Mollie Fenwick is having a hard time choosing between hunky homicide cop, Bradley Bartholomew, and a Native American, ex-special forces named Jack Wolf. Below, I've posted her introduction to Detective Bartholomew. Wolf's intro follows tomorrow. I'm wondering if any of you would find it any easier to choose.

I didn't know whether to cry or complain. If Detective Bartholomew thought I was guilty, he had it all wrong. I hadn't been anywhere near my apartment during the murder. Didn't that make me a victim? I shouldn't be surprised at his attitude. He'd accused me of graduating from running him down to committing a murder.

Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. He couldn't know I had never met the woman. I could at least try to explain. To be convincing I had to stand up and meet him eye-to-eye. Well, almost eye-to-eye. He was probably more than a foot taller. So, I got up.

What I mean is, I tried to. My muscles wouldn't cooperate, and I fell right down again, knocking into him. He tottered there, regained his balance and looked straight at me. I don't know what was going on with him, but his eyes twinkled and then darkened. My first impression was anger, but I was wrong. I was seeing raw passion and the way he studied my body from head to foot sure proved it. I didn't know how to react to that. My mind said to forget it, my body told me the opposite.

"Do I need to take out extra insurance before I help you up?" he asked.
I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't to be picked up bodily, as if I weighed next to nothing. I tried to ignore him, but his big hands sent crazy signals to my body, turning my skin to fire, and making my legs even wobblier than before. His being a homicide cop really scared me, but, oh boy, I didn't want him to let go.
"Sorry. I'm not quite myself tonight."

Joan K Maze
Writing as J. K. Maze

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