Chapter Sixty-Nine
Brock
Some part of me felt like the doorman’s daughter thing was a bit of a dead-end.
But as much as I did believe in gut instincts, I also believed in doing your due diligence.
That was the job, wasn’t it? To investigate.
Even if the leads didn’t feel like they were going to actually, well, lead anywhere.
The paperwork we had said that Maude Edwardson has worked at Miranda’s company for about eight months, but that the employment had ended a few months ago.
There weren’t, though, any notes about poor behavior.
Miranda herself didn’t remember Maude. Which wasn’t surprising. She employed a bunch of people. I doubted she knew every single person’s name, let alone why they left the company.
Cam might have more of a clue since had a firm finger on the pulse of the entire company. But I wasn’t about to bother him on his day off. He already worked too damn hard. And she was safe with him and me for the day, so it wasn’t like putting it off was going to put her in harm’s way.
“What?” Miranda asked as she came out of the bathroom after getting ready for lunch.
How could I explain to her that it seemed like a small transformation had taken place for her? She was always a very formal, business-style dresser. Even at home. She liked her outfits that could easily go from a board room to out to dinner without requiring she change.
And she almost never had her hair down, always preferring that sort of stern-looking bun.
But for lunch? Her hair was down, dancing around her shoulders as she moved.
And she’d opted for a soft, feminine dress.
It was autumnal with its deep green, blue, maroon, and gold vertical stripes with a bit of a plunging neckline, but a long hem where her high-heeled brown boots could be seen.
She just looked… casual and at ease.
“You look beautiful,” I told her since I couldn’t easily put all that other shit into words.
“Thanks,” she said, her smile sweet. “It’s probably a little cold for a dress,” she said. “Especially since I didn’t put leggings or stockings on.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, tossing aside my paperwork to climb off the bed and make my way toward her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, but the wicked little smile that was tugging at her lips suggested she knew what the look in my eyes was saying to her.
“I think you should start wearing a lot more skirts,” I told her as I got closer.
“Really?” she asked, feigning innocence. “Why is that?”
“You know, I don’t think it will make much sense if I tell you. I think I should probably show you,” I told her.
“That might be a good idea. I am a bit of a hands-on learner,” she told me.
“I can help with that,” I agreed, reaching down to bunch up her skirt, watching as her face went from amused to turned on as my hand slid between her thighs, pressing against the material of her panties.
My fingers slipped inside the material, working over her clit until she was writhing and whimpering for more.
“Brock, please,” she begged as her hand rubbed against my cock through my thin pants.
“Here,” I demanded, reaching for her hand, and placing it between her thighs, replacing my own. “Work your pussy for me,” I demanded, then took a step back to watch before moving out of the room and heading back into mine to fish more condoms out of my bag.
With the way things were going with her, I was going to need to stash the damn things all over her place.
When I came back in the room, I found her with her head back against the wall, tipped up to the ceiling, her eyes closed as she rubbed her clit.
My cock was straining watching her work herself.
I took advantage of her distraction, pulling down my pants, and putting on the protection before moving forward to press my hand over hers as my lips went to her neck, not wanting to fuck up the lipstick she’d already applied.
“Brock, please,” she whimpered as I pulled her panties down her legs.
“Please what?” I asked, my teeth nipping her earlobe.
“Please fuck me,” she said, making my cock twitch at her words.
Reaching down, I grabbed her leg, pulling it wide, and pinning it to the wall before I slammed inside of her.
Hard.
Deep.
“God, yes,” she moaned, her arms wrapping around me as her hips rocked. “You feel so good,” she whimpered, hips moving faster and faster.
I had to agree.
No one, in fact, had ever felt as right as she did.
“Brock, move,” she demanded, her hands going down my back to sink into my ass, trying to spur me on.
I went ahead and did just that.
Hard.
Deep.
Driving her up and through an orgasm in just a few short moments.
But she wasn’t done with me.
Not yet.
She dropped down her leg, and pushed me backward toward the bed, then climbed on top of me.
Shifting up, she reached down, grabbing my cock, and holding me still as she slid down onto me with a low, deep moan.
“Fuck,” I hissed as she leaned back, placing her hands on my legs, a position that would let my cock glide against her G-spot as she rode me.
