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L.J. pushed aside the Request for Proposal. No mystery. Whitten had a lock on the hydroelectric project bid. Bribes oiled third-world business, and Whitten had honed kickback skills to an art form. Yet he always took care to ensure RFPs looked legit.
A headache played above the bridge of his nose. L.J. took off his reading glasses and massaged his forehead. He was sick of sitting at a damn desk.
He glanced at his Rolex. Was she home yet? He entered a string of computer commands to view any activity on the spyware he’d placed in Riley’s home. Since the bugs were sound-and-motion activated, his private movie began when she opened her front door. L.J. smirked as she called to her cat. Damn but he wished he’d found that fleabag. Maybe next visit.
He frowned at the disappointing camera angle. The video only captured the shiny curls atop her head, then her tight little ass swayed into view as she walked down the hall.
A new optical lead picked up in the kitchen, improving his field of vision. As she puttered, he grabbed a letter opener and pushed back his cuticles. Boring. He fast-forwarded.
Come on, honey, I don’t have all night. Can’t you see the basement door’s open?
L.J. turned his full attention to the monitor when she swung the basement door wide and yoo-hooed to the cat. She read the basement wall like Braille, seeking the light switch.
Now this was reality TV.
The doorbell chimed. This time the angle was perfect. He read the woman’s face as she hustled to the door. Eyes wide, lips parted. Lust?
A man entered. Riley’s face tipped up, then disappeared, swallowed in a kiss. L.J.’s temples pounded. Miss Law-and-Morality had a clandestine lover. Should have known. Women were sluts.
He recalled seeing the interloper’s face on a book jacket. A friend told him the man was a professor of some liberal arts crap—religion, philosophy? He wouldn’t have remembered his name if she hadn’t purred it repeatedly. Wolf.
God, the woman had the hots for this Wolf. Insulting. More proof hormones ruled even the smarter females. Men were meant to control them.
As Wolf described his mountain adventure, L.J. scribbled down the uncle’s name.
Finally, jerky movements signaled Riley suspected an intruder. His letter opener tapped against his desk, the cadence increasing as she burst into her bedroom, gun drawn. No scream but her mouth opened like a hooked fish in a silent gasp. Fear shadowed her eyes.
His video thrill proved transitory. Her boyfriend bumbled in and spoiled the fun. So much for theater. The man asked Riley about ex-lovers. She admitted to only two—one being the half-breed. Whore. L.J. grabbed his crystal paperweight, aching to throw it. Instead he hefted it in his palm, and examined how it refracted the light. Like a puzzle. Lots of facets.
The decision to vacate her home would end his high-tech peep show. The Indian had to go. The slut had to pay.