“You’re a dangerous man to know, Detective,” Robin told him.

He released her hand and sat back, smiling a bitter smile. “Yeah, I can be that,” he admitted. “If I find out you’re jerking me around, you can count on it.”

Mitch knew the value of intimidation and was in no way opposed to using it when the time was right. So why did it make him feel so rotten, playing the big, bad cop with Robin? He knew she hadn’t killed James Andrews, but he did sense she was hiding something. Why didn’t he feel justified in shaking her up a little?

Dear Reader,

As the year winds to a close, I hope you’ll let Silhouette Intimate Moments bring some excitement to your holiday season. You certainly won’t want to miss the latest of THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS, Maggie Shayne’s Secrets and Lies. Think it would be fun to be queen for a day? Not for Melusine Brand, who has to impersonate a missing “princess” and evade a pack of trained killers, all the while pretending to be passionately married to the one man she can’t stand—and can’t help loving.

Join Justine Davis for the finale of our ROMANCING THE CROWN continuity, The Prince’s Wedding, as the heir to the Montebellan throne takes a cowgirl—and their baby—home to meet the royal family. You’ll also want to read the latest entries in two ongoing miniseries: Marie Ferrarella’s Undercover M.D., part of THE BACHELORS OF BLAIR MEMORIAL, and Sara Orwig’s One Tough Cowboy, which brings STALLION PASS over from Silhouette Desire. We’ve also got two dynamite stand-alones: Lyn Stone’s In Harm’s Way and Jill Shalvis’s Serving Up Trouble. In other words, you’ll want all six of this month’s offerings—and you’ll also want to come back next month, when Silhouette Intimate Moments continues the tradition of providing you with six of the best and most exciting contemporary romances money can buy.

Happy holidays!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

In Harm’s Way
Lyn Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYN STONE

loves creating pictures with words. Paints, too. Her love affair with writing and art began in the third grade, when she won a school-wide prize for her colorful poster for book week. She spent the prize money on books, one of which was Little Women.

She rewrote the ending so that Jo marries her childhood sweetheart. That’s because Lyn had a childhood sweetheart herself and wanted to marry him when she grew up. She did. And now she is living her “happily-ever-after” in north Alabama with the same guy. She and Allen have traveled the world, had two children, four grandchildren and experienced some wild adventures along the way.

Whether writing romantic historicals or contemporary fiction, Lyn insists on including elements of humor, mystery and danger. Perhaps because that other book she purchased all those years ago was a Nancy Drew mystery.

This book is dedicated to

Alice and Richard Edge,

a beautiful, gracious lady and

a true Southern gentleman.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

“So, what’s your take on it, Kick? You think she did him?” Mitch Winton asked his partner in a low voice as he studied the woman in question just visible through the doorway to the bedroom.

The woman sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, back ramrod straight. Mitch couldn’t see her face. She kept it turned away, probably so she wouldn’t have to look at the body again. One of the uniforms stood just inside the room with her.

Kick Taylor nodded. “She did it all right. No reason to think otherwise.”

“You question her yet?”

“Just the prelim I got on tape. This one’s a real ice queen. Cool as they come, not giving us squat.”

“Let me hear what she’s got to say.”

Kick hesitated, then handed Mitch the small tape recorder. “Not much to it. She’s been sitting like that since I got here. Davis and Mackie said she’s been in there the whole time. Didn’t even come out to answer the door when they responded.”

“She phone it in?”

“Affirmative.”

Mitch sighed. Why couldn’t he have just said yes? “So how’d we get on call tonight? Did I check the wrong roster?”

“Smith’s baby’s due anytime. I volunteered to switch with him and Williams.”

“He asked?” Mitch would be surprised if he had.

“No, I offered. Sorry I forgot to tell you. It won’t mess up your vacation, though. I can handle this one myself.”

There were perils in being gung ho, Mitch thought to himself. The captain had teamed them up a few months back when Kick had transferred from Vice, hoping Mitch could tamp down a little of Kick’s enthusiasm. He was a case hog. Still, there was no way he could have known about this one before it happened.

Homicide detectives were supposed to appear a little jaded, at least experienced. It didn’t give any of the principals involved a warm, fuzzy feeling if one of the people in charge acted as if they were working their first murder and their whole career depended on an immediate arrest. It was a whole lot different from Vice where Kick had spent his last five years.

