The Deadliest Option by Annette Meyers

cornflower-blue eyes on Wetzon and unabashedly gave her the once-over. Wetzon returned the compliment, seeing red curly hair and a peachy complexion, pink freckles and big boobs. Mo towered over Wetzon, offered her a firm hand and said, “Pleasure,” without much enthusiasm.
    Wetzon bristled. Am I being ranked or what , she thought. Mo Ryan and she were figuratively circling each other. “Nice to meet you,” Wetzon lied and caught Silvestri’s turquoise look. He was laughing at her and maybe even engaging in a little idle torture.
    “Let’s get Metzger in here, Mo, and coffee all around. Decaf for Les.” He waited for Mo to leave the room and then said, “Come down off your high horse, Les.” He came around his desk and stood between her and the glass and ran his finger down her side from under her arm to her waist. She could feel the heat between them through the thin silk of her blouse.
    “Is she new?”
    “Who, Mo?”
    “No, Barbara Bush.”
    He grinned at her. She loved the woodsy-smoky smell of him.
    “She’s been around.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    He made a tsk ing sound with his tongue. “I’m going to let that go by. Mo just made detective. It’s her first case. She’ll pick up some good experience.”
    “I hope that’s all she’ll pick up.”
    Silvestri grinned again and sat down. In spite of the air-conditioning the room was sultry. A tall fan in the corner languidly blew hot air at them.
    Wetzon slipped her jacket over the back of an ugly, scarred wooden armchair and sat, catching her pantihose on a splinter. “Damn!” She looked at the gaping hole on the side of her knee and tugged her skirt down over it. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” she grumbled.
    “You’re here to help us with background on people at Luwisher Brothers who knew Goldie Barnes well enough to have a motive to put him away.”
    “Why do I have to do it? Someone else could, I’m sure. This puts me in an awkward position. They’re a client. And some of these people have told me things about themselves in confidence.”
    “Look, Les, I’m not asking you to break a confidence”—He paused—”yet.”
    “Yet.”
    “But it will make my life that much easier because your observations are reliable.”
    “I think I heard a compliment.” She smiled at him. “But what you don’t seem to understand is what I know may be deeply personal, told to me in confidence over a drink. That I keep a confidence is the touchstone of my business. I’ll damage my credibility irreparably if I break a confidence.” She remembered having had a drink once with Destry Bird when he first came to New York. They had both ordered Perrier and he’d confided that he had just become a member of AA. “Too personal to reveal to anyone,” she said, shaking her head.
    “I’ll be the judge of that—”
    “No, you won’t. You can’t. I have a business I take very seriously, even if you don’t.” She felt hurt, as if he was negating what she did. “I have to be the judge of what I tell you. I just can’t surrender my ethics—”
    The air crackled between them, and she looked away, plucking at the hole in her hose, straightening the hem of her skirt. When she looked up, his eyes were slate and his jaw with its dark shadow was grim.
    “I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Mo Ryan said. She’d opened another button on her shirt and her cleavage was very much in evidence. She plunked herself down in a chair she’d pulled in from the squad room, and Metzger positioned himself against the door frame where he could get the best view of her cleavage.
    Silvestri took a sip of coffee, looked pained, and set the cardboard cup down. “Jeeesus, this is hot—”
    “Do you want me to get an ice cube?” Mo Ryan asked eagerly, jumping up.
    Wetzon gave Silvestri a hard stare as he pointed his finger at Mo and lowered it slowly. Mo followed his finger, sinking back to the seat of her chair, somewhat deflated.
    “Talk to us about