And, fuck, if it wasn’t hot when a woman knew what she needed and wanted, and immediately went for it.
Her movements were fast but short, and it wasn’t long before she was whimpering again, getting closer and closer.
My hands went to her hips, just holding on as I started to thrust my legs up into her, matching her movements, but increasing the sensations.
It wasn’t long before her pussy was getting almost painfully tight around my cock, making it harder to move.
“Come, baby,” I demanded as my hand shifted from her hip to toy with her clit.
“Come for me. Let me feel you squeeze my cock,” I said, thrusting a little faster as her breathing started to catch.
“Fuck, yes, just like that,” I growled as the orgasm slammed through her, making her walls clench my cock over and over, taking me with her as she came.
She fell forward after, burying her face in my neck as she struggled to even out her breathing.
“Thank you for the lesson,” she said, tone a little saucy as she pressed a kiss to my throat before sitting back to look down at me.
“Anytime you need a lesson from me, you just let me know,” I said, my hands sliding up and down her thighs. “But you’re going to be late now,” I reminded her.
“Shit,” she said, eyes going wide. She gave me a guilty look before sliding off of my lap, then off of the bed.
Grabbing her panties, she disappeared into her bathroom to freshen up.
I went ahead and took off to the guest bath to get dressed, meeting her back in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“You don’t need to walk me out,” she insisted as I slipped on shoes.
“Of course I’m walking you out,” I told her, pressing a hand into her lower back as we headed out the door.
I was going to head out too, figuring it was best to get going early if I was going to try to track down the woman.
“Call me before you head home. I want to meet you outside,” I told her as we spotted her car a few spots down the street.
“Will do. We might do some shopping after lunch, so don’t be waiting around. We haven’t bought shoes in too long.”
I knew better than to mention the new shoes she’d gotten for the benefit.
“Okay. Just let me know,” I said, pressing a kiss to her temple, then watching her walk away and disappear into her waiting car.
My gaze slid to the doorman, Frank, who was trying to direct some lost tourists to some destination.
I felt a little guilty about tracking down his daughter, but had to remind myself of the scar on Miranda’s arm, the intention behind that.
She was relatively easy to track down, since she was still living in the second-floor walkup she’d been at when she’d been working for Miranda.
Maude, judging by her file, was twenty-seven.
She looked younger in person with her long, golden-blonde hair, heart-shaped face with pouty lips, and big blue eyes.
I seemed to catch her on errand day, and I followed behind her as she bopped from one store to the next.
Yes, bopped was the right way to describe it.
The woman seemed to almost bounce on her feet as she move around. Light, carefree.
Not, in my experience, the kind of person who tries to kill another human being.
But, hell, who the fuck knew.
Most serial killers were described as nice, normal people. Good neighbors. Steady employees.
Maybe she was hiding a shitton of crazy under all that upbeat, behind all those smiles she gave to the employees of the stores as well as random strangers on the streets.
She even stopped to drop change to a couple of houseless people along the way.
It was all just… very normal.
The bank. Pharmacy. Groceries. Then a quick stop into a coffee shop to get some fancy iced drink to have on her walk back home.
I looked away just for a minute, wanting to check the time.
And I lost her somehow.
“Shit,” I hissed, rushing forward, wondering if she’d hopped into a cab, or had gone down into the subway or something.
At least, that was what my mind was on until she suddenly stepped out of an alley and in front of me, her chin up, her gaze fierce.
“Why the fuck are you following me?” she hissed.
Gone was the soft and sweet and bouncy, a girl who seemed more like a transplant than a native.
But this woman in front of me—her bags gone, her coffee out of her hand, and in their place, an expandable baton and an eye-gouger—with her shoulders drawn back and her stance wide, ready to beat the piss out of me? Yeah, this was a native New Yorker.
“I need to talk to you about Miranda Coulter,” I said, figuring direct was the best idea. If for no other reason than to see her reaction to her former boss’s name.
“Miranda?” she asked, face scrunching up. “Why?”
“You worked for her.”
“Yeah, for like… less than a year,” she said, shaking her head. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m getting my wallet,” I told her, showing her my hands before and after I reached into my pocket.
I handed her a business card.
“Private investigator? Are you, like, investigating the company or something?”
“Should I be?”