“You’re looking too cool for words,” Mitch commented as he squatted and visually examined the dead man. White male, on the green side of forty, about six feet tall, exceptionally well dressed, probably considered good-looking without that hole in the center of his forehead. “Love the tie.”

“You talking to him or me?” Kick asked, methodically inching his way around the body counterclockwise, looking for traces of evidence like he was employed by forensics.

“You. The ducks are a nice touch.”

“Thanks,” Kick replied, smoothing a palm over his expensive neckwear, offering no explanation for what he was doing so well turned out this close to midnight on a Wednesday. He was a night owl and there was plenty to do in Nashville all night long. Probably got called in off a hot date.

Mitch admitted to a little envy. He had just about forgotten what a date was like. He’d been sound asleep when the phone rang. He suddenly felt very over-the-hill for thirty-six. Homicide was a bitch at any time, especially the middle of the night. Another hour and he would have been off the clock for two whole weeks.

“The weapon,” his partner said, pointing to a Beretta lying on the floor near the body.

“I guessed,” Mitch said dryly. One of the techs was getting ready to bag it. “Anyone hear the shot?” Mitch asked.

“Haven’t had a chance to ask yet. Why don’t you go on home?”

Mitch snorted. “What? And miss all this fun?”

The print lifters were busy dusting things while Kick measured a stain he’d found near the coffee table. The medical examiner would be arriving shortly to take charge of the body. Mitch knew there wasn’t much he could discover here that Kick and the M.E. wouldn’t.

Again he glanced through the door at the witness, or suspect, or whatever she would turn out to be. She hadn’t moved. Or relaxed. “She live here?”

“Nope, but she is still the missus. Says she just flew down from the Big Apple. Andrews must have been expecting her. Wine’s in the fridge, glasses were out, little napkins, nuts and stuff. All scattered now, of course, but he had it ready at one time.”

“Looks pretty straightforward,” Mitch said. “Not much question about cause of death. Single shot to the head. No sign of a break-in?”

“Nope. He opened the door and let her in.”

“Maybe he let someone else in first? Let’s try to keep an open mind here.”

Kick snorted. “Don’t you be fooled just because she’s a looker. Pretty fingers can pull triggers, too, y’know.”

“You want to stick one of those fingers in a light socket right now and save the state a trial? How about some proof first, huh?” Mitch felt obliged to point out that the investigation was not complete. Kick was acting as if he had the case sewn up.

“I’m working on it, okay?” Kick snapped.

Mitch ignored his attitude and returned to examining the body. “Died where he fell, looks like.”

Kick mumbled an agreement, engrossed in an address book he’d found in the drawer under the phone. “Captain was looking for you this afternoon after you left. Wanted to see you before you took off. Something about that shooting I guess. The guy still alive?”

“Last I heard.” Mitch glanced around at the living room. “Whoever did this left a big enough mess, didn’t they? You got things covered?”

“Absolutely. You can go ahead and leave.” Kick inclined his head toward the woman in the bedroom. “I’ll take her in soon as I get through here.”

“I’ll do it,” Mitch said. “I stopped off and got an unmarked in case you’d apprehended somebody.”

Kick frowned at him. “And let you play Sir Galahad to Princess Sureshot? Not hardly. I’m transporting, Mitch, and interrogating her.”

“No, you’re going to stay here and question the neighbors,” Mitch informed him firmly, unsure why he was pulling rank on Kick. He had never done that before, and it bothered him to do it now. But his partner was being too close-minded about this whole deal. He had already decided they had their shooter. Mitch just wanted to make sure Kick wasn’t taking the easy way out.

“Checked her for powder and printed her yet?”

Kick looked up, his lips tightening. “Not yet.”

Mitch called Abe Sinclair over and quietly ordered him to do a quick paraffin test on Mrs. Andrews to detect whether she had any gunpowder residue on her hands and then get her prints. He wanted all the bases covered.

Then Mitch moved away from the body, got as isolated as he could in the middle of a busy crime scene and turned on the recorder. He put it to his ear and listened to Kick’s curt demand that Mrs. Andrews tell in her own words what had transpired. Following was the brief statement she had given. Very brief.

