I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
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Challenge #35
Brett couldn’t remember the last time he felt the tug of sexual attraction. His world had not allowed anything as simple as human need. So, what were the odds – one in a million? Long-forgotten lust zeroed in on the precinct’s shrink. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor?
It was tough enough trying to pretend that he spent the night sleeping, without slapping down Mr. Willy. Dr. Sweeney was a load of sensuality. Her auburn hair was sleeked back in a style that had Brett’s finger itching to release it. Her eyes were a shade of green best left to a fable artist. With or without the enhancement of make-up, the long lashes, he knew, were her own.
“Which victim haunts you, Detective?”
The squeeze on his heart worked better than a cold shower. Yet, even over the drumming in his ears, he heard the whispered slide of nylon as the lovely doctor crossed her excellent legs.
“How could I select only one from such a crowd?”
Challenge #37
Maggie Sweeney was born a mother. She nurtured the needy and loved the unloved.
She remembered telling her mother, “When I grow up, I’m going to have 7 children, one for each day of the week.”
Her mother had laughed and said, “Thank goodness you aren’t an annual thinker.”
Maggie hadn’t understood at the time, but she knew being a mother was her calling. Just one thing, God had not been on the same call. She felt the loss like a death in the family. At 42 and single, she let go of that dream long ago and created another.
She wasn’t brave enough to work with children, but focused her life on caring and healing. She loved her work in psychology. She felt she made a difference, but she needed challenge. Her recent appointment as the Encinitas North County police psychologist, gave her that challenge in spades.
Cops were an interesting, complex test of wills. Some would flirt, some would rant and rave, while others sat in stony silence. So many walls, built to survive. Few would sign on for her help. It was a slippery slope, trying to help.
She thought of Brett Connors, a 25-year homicide detective who had seen more than any man should. He was 6 feet 4 inches of burning sexuality, without the arrogance. His black hair, sprinkled with just a kiss of gray, defied his 46 years of life. But his startling blue eyes told the story. Often, his gaze wandered so far away, Maggie wondered if she could call him back.
The end of their first session left her frustrated.
“And a good portion of it sexual,” she confessed to her empty room. There was no use denying the hot spice of tingling waves the sexy detective stirred to life.
Okay, it was wrong – really wrong. Maggie would just have to douse those thoughts if she wanted to reach him. His troubled soul worried her. Her fear was she might be too late.
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