DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yesterday I read 'Lois Lenz, Lesbian Secretary' and somehow that translated into writing this. So, in other words, pure silliness, but I couldn't fight the urge to write a heaving bosom.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
"Cindy?" Lindsay peered at her in puzzlement. "Why do I keep finding you where you don't belong?" Her question was met by another of Cindy's innocent smile and Lindsay felt the urge to throttle the young reporter; this was the third time in a week she'd raced into a killer's lair only to find that the redhead had arrived ahead of her.
Cindy clutched at the inspector's arm. "Lindsay, I'm in terrible trouble! The killer lured me here under false pretences and now I'll never get my scoop." Tears began to pool in her eyes as she realised the brevity of the situation. "If he kills me now I'll never get into your pants!" she sobbed.
Lindsay ground her teeth in thwarted fury. "Just tell me where he is."
"He said he was laying a trap for you out on the fire escape," Cindy said breathlessly, her bosom heaving in a melodramatic fashion that nevertheless managed to capture Lindsay's full attention. "Promise me, you'll be careful."
Distracted by the slowly unfastening third button on Cindy's blouse, Lindsay muttered a half-hearted promise before striding off in the direction of the nearest fire escape. The sound of trailing footsteps bringing her up short, as she turned to see Cindy only three steps behind her. "What are you doing?"
Cindy thought the question rather odd under the circumstances. "I'm coming with you," she explained. "To get my scoop."
Lindsay closed her eyes and started counting backwards from ten. "You know how much I appreciate your enthusiasm," she lied, distracted once again by the rapidly disentangling buttons on Cindy's blouse, "but this could be dangerous."
Cindy looked deep into Lindsay's eyes. "I trust you to save me."
A distracting warmth tingled between Lindsay's thighs as the last of the buttons surrendered to the pressure and Cindy's still heaving bosom was left exposed, the frilly pink brassier almost begging to be touched.
"I should," Lindsay whispered hoarsely, "go chase the killer."
The lust befuddled statement still ringing in the air, Cindy thrust herself into Lindsay's arms, her pale skin quivering with barely suppressed delight. "My hero," she proclaimed, rubbing her body illegally close to the inspector's. "I do get an exclusive, right?"
The tough inspector melted into the warm skin, her eyes rolling back in their sockets as she luxuriated in the unexpected closeness. Thoughts of killers, ex-husbands and exclusives flew from her head as Cindy's pretty pink brassier began to expose more than it hid.
"Don't stop!" Lindsay screamed as Cindy threatened to tear her gyrating body away, the reporter's pout a reminder of the still unanswered question. "Yes, you get an exclusive," Lindsay promised. "Just don't stop!"
The killer, stuck out on the fire escape, sighed in disappointment as the intrepid inspector slumped to her knees and proceeded to ravish the talkative young redhead. He'd been trying to lure Lindsay into a trap for weeks, but although capturing her little playmate was guaranteed to bring Lindsay running, the same little firecracker always managed to distract the normally unflappable Lindsay Boxer before he could make his move. It was very annoying.
As the redhead gasped about her deadline and the cop brandished her handcuffs, the killer put away his tools and made his way, dejectedly, towards the exit. "Next time," he muttered, "I'm taking the blonde."
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