He could see her better from where he stood now. Abe was in there now, doing his thing with paraffin. She appeared almost oblivious to the process. Classic profile. Perfect hair. Lovely. She was thin, no, slender. Beautifully dressed in a beige suit and gold earrings. Tasteful. Cool, just as Kick had said.

From this distance she didn’t look all that upset about what was going on. At any rate, she wasn’t sobbing her heart out, not that that meant anything necessarily. Could be in shock.

Her voice on the tape was soft and cultured, but with almost no inflection. A pleasant-sounding computer robot came to mind. She referred to the victim by name, not using the we pronoun that would indicate they’d had a happy relationship. Of course, if she’d killed him, she would want to disassociate herself, not think of him as half of her couple.

As he listened, she made it clear she had touched the body while checking for signs of life. Or maybe to explain away any forensic evidence that might turn up later. She admitted she had touched the gun before she thought what she was doing.

When the tape ran silent, he clicked Stop, stuck the recorder in his pocket and entered the bedroom. With a jerk of his thumb, he ordered Abe and the officer who’d been keeping watch over her to leave them alone.

“Mrs. Andrews?” he greeted her. “I’m Detective Winton. You’re the one who discovered the body?” He sat on the edge of the chair located about three feet from the bed, so that he faced her.

“Yes,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him with beautiful, dark-fringed blue eyes that badly needed to weep. He knew better than to feel sympathy for her. You didn’t last long in this business if you couldn’t stay detached. This was the hardest part of the job, but it usually wasn’t quite this hard.

He had seen faces filled with sorrow more times than he could count, but he couldn’t recall one that had moved him quite the way hers did now. Why was that? Instant attraction, yeah. But it seemed more than that, something he couldn’t get a handle on and name.

Getting thunderstruck by a woman was a new experience for Mitch and he didn’t much like it. His defenses wouldn’t go up like they were supposed to. He probably should let Kick take over right now, but he couldn’t make himself do that. Not when she was looking up at him with those soulful eyes, as if she was depending on him to get this right. And not when Kick was ready to hang her on the spot.

Mitch prided himself on judging character. Women seemed easier to read than men. Their emotions were usually closer to the surface, somehow more accessible. That was a sexist view, he knew, but he’d found it to be true, anyway.

Either Robin Andrews cared for that man on the floor and was grieving, or she had delivered the shot that killed him and was terribly sorry about it. “Did you kill your husband, Mrs. Andrews?” The question had slipped right out of his mouth before he could catch it.

Damn. Mitch almost pounded his head with his fist. He wasn’t supposed to put that to her yet. She hadn’t been read her rights, unless Kick had done it off tape, which was almost surely not the case.

Mitch hoped she wouldn’t confess right now. If he was being perfectly honest, he hoped to hell she didn’t have cause to confess at all. It surely would cut down on the workload if he could just haul her in and not have to track down some unknown, but for some inexplicable reason he just didn’t want her to have done it. The thought rattled him.

Women were perfectly capable of murder. However, as a man brought up to revere women, he had to keep reminding himself of that. Finding it hard to believe that the gentler sex would do such a thing was his one huge hang-up and he worked hard at concealing it and compensating for it. But he didn’t want to overcompensate. It was a problem.

He wished to hell another team had caught this one. He obviously needed a good night’s sleep.

Robin couldn’t believe this was happening. “No. I didn’t kill him. I’m the one who notified the police,” she explained.

“Sorry. Won’t get you off the hook.” The detective shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Sometimes a perpetrator will call in the crime, tryin’ to throw off suspicion,” he continued in that maddeningly slow drawl of his. “But we’ll get around to that in a little while. For now let’s just clear up a few things. Minor points, really.”

He pulled a small black notebook out of his pocket and smiled at her when he successfully located the ballpoint pen to go with it. Had Columbo started out like this? Robin wondered.

She hated his Southern accent. It poured out like thick molasses. Sinfully rich and dark. It made her want to finish his sentences for him. When he spoke in sentences.

Robin riveted all of her attention on him simply because it was something to think about other than what had happened in the next room. She couldn’t deal with that yet.

