Just breathe and keep on moving.
I walked around the kitchen pulling out this and that. Molasses and soy sauce. Olive oil and lemon juice. Worcestershire sauce, ginger, garlic, and crushed red pepper. With those ingredients, I mixed together a nice marinade.
Shoot. If he’s going to be my handy man, then I am definitely going to throw down for him. I could use someone taking care of things around here.
When I was married, my ex-husband Michael did everything. When he left, I stumbled through house repair. It would be nice to be able to call Zain to fix things.
I pulled out 2-gallon freezer bags, poured the marinade into it, added the steaks, and sealed the bag. “Okay. I’ll let those do their thing over night.”
I washed my hands and went upstairs.
Zain had been heaven-sent. And it wasn’t just because he helped me move in and did the big jobs. He was a pleasure to look at.
I usually wasn’t so shallow, but it had been three years since I’d slept with any guy. The sight of any man might get my body going. But Zain had brought me close to explosion.
Upstairs, I took a shower, threw on a shirt, grabbed a huge red comforter, and crashed onto my bed.
But time passed and sleep never came.
Thoughts of Zain filled my head. And most of the time, he was naked.
Stop. That’s your new neighbor. Not a new sex toy.
After twisting and turning in bed, I checked my watch.
3:00am. Damn it.
I gave up on sleep, put on my robe, and went down to my office.
Zain had put my desk together and had all of my shelves up. He’d put me in a place where all I had to do was sit down and write.
So that was what I did.
I pulled out my chair, turned on my laptop, and worked on my novel, Undercover Passion.
“Who killed Diana Little?” Angel drove into the garage and parked near the club’s elevator entrance. Her nerves flared. The reality of what she was doing hit her. Angel leaned back in her seat. “Is this a bad idea?”
Her sergeant claimed this was a closed case. The coroner declared it to be a suicide. But Angel didn’t like the placement of the rope on Diana’s neck.
Perhaps the biggest problem with the case was that Diana Little reminded Angel of her daughter, Emory. They both had cute heart-shaped faces, brown skin, and dreadlocks. Each time Angel opened the file and spotted Diana’s picture, she thought of Emory in DC, experiencing her first year of college.
“I have to do this for Diana.” Angel put her keys in her purse.
The victim had no family in Chicago. At Diana’s birth, her mother died from a drug overdose. There was no father on the birth certificate. She’d been in the foster care system all her life.
Once Diana turned eighteen, she started working at Portillo's—a Chicago-born chain for hot dogs. There, Diana was spotted by millionaire Christian Carlisle, owner of Elite modeling agency.
Christian was a stunning man. Tanned skin. Blonde hair perfectly styled. Slender, yet chiseled frame. And he had blue eyes as clear and moving as the ocean’s surface on a summer day.
Surely, Christian had a private chef and access to high-end restaurants. However, he also was obsessed with Portillo’s Chicago-style hot dog.
The story went like this.
One afternoon, Christian’s limo brought him to Portillo’s. He got out and entered the place. Diana took his order and caught his attention. That day, he asked Diana to meet with one of his photographers.
She did.
The next week, Christian signed her to an exclusive deal with his modeling agency. From then on, Diana was the face of designer products all over the world.
Christian and Diana had enjoyed a public friendship. Paparazzi always photographed them.
Two years later, the police found her dangling from a gold rope decorated in diamonds.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Angel reapplied her lipstick. She wore a black bandage dress that revealed a lot of her cleavage. Black stilettos finished the outfit.
Due to Christian Carlisle’s power and wealth, the police didn’t interview him.
Angel could only talk to three people. The first was Diana’s only friend, a fellow model named Romee. Next was Diana’s manager Jayden. Finally, Angel checked out Diana’s ex-boyfriend Kevin.
Each one had an airtight alibi.
This was a puzzling case that drowned Angel into obsession.
For the past month, she’d been so wrapped up in the case that she dreamed about Diana and Christian. The dreams of Diana showed the young girl floating up above with white wings. The dreams of Christian always shifted to sexual ones.
Angel stared at the nightclub’s elevator entrance. “Did Christian introduce Diana to the BDSM lifestyle?”
In many paparazzi photos, Christian and Diana left Blue BDSM club.
There was no doubt that Diana was part of the BDSM scene. The police had discovered items in her condo to suggest the fact—leather whips, handcuffs, ankle cuffs, mouth gags, and nipple clamps.