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  He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many ways—her walk, her height, the flawless texture of her skin and her lips. Michelle’s lips had been thin and expressive, but this woman’s were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.

  He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking too clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television, TV program guide and a remote control. No bills, coupons, cassette tapes, film canisters—nothing like the clutter in his house.

  The mantel above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and found the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers, but found only bare-essential kitchen items.

  “Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and sultry with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?

  He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best “hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar” excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.

  The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. She’d transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman who’d just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such an ugly facade?

  “I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve let my curiosity overcome my good manners,” he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.

  She raised a skeptical brow.

  “I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama would’ve been remiss if she didn’t pound those Southern manners into me every day of my rebellious life.” He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any lady’s heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasn’t biting any more than a gator in December.

  “What can I do for you, Mr…?”

  “Detective MacIntyre,” he repeated.

  She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

  “What does that have to do with my locket?”

  “First things first, all right?”

  “I don’t understand,” she hedged.

  “Please answer the question.”

  “Three years.”

  He looked around, disbelieving. “In this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t believe in too many possessions, do you, Miss Morgan?”

  “May I have my locket?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He propped himself against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest.

  “And why’s that?”

  Was that a quiver in her voice? “Evidence.”

  Her gaze shifted down and her small white fingers fluttered like a butterfly as she played with the top button on her dress. “When, then, may I have it?”

  “Don’t you want to know why it’s being held?”

  A shadow passed in front of her eyes. She mouthed something, then dropped her hands to the counter between them.

  He stepped closer to her, determined to discover what had her so fidgety. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  “No. I don’t,” she blurted.

  “Now I find that mighty strange.” He took another step toward her, placed both hands on either side of hers and leaned in close. Close enough to see the creamy white skin of her throat flutter as she swallowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to know what happened to an obviously cherished possession?”

  She took a step back, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Most people would,” he continued. “Why not you?”

  She didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor between her toes and wrung those small white fingers. Fingers that could have slit Michelle’s throat? He was finding that difficult to believe, but she was afraid of something.

  “Is there some point to all this, Detective MacIntyre?”

  Her lower lip quivered, and he felt an urge to reach out his thumb and still it. “What do you do, Miss Morgan?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For work?”

  “I write.”

  “A writer, huh? What do you write?”

  “Would you like some coffee? Iced tea?” she asked.

  “Tea would be great.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, kicking one boot over the other, and watched as she passed, sorely tempted to blow on the fine hairs that had slipped their bondage to feather against the back of her neck. He forced back the thought and considered how hard he should push for the answers to the questions she was so obviously evading.

  She opened the fridge, removed a large pitcher of tea and filled two glasses. She placed a glass in front of him, along with a bowl of sugarcoated pecans.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s mighty hospitable of you.”

  Without looking at him, she picked up a pecan and bit into it. A dab of sugar creased the corner of her sweet little mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out and licked the sugar away. The movement warmed the chill in his blood. He ignored it and gulped down his tea. Her large luminous eyes watched him, looking vulnerable one moment and calculating the next. This was a woman with a secret. One way or another, he was going to discover what that secret was.

  DEVRA TOOK a deep breath to steady herself. She turned her back on the rude detective to return the tea to the fridge. She needed to stay calm, to give nothing away. Her hair tickled the back of her neck, sending an uncomfortable heat racing through her. He was staring at her again, with a look so intense she was sure he could see right through her.

  She closed her eyes. Breathe—in and out, in and out. She tried to ignore the intense gleam in his eyes and the hard lines sculpturing his jaw. They made her anxious. They made him look as if he could become unhinged at any moment.

  “So, what type of stuff do you write?” he asked, pinning her with another of his dark, primitive stares.

  “All types,” she muttered, and dropped her gaze to wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist where tight jeans molded thick thighs. With dark blond hair and eyes as brown and rich as a cup of espresso at Emeril’s, the combined effect definitely made the man a risk. She’d have to be extra careful around this one. He could do too much to her senses without even trying.

  “Published?”

  “Enough to make a living.” She watched under low ered lashes as he popped a few more pralines and drank down his tea in large gulps. He exuded an overabundance of confidence and moved with the grace of a panther. A dangerous mix, and she had a good idea he could be equally ferocious.

  A trickle of moisture ran between her shoulder blades. She glanced at the clock. “Look, I’ve got to go soon. Are we about done?”

  His gaze, cool and assessing, studied her. “A young woman—twenty-five, blond, beautiful, married and happy—her whole life in front of her, was found dead in the Quarter with this around her neck.” He held up the plastic baggie containing Devra’s locket.