Her first thought was that this man didn’t look official. He hadn’t shaved. His dark-brown hair needed a trim, and he must have thrown on yesterday’s wrinkled clothes. He wore khaki slacks, a UT pullover and a windbreaker. He wasn’t even wearing socks, just scuffed leather deck shoes. He looked entirely too casual, too rumpled and laid-back for a detective. Since he didn’t look official, Robin didn’t trust him to act officially. She didn’t have much trust in men, anyway. Certainly not this one.

Worst of all he had a smile and an attitude that were working hard to make her drop her guard and lean on him. She quickly realized just which way she would fall if she did that.

“Did you see anybody when you came into the building? In the parking area? Driving away?”

“No,” she answered simply, in the second or so that he provided between each of his questions. He looked and sounded lazy. Or maybe only tired. Suddenly Robin was horribly afraid this man was going to lock her up just because she was handy instead of pursuing the person who had really killed James.

She shuddered, took a deep breath and clasped her arms tightly across her chest. James was dead, murdered, lying lifeless in the next room. The chilling horror of it made her shiver again, but she couldn’t put it out of her mind for more than a few minutes no matter how hard she tried. He was not going to let her.

“You say you flew in from New York just to visit your husband?” the detective asked.

Robin didn’t want to talk about her reasons for being here. She didn’t want to talk at all. Shouldn’t he be ordering people out to look for James’s murderer? Setting up roadblocks or whatever they did down here to catch a criminal? If they all moved and talked at this man’s speed, it was a miracle they ever got anything done.

“Mrs. Andrews?” he prompted, more firmly this time. “Why did you come here?”

“To visit,” she said, her words more clipped than usual.

“Does that mean you have one of those, ah, long-distance—” he paused to make a little questioning gesture with one hand “—what do you call ’em?”

“Separations,” Robin supplied. “James and I have been separated for almost a year.”

He frowned and made a note. “Okay. Were you on friendly terms with your husband, Ms. Andrews?”

“Yes,” she said with an emphatic nod. “James and I had been friends for several years before we decided to get married. After about six months he and I both agreed it was a mistake. He transferred to Nashville right after we separated, and I stayed in New York. His company has an office here.”

“Yeah, Townsend, Inc., you said. So what are you doing here visiting him if you’re not together any longer?”

Robin explained, “He called me at home last week and asked if I planned to fly down to Florida to visit my mother. I usually go for her birthday and he was aware of that. He wanted me to schedule my flight through Nashville and stop over so that we could talk.”

“Unfinished business?” Those penetrating blue eyes focused on her like lasers.

Robin bit her lip and glanced around the room, determined to concentrate on her answers rather than the horror that threatened to tear her apart if she let it.

James was dead. She didn’t love him, but she still liked him. He might have had a weak will where other women were concerned, but she figured she was as much to blame for that as James. The spark between them had been just that, a spark, not the fire they’d first thought it was. It had gone out more quickly than it had erupted. But fortunately it hadn’t destroyed their friendship.

The detective cleared his throat to get her attention. She gave it, studying his face, trying to guess what he would ask her next. This man was about to arrest her. She could feel it.

“I asked if you had unfinished business with your husband?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Also he…he wanted me to bring him something he said he’d forgotten when he moved down here. A computer disk.”

“Music?”

“No. Something to do with his work in the insurance company, he said. He told me he didn’t want me to mail it, because he was afraid it might get lost.”

“You didn’t mention that when Detective Taylor taped your preliminary interview.”

She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “He didn’t question me. He only said to tell what happened after I arrived here.”

“So you brought what your husband wanted you to bring and, in addition to that favor, he planned to discuss something important with you?” he asked slyly. “Maybe he wanted to reconcile?”

“No, he didn’t. James and I are just friends now.” Then she remembered and corrected herself. “Were just friends.” Her voice only broke a little.

“I wonder why you didn’t get a divorce.”

Robin exhaled slowly. “We discussed it several times. I thought we should. But he…” She hesitated, unsure whether she should have admitted this. “Maybe he was ready to start proceedings. He didn’t say on the phone.”

“And now a divorce won’t be necessary,” he commented, shaking his head, sounding sad, looking sad. She resented the implication he made, and hated his acting as if he were concerned. Damn him, did he have no decency? The man she was married to had just been killed. But he was doing his job, wasn’t he? He had to eliminate her as a suspect.

