thin “Hello, Shane,” while staring at his naked chest.

      His nipples beaded. He resisted the urge to flex, wishing that he’d taken up sunbathing like Zoe, except that everyone knew sun wasn’t good for your skin. Especially as a redhead, Zoe should—

      Her chin poked out. “You’re spying on me?”

      “You woke me up, arriving with so much clatter.”

      “That’s Santa, isn’t it?”

      “The reindeer, I think.”

      Zoe waved her hand. “So I dropped the dog dish. It’s not even midnight.”

      “It’s past one o’clock.” Donovan checked his wrist again. Habit. “A dog dish?” he asked, distracted.

      “I’m taking care of Falcon for the Valentines.”

      “They have a falcon?” he said in disbelief. At the same moment he realized that the scratching and whimpering behind Zoe’s door was the Valentines’ pet, not an eager suitor. Her men tended to thump and yodel like Tarzan.

      “Falcon is a dog. A Maltese. I didn’t want him staying alone, so I brought his stuff СКАЧАТЬ