  But she couldn’t look at the necklace; she was too focused on the man’s eyes, the deep brown of them melting in pain. He’d known this woman well. “I’m sorry,” she offered, though she understood it wasn’t enough.

  It never was.

  His eyes narrowed and his pretense of charm and suaveness disappeared, replaced by something uglier, something desperate and frustrated. “I want to know how this necklace wound up around her neck.” He slammed his glass onto the counter. She jumped, refusing to meet his eyes. There was nothing she could offer that would help him or that woman.

  “When was the last tim
e you saw your necklace?” He was close—too close—stealing her energy, her breath, her feeble hold on her senses.

  She stared at the locket through the plastic, focusing on the small rose etched on its face, on anything but him. “Last Saturday, at the Children’s Hospital.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I mean…I think I am.”

  “Can you think of any reason why your necklace would have been found on a murder victim?”

  Because I’m next? “No,” she whispered. She looked up at him, her gaze colliding with his. Big mistake. His doubt, his anger, riding so close to the surface, frightened her. “I don’t know. Maybe she found it,” she offered in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “No one has ever seen her with it before. Plus, it has a picture in it of a couple I’ve never seen. I know her. She wouldn’t wear a locket with someone else’s picture in it.”

  Devra nodded slowly. Of course she wouldn’t.

  “Who are they? The couple in the picture.”

  She hesitated, her tongue seeming to thicken and fill her mouth.

  He stepped closer. She could smell him now…rich, spicy, male.

  “Who are they?” he repeated.

  “My parents.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Washington State.”

  He pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “Their names?”

  She hesitated.

  He looked at her, waiting, coldly calculating.

  She said the names she hadn’t uttered in fifteen years. “William and Lydia.” William and Lydia Miller. But she wouldn’t tell him that much, not if she could help it. He closed the notepad and shoved it back into his pocket. She let out the breath she’d been holding and waited for him to back away.

  He didn’t.

  “Is that all?” she stammered.

  His piercing gaze looked right through her. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “Like what?”

  “Do you have a record?”

  An ice pick of fear pierced her heart and sent a cold shiver pulsing through her. She knew what was coming, knew what he’d ask next. He stepped closer stealing her air. “Have you ever been arrested?”

  Chapter Two

  Every natural-born cop instinct Riley had sang in tune. “Why are you rubbing your wrists?”

  She didn’t answer and refused to look at him.

  A telltale sign? His adrenaline kicked into high gear. “You won’t mind coming downtown to answer a few more questions, perhaps take a set of fingerprints?”

  Her eyes shot to his. “What on earth for? I didn’t have anything to do with this woman’s murder. I didn’t even know her.”

  “How do you know you didn’t know her? I haven’t shown you her picture yet.”

  “Because I don’t know very many people here,” she said defensively and started to pace the room. “And I certainly don’t know any female police officers.” She stopped and looked at him with cold fear widening her eyes.

  Gotcha, sweetheart. “I don’t believe I mentioned the young woman was a cop.”

  She just stood there, staring at him.

  “Right about now an explanation would be good,” he prompted. “How did you know she was a cop?”

  A loud knock at the front door reverberated through the house. Devra jumped. Riley swore under his breath. “That would be my partner.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, looking scared and relieved at the same time. He was aware of her soft step as she followed him through the living room and toward the front door.

  How had this woman known Michelle was a cop? She’d been working undercover. Any bystander would have thought she was a prostitute. This woman knew a lot more than she was letting on. All he needed was a little more time alone with her and he’d have her singing.

  He stood back and allowed her to open the door. Tony strode in, looking flushed and wiping the sweat off his brow. “It’s hotter than Hades out there. Are you about done here? The captain just called and said he wants to see you pronto.”

  Riley turned. “Devra Morgan, Detective Tortorici. Grab your purse, looks like we’re going downtown.”

  Tony raised a questioning brow.

  She sputtered a protest, outrage crossing her face. “I can’t go. I’m due at the Children’s Hospital for story time. I have to be there.”

  “I’m sure they can find someone else to read Green Eggs and Ham this morning.”

  Unyielding, she stood with her hands braced on her hips. “No. There isn’t anyone else. The nurses are too busy. The children look forward to my being there. It’s important to them and to me.”

  Her sudden display of backbone interested him. Was it disappointing the kids that had her all charged up, or the fear of going to the station?

