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In the years that followed, Danice found herself wondering (when her mind was not preoccupied with work) how she had ended up in a hotel room with one of the underworld's most elite bodyguards, Erik Hunter.

Light cut in through smoky, dingy windows, illuminating the drab, poorly decorated room in shards. Outside, the sounds of life were being drowned away by a near cacophony of road noise and the clanking air conditioner. The bed was lumpy, and the sheets had the unmistakable feeling of having been washed too many times by careless workers in cheap, industrial machines.

Though this was not Danice's first (okay, it wasn't in the top 100) choice of places in which to be seduced, she had to admit that Erik was, if possible, even more charming because of (if not in spite of) the atrocious circumstances. He was a broad man, with wide shoulders, and an odd ability to fill space with a mixture of both attitude and form. He had chocolate hair that fell in an unconsciously cool, unkempt, shaggy hairstyle over his ice blue eyes. When he smiled, it was always in a smirk, but when he laughed, it was an honest, fully encompassing sound in which he usually threw his head back and roared. His style was simple; sweaters or shirts, and jeans, nothing too fitted (to allow him to hide his gun if needed) but not so loose as to hide his well toned muscles.

He was staring at her now, his face so alight that even if one of the shards of dull yellow lamplight from outside hadn't been cast directly on him, Danice was sure he would have been lit on inner glow alone. The Air Conditioner (which comprised of two settings -- arctic and desert) had the room at a chill, but Danice hardly noticed. He was so close, pressing his body against hers, his hands sliding under her shirt, over her skin -- making her shiver. She arched up into his touch, letting her eyes close so she could savor that moment. He brought his lips down to her ear and caressed her earlobe as he spoke to her in a warm, numbing whisper.

"I've wanted you for awhile, Danni." His voice was a purr. Danice was reminded of a large hunting cat that had somehow been trapped in a man's body. She smiled at his pet name for her, nuzzling her cheek against his. He pulled back only far enough to catch her lips in a kiss. This was no light kiss, no gentle hello. This was bottled sexual ferocity, exploding against her. She responded in kind -- she couldn't remember ever trusting a man the way she did Erik. He was her guardian against death, leaping in front of bullets for her, and now saving her from an all encompassing loneliness that seemed to have permeated her being, building a wall of thorns around her heart that he was slowly prying away. He opened her to him, body and heart, his leg sweeping between hers. She moved her legs to catch around his hips.

It was easier for her to remove his clothing, as he was braced over her, kissing at her neck and chest, leaving small marks on her skin, and stealing her breath. She pulled his shirt up off his body unceremoniously. She then started on his pants, catching her feet in his jeans, and shoving the clothes from his body. He leaned back to look her over. He was far more slow and careful with the removal of her clothes, making her mewl in desire as he made her wait for what she so anticipated.

It was dangerous for her to fall for him, and that danger only made it more exciting. She let her guard down as he traced the contours of her body with gentle, loving fingertips, as though trying to memorize every inch of her by touch. He drew her up to kneel with him, his arms wrapping around her, encompassing her in his warmth, and the security it brought. His fingertips slipped over a spot on the small of her back that always made her gasp. His other hand thumbed her nipple, teasing her until every breath she spoke was pleading to him to take her. He pushed her down onto her back, holding her down, desire in his eyes.

"Do it, Baby." She urged him. He gave her a Cheshire cat grin.

He drove his hips to hers, impaling her in a perfect --

The phone was ringing. Danice swore. She was going to murder the caller. She was a Private Detective, after all -- she'd make it look like an accident. The dream burned fresh in her mind as she fought under her pillows and sheets to find the cell phone that, at the moment, she regretted ever purchasing. A steady stream of oaths and swears grumbled from her until she opened the phone to engage the call.

"Summer Investigations," she snarled, in what she hoped was her most feral voice.