Huffing a sigh, he snatched up his laptop and began the chore of digging through the Internet and public case files for more information on Mr. Fischer’s past allegations. Maybe, just maybe, if he treated Cassie to a memorable evening in the hot tub, he could convince her into somehow discussing this with Anna. Or at the very least, convince her to let him sit in on her meeting with Jennifer.
No. That was a lowball ploy she’d expect. He refused to go down that road, wouldn’t even allow the question to arise. But there had to be some way to gain her cooperation.
Damn, his shoulders hurt. Shoveling snow took more out of him than he’d expected.
He straightened his spine, rolled his neck. If she wasn’t interested in the hot tub, he might have to visit it alone—though the idea didn’t please him. He’d much rather enjoy it with her and a bottle of wine.
Wine.
Brad closed his laptop, and his gaze inched back to Cassie. Yesterday, Clinton had mentioned her husband demanded a wine cellar in the house’s design. A cellar he’d subsequently stocked to capacity. Would Cassie mind if he went snooping in that maze of rooms downstairs?
To hell with it—if she kicked him out it would make everything easier anyway.
He set his computer aside, stood, and quietly made his way to the stairs. If he could dig up some noodles in her cabinets and a jar of spaghetti sauce, he might even pull off an edible meal. Fifteen years had passed since he’d braved a kitchen, but he was pretty sure he could handle boiling noodles and heating up premade sauce.
Which meant he would need red wine. Something a little floral, a little nutty. A good Chianti would be perfect.
…
Warm hands moved up Cassie’s calf, pulling her slowly, deliciously from dreams of snow into the languorous heat of a snapping fire. She opened her eyes with a low sound of contentment, to find Brad seated beside her knees, his fingers working over her leg. He’d shed his long-sleeved shirt, and his torso twisted at an angle that gave her an enticing view of the muscles that rippled in his back as he leaned into the massage.
“Mm…” She shifted beneath his hands, stretched her arms over her head. A lazy smile eased across her mouth.
“Hey,” he murmured as he glanced over his shoulders. His hands crept higher, kneading into the back of her knee, inching to the tight muscles at the base of her thigh. “Have a good nap?”
Oh yeah—he’d made more than one appearance in her dreams. Her cheeks heated.
Brad smirked. “That good, huh?” His fingertips crept another inch into the gaping closure of her robe. “Was I in them?”
Oddly, she had no trouble telling him the truth. “Yes.” Considering how a mere twenty-four hours ago she’d stumbled over every confession, it surprised her how easy it was to be honest.
“What was I doing?”
“Mm.” She wriggled into her robe, her smile returning to her face. “All kinds of amazing things.”
That earned her a raised eyebrow along with his usual devilish smirk. “Did I have my hands on you?”
Cassie nodded as she closed her eyes to the magic of his hands. She loved the way he touched her. Sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, always unfailingly confident. His masterful fingers worked into her quads and hamstrings, eliciting a delightful bout of chills.
“Did I have my mouth on you?”
“Mm-hm.”
A low rumble of satisfaction accompanied the tightening of his fingertips. “Where?”
“All over.” And he was doing it again—turning her on by doing nothing at all. Fire snapped through her veins, warming her all the places he wasn’t touching. Her body hummed to life, fine-tuned by the power of his voice, the underlying command in his words that refused to let her hide behind shame.
“Where?” he insisted more firmly.
That tone—she turned to putty every time he took the upper hand. Sweet heaven.
“On my lips,” she whispered.
His hands drifted higher, his fingertips coming to rest just beneath her dampening sex. He made no move to touch her intimately. But that weight at the juncture of her legs taunted as powerfully as if he had. His voice was just as quiet. “These?”
“Oh, yes.” Forty-eight hours ago, the breathy, aroused quality of her answer would have embarrassed her. Now she didn’t care. He’d taken that from her, that fear of being laughed at, of being misunderstood. She trusted him to keep her secrets.