Page 45 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)
Captivated by her magnetism and looks, Damon forced himself to give no quarter. He knew that retreating in response to her advance would only strengthen her position in the silent power struggle that had unexpectedly materialized between them.
And he wanted to establish equivalence, if not domination.
She stopped just three feet from him, well within his personal zone.
What came next was as surprising as the footwear assault.
Nothing.
No pleas, no excuses, no tears, no threats.
She simply looked him up and down with apparent amusement.
He found himself asking a cocktail party question. “So. What’s your name?”
“You first.”
Okay. This was how she wanted to play it. Her words were a challenge, and they sparked an internal debate.
Damon had been very careful with his identity, taking pains to ensure he could never be connected with any of the locations where he’d created a Tableau. On the other hand, this woman had no clue about his avocation. Should he tell her the truth? He performed an analysis in seconds.
Pro: She might see him drive away and get his license plate number. Someone with her determination would easily find a way to get his registration information, which would include his name and address.
Con: If she learned his secret, she could lead the cops right to him. Which meant he would have to kill her. And that would be such a waste.
Conclusion: Either way, he had nothing to lose. It was worth the risk because an image had popped into his mind. An image of her back at his house. An image of her in his den.
He smiled. “Damon.”
She lowered the hand holding the shoe. “Maddie Willis.”
He had edged ahead in the power game. Those who knew last names were at a level higher than those who only knew first.
He flicked a glance at the man she’d just incapacitated. She did too and said, “You’re right. They make a big fucking deal out of murder. Beating assholes? Not so much.”
“Is he going to cause trouble for you after he wakes up?”
Her lip curled. “What’s he going to tell the cops? He can’t admit to attacking me and he’s not going to say some random woman kicked his ass for no reason—with her shoe. Men’re too proud to admit that.”
Fair point.
She gave her head a disgusted shake. “He’ll slink to some ER and tell them he got mugged by a whole crew.”
Damon cast a covert glance at Selina’s apartment. No car had arrived, and the lights were still dark. He debated. Then thought: Okay, sis. It’s your lucky day. He turned back to the beautiful woman before him. “The cops’ll come sooner or later, and we shouldn’t be here.”
He’d deliberately used “we” to subtly reinforce that they were in this together. He was on her side and would help.
The next part required finesse. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” he said quietly, then allowed his eyes to drift lower. “I have a spare shirt in my car.” The thought of her wearing his clothes nearly stole his breath.
She followed his gaze and tugged the ragged edges of her sweater together. “I can’t walk around like this, can I?”
He pressed his advantage. “If that asshole dies, he might have some fibers from your sweater under his nails. You need to ditch that thing immediately. We could use my fireplace to burn it.”
Her gaze grew calculating. “How come you know so much about it?”
He stifled a curse. He’d been so determined to get her to his place that he’d overplayed his hand. Now he needed a good answer. Something that wouldn’t frighten her off. He considered various options:
Could he be a huge fan of true crime? Nope, too risky. She might ask him about the shows he watched or the books he read—and he’d be left staring at her, slack jawed.
Could he be working on a crime novel that included research on forensics? Nope again. She’d keep probing out of curiosity. Or suspicion.
And then it came to him. “Got a buddy who’s a criminal defense attorney,” he said. “We get together and the guy spills all his war stories. I’ve heard how his murder clients got caught. And how they were convicted—or not. There’ve been dozens.”
He watched her carefully as she processed the explanation, which should have put any doubts to rest. Hell, the “buddy” sounded like the exact person she’d want in her corner in the event the sack of shit lying on the sidewalk died and LAPD Homicide came to visit.
“Makes sense,” she said slowly. “But still, you’re inviting me to your house?” She lifted her shoe. “After what you just saw?”
She had a fair point. He’d sized her up, however, and figured he could take her ... if it came to that. “I’m not worried.”
She snorted. “Either you’re incredibly confident or you’re completely nuts.”
“Does it have to be one or the other?” He kept a straight face while the joke settled. Then he smiled. “Look. It was just a thought. Good luck.”
Like a prospective buyer in a used car lot, he knew the best tactic in a negotiation was to show no interest. And to turn and walk away, which was what he did now.
“Wait.”
He made sure to stifle a grin before turning to face her again. Just then the man lying nearby let out a groan.
She flicked a glance at him and chewed her lower lip. “Let me get my purse.”
He watched her hurry over to snatch up her bag as his thoughts raced ahead to the next few hours he would spend with her. It was a good thing he’d received the German razor blades yesterday.
Because he had big plans for Maddie Willis.