Right now, Messinger held the number-one spot on Jed’s deserves-to-die-a-painful-death list. His heart was still beating a bit too hard. His groin was still feeling a bit too primed for action. Across the room, Erica watched him, her lips glistening from the kiss, her eyes slightly unfocused, her chest heaving with each uneven breath. He ought to disconnect the damn phone and carry her upstairs to bed. But Messinger was talking, babbling in his trademark baritone, smooth but with an edge of excitement, the sort of delivery that could make the opening of a gas station sound as though it was part of a horrible plot to destroy the world’s population of sperm whales. Messinger’s words spilled out of the phone so fast Jed couldn’t make much sense of them. Then again, his mind was miles away—or, more accurately, about ten feet away, across the room where Erica stood. “How did you get this number?” he asked again when Messinger paused to catch his breath. Messinger chuckled. “I’m an investigative reporter, Mr.