She had to be precise, give the detective all the information he could use and suggest things he might do to establish her innocence. If she didn’t do that, whoever killed James would get away with it. And she might be blamed.

She drew in another deep breath and released it carefully, trying to gain a little control over the tremor in her voice. “I took a taxi from the airport and arrived here about ten-thirty, give or take ten minutes. I’m sorry I didn’t look at the clock more closely. You could verify the time with the cab company. Oh, and the plane was delayed for over an hour,” she informed him, remembering that detail suddenly, thinking it might be crucial. “It was Flight 1247, American. Check the passenger list.”

“Good idea. I’ll do that,” he agreed, as if that hadn’t occurred to him before. “So you got here and…” he prompted with an expectant look.

Robin rushed to explain, “James was…was like that when I found him. The door was unlocked, the rooms were wrecked, and he was just lying there. Like that.”

It felt surreal, all of it. James’s death, her second recitation of the events, this detective’s quiet questions in the deep, velvety voice. She looked at him again, puzzled by his unassuming manner. It was as if he did this every night. Did he? This was Nashville, not New York. Did people get killed here so regularly that it didn’t faze him at all?

Robin’s breath felt jerky and shallow as her gaze strayed to the door of the living room, through which she could see James. He lay sprawled facedown on the floor beside the coffee table, a dark pool of blood encircling his head. His eyes were open. A camera flashed.

She closed her own eyes tight. “Could…could they cover him? Please?”

“Sure they will. Don’t you worry,” he said, his words soft with faked compassion. It had to be faked. Why would he care if James lay there so exposed or that she might worry about it? He hadn’t known James and didn’t know her.

He went on. “As soon as they do what they have to do, they’ll cover him up. Why don’t you sit back on the bed a ways, ma’am. Then he won’t be visible to you. It bothers you, doesn’t it,” he asked gently, “seein’ him that way?”

Though he spoke softly, he watched her with an intensity that scraped across her exposed nerves. His words and relaxed attitude didn’t match those keen, narrowed ice-blue eyes that watched her like a hawk. A circling hawk about to dive at its prey.

“Of course it bothers me! He was a good man and he’s dead,” she said, choking on the words. Robin covered her eyes with a trembling hand and shook her head. “Please, Officer Wendall—”

“It’s detective, Detective Winton,” he corrected without a trace of impatience. He nudged her free hand and she looked down to see him offering her a pristine, neatly ironed handkerchief with a blue W embroidered on one corner.

Robin blinked. She didn’t know men did that anymore. Offered their handkerchiefs. Hesitantly she took it, though she had no idea why. She wasn’t even crying. Her throat hurt, her heart ached and she was terrified, but her eyes felt dry as dust.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked. It came out a bit more sharply than she intended. Had she sounded guilty?

He smiled. It was a quick little expression of what looked like sympathy. She knew better. “Not right now,” he assured her, then added, “but you do have to come downtown with me and give a written statement.”

“I told you everything.” She inclined her head toward the living room. “The other detective has it on tape and now you have notes.” She looked at the small tablet he’d been scribbling on.

“We’ll need another, more formal statement, ma’am. In more detail, and in writing this time.” He held up a hand when she started to object. “I realize you have other things to do, but I know you want to help us all you can.”

“Of course,” she replied. What else could she say?

“Good. You’ll be able to call his family, yours and anybody else you want to once we get to the precinct, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t touch anything else in here. You know, like the phone over there? I need to look around a little more before we go. You just sit right there for a while longer.”

She knew she had already contaminated the crime scene, even touched the gun. A stupid thing to do. How many times had she seen people do that on television and thought they were absolute idiots? Now she figured it must be a reflex or something. God, she wished she had left it alone.

She had felt James’s neck for a pulse. How could she not have done that? He might have still been alive and she could have helped him. But she couldn’t. He was already cold. The memory of his chilled skin made her fingers twitch.

Then she’d grabbed the phone in the living room to call for help. To make matters worse, she had rushed into the bedroom to get away from the terrible sight of death and wait for the police to arrive.

The covers had been torn off the bed and she was sitting on the bare mattress, so hopefully she hadn’t disturbed much in here. There would be fibers from her clothing, she guessed. She glanced at the satiny surface of the bedding. Could they take fingerprints from this? Why hadn’t she just backed out of the apartment and called from an outside phone?

