Graham, Jan - Finding Angel [Wylde Shore] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More) by Jan Graham Page A

last night’s little rendezvous meant in terms of the danger she was in.
    Steve had the dubious task of finding out if Angel knew anything that might back up Hastings’s supposed confession to the murder of Samuel Barnard. It was late morning by the time he knocked on the door. The surveillance team had assured him she was inside. He knocked a second time. Still no answer. His head was pounding from too much alcohol and lack of sleep. His fist pounded into the wooden frame again, this time with a result.
    “Hello, Angel, remember me?” He smiled as she stared at him through the screen door.
    “Sure, you’re my favourite cop,” Angel said dryly as she opened the door. “You look like you need a coffee as much as I do, so you better come in.”
    Steve was surprised by Angel’s response. She looked tired, her eyes had dark circles underneath them, and her skin was even paler than he remembered. She was wearing a black dress with a tulle petticoat peeking out from underneath, and the top few buttons of the bodice were undone, exposing the lace bra she wore. If the dress wasn’t so crumpled, he would have assumed she was getting ready to go out. He watched Angel walk into the kitchen, buttoning the dress as she went. She seemed deflated, which surprised him. Angel was usually confidently fiery when she dealt with the police, especially if it was Steve questioning her. Maybe she wasn’t that thrilled with the fucking she had experienced a few hours ago, although from what Steve had listened to, she certainly sounded like she loved it.
    Steve had expected the main problem he’d face this morning would be getting in the door. Now it seemed it would be camouflaging the hangover he was harbouring and actually conducting an effective interview.
    “You can sit down on the lounge if you like,” Angel called from the kitchen. “By the way, how do you take it?
    “Black and five.” Steve certainly did not expect her to serve him coffee. “The five is sugar, you know, in case you have arsenic or something out there.” He didn’t hear her laughing as he took a seat on her sofa. Maybe she didn’t have a sense of humour, or maybe she was changing the arsenic for some other fatal powder.
    “If I wanted to kill you, Detective, I would use something from here rather than arsenic.” Angel returned with a mug of coffee in one hand and a duffle bag in the other. “Happy birthday,” she said as she placed the coffee on the side table and the bag at his feet. “Don’t open it yet.” She pointed at the bag.
    “You don’t have to be so formal, Angel. You can call me Steve. I like to be on a first-name basis with people who could be a threat to me.” Steve watched Angel return to the kitchen and come back with her own coffee and a pair of disposable latex gloves. She threw the gloves into his lap and sat down next to him on the sofa.
    “I’m not a threat to you, Steve.” She smiled. “If anything, the reverse is true.”
    Steve picked up the gloves, struck by the thought that Angel could regard him as a threat. Most people trusted the police and she had no reason to consider him a threat. Well, no reason that he could think of. He proceeded to put on the gloves and unzipped the bag.
    “Jesus Christ, Angel, where the fuck did you get all this?” Steve began to look at the arsenal before him. “Are any of these loaded?” In astonishment, he looked at Angel, who merely stared back at him and shrugged.
    Steve assumed the shrug meant Angel had no idea if they were loaded or not, hell, she probably didn’t even know how to check. After all, the only thing someone like Angel would probably know about guns would be that she didn’t like them. Steve felt her gaze upon him as he looked at the contents of the bags pockets. Cell phones, SIM cards, some pills, about eight ounces of pot, and a USB drive. He inspected them all with precision. He attempted to keep his expression stern as he placed each item on the coffee table in