  Tony stepped forward. “Why don’t I accompany Miss Morgan to the hospital, then bring her by the station when she’s done?” He offered one of his smooth Italian smiles. “That way, Riley, you can go see the captain and she can still read to the kiddies.” He gestured wide with his hands.

  Always the diplomat, Riley thought, but this time it wasn’t going to fly. “I’ll take her to the hospital,” he insisted. “We’ll come in to the station right after.”

  Tony’s mouth twisted with disapproval.

  “I’ll get my purse,” Devra said.

  Riley watched her hurry down the hall. Once she rounded the corner, he lowered his voice. “Look, Tony. You and I both know what the captain is going to say the moment I walk through the door.”

  “Yeah, what I already told you this morning. You shouldn’t be working this case. You’re too involved to be objective.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m going to accompany Miss Morgan to the hospital. She knows something and she’s this close to breaking.” He pushed his thumb and forefinger close together. “I won’t let her out of my sight. After she’s done, I’ll bring her in to give her statement.”

  “And what am I supposed to tell the captain?”

  “You’ll think of something. I can’t let this slippery little fish slither off the line. Not after I so expertly baited the hook. She knows something, Tony, and I mean to get it out of her.”

  AS RILEY parked the car, Miss Morgan leapt out and all but ran to the front of the building. He followed her into the hospital, easily keeping pace. She could run, but she couldn’t hide the truth from him for very long. Discovering secrets and solving mysteries were his forte and he wasn’t about to let this case be any different. He entered the sliding glass doors and followed her into the elevator.

  She pressed the button for the fifth floor, then kept her gaze glued to the flashing lights as they rose. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked, trying to get her to open up. The more she talked, the more that deep sultry voice of hers gave away.

  “Three years,” she answered without taking her eyes off the illuminated panel.

  “Impressive.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Which floor is the cafeteria on?”

  She turned, irritation pursing her lips.

  “You know. Coffee?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

  “Don’t eat or drink?”

  She turned back to the doors, ignoring him. He smiled at the back of her head. He was getting to her, making her mad. That’s when she’d give away the game. He’d give her a little line, let her think she was slipping away, then jerk back and reel her in.

  The doors opened.

  Placing a hand on her rigid elbow, he walked her to the door of the Child Life Center where a group of kids—some in pajamas, some in wheelchairs, some sit ting on the floor—was expectantly awaiting her arrival. He tightened his grip before she could enter the ward. “Can I trust you alone for a minute? I need a cup of joe.”

  Her gaze shifted slightly, and he knew she was considering bolting. But she nodded, her eyes locked on his, a beseeching vulnerability shining in their dark blue depths. The look
unsettled him. She’d looked that way earlier, like a lost and scared kitten stuck high in a tree. And, for a minute, he wanted to rescue her, to cuddle her.

  To protect her.

  But he wasn’t in the protection business. No matter how tempting the idea sounded, no matter how tempting she was playing Little Miss Scared and Innocent, he would bet his lunch money she was anything but.

  She pulled free from his grasp and entered the room, smiling briefly at one of the nurses. It was a nice smile that brightened her whole face. He watched as she transformed once again into a different person—warm and friendly, with sincere hugs and bright smiles. No little lost kitty here.

  He was about to leave when a nurse with bouncy brown curls and a white cotton shirt stretched tight across her breasts walked into the hall, shutting the door behind her. “Are you waiting for Devra?” she asked.

  He nodded, and smiled as he read the name tag pinned to her blouse. “I sure am, Betty.”

  She smiled back, deepening her dimples to craters. “She’s wonderful with the kids. They really look forward to her visits.”

  He leaned against the wall. “How long has she been coming?”

  “Every Saturday for years now. She’s never missed a day.” She glanced over her shoulder at Devra through the glass. “The kids are very important to her, and vice versa. We’re lucky to have her.”

  “She’s a very special person,” he drawled. “But then I think anyone who devotes their life to helping people is special,” he added, cranking his Irish charm up a notch.

  “Aren’t you sweet to say so,” she cooed and flapped her hand at his shoulder.

  “And Devra,” he prompted. “She’s just so busy with…”

  “Oh, yes. Her writing, I know what you mean. And she must be a very good writer, too.”

  “Really? Have you read…”

  Betty’s mouth puckered into a pretty pout. “No, she promised to bring something in, but it must have slipped her mind. And I didn’t find anything under her name, so I assume she uses a pseudonym. I keep forgetting to ask her what it is, though.” She brightened. “Do you know what it is?”