As many times as she had seen it happen on TV and in movies, watched stupid people walk in after a murder and handle the very things that would incriminate them, it had never once occurred to her that she shouldn’t touch anything until after the fact.

She looked at her hands with the traces of wax residue on both sides. Why had they done that? Had the policeman said why? He had mumbled something about the fingerprinting, she thought.

There was also blood on her hands. James’s blood. On her hands. From the carpet where she had knelt beside him.

Suddenly Robin felt sick, ready to throw up. There was little time to debate whether she would destroy evidence in the bathroom. Better there than in here. She jumped up, rushed for the toilet and heaved until she couldn’t. Since she hadn’t eaten anything after breakfast yesterday, there was nothing in her stomach to lose.

Robin straightened, brushed her hair back behind her ears and turned to wash her face. The sight of James’s bottle of favorite aftershave sitting there on the counter top was the trigger. She saw it, sank to her knees, clutched the detective’s handkerchief to her face and wept uncontrollably for the man she had once thought she loved.

James shouldn’t be dead. He was only thirty-seven, too young to die, only six years older than she. Who would do such a thing to him? To anyone? He wasn’t bad. He didn’t deserve this.

She recovered from her crying jag, washed her face, scrubbed the blood off her hands and sat down on the closed seat of the commode to wait. Her legs felt too unsteady to carry her back into the bedroom just then.

After what seemed an eternity, the detective approached the open door of the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, I’m not okay.”

He came closer and frowned down at her with what looked like worry, then brushed her bangs off her forehead with the tip of one long finger. She should have avoided his touch. It was inappropriate, certainly, but it seemed oddly comforting and not in any way threatening or suggestive.

At that moment the thought reoccurred that he was very dangerous. Handsome men almost always were in one way or another, and she rarely met one she liked. Usually she could figure them out, however. Not this one, not this detective.

He was being nice to her, but only sporadically. He believed she had killed James. She could see it in his eyes and tell from his questions.

If he considered her guilty of murder, why would he bother to pretend concern? To win her trust, Robin supposed. To trick her somehow. Yes, that must be what he was doing. She had to be very careful.

“Let’s go on downtown now and get you a good shot of caffeine. I could use some of that myself. It won’t take long to do the statement, I promise.”

Gently he took her by her elbow and helped her stand, his grip steadying rather than forceful. He slid the strap of her purse, which she had left lying on the bed, over her shoulder. Then he escorted her out through the trashed bedroom and the dreadful scene of the murder, remaining between her and James’s body, so she couldn’t see it, even peripherally. No matter what else he might do later, she did thank him for that small kindness. He could have made her look again.

She wondered where her suitcase and laptop computer were, but was afraid to ask. Robin guessed they would both have to be searched before she was able to retrieve them.

She wondered if the detective had searched her small shoulder bag while she was in the bathroom. Winton, she reminded herself. Detective Winton. She must try to remember his name.

The upstairs apartment opened to a breezeway with stairs back and front that connected the two buildings of the four-plex. Neighbors in nightclothes stood in their doorways, observing as she and Detective Winton exited the building. He led her straight to a light-colored sedan parked beneath the streetlight.

An ambulance had pulled up on the sidewalk, lights flashing, back doors open, waiting. There were a number of uniformed police and several other vehicles forming a kind of perimeter around the building’s entrance. Beyond the semicircle of authorities, a news team interviewed people within the small crowd that had gathered.

Robin wished she had rented a car, and that she could get into it now, drive back to the airport and fly on to Florida. There was nothing she wanted more than to dismiss this entire night like a bad dream.

When Winton opened the back door of his car, she obediently slid in and suddenly found herself caged. Though it was unmarked on the outside, he was definitely driving a police vehicle, complete with the barrier to protect the driver and front-seat occupant from the criminals they transported. Without even trying them, she knew the back doors would only open from the outside.

He had not handcuffed her, but she was definitely a suspect, Robin realized. The only suspect. Were they even considering that anyone else might have done it?

Chapter 2

Mitch hated this part of his job, but he was damned good at it. His interrogation techniques worked, and his instincts had been honed by twelve years on the force, the last four as a detective. If he couldn’t drag a confession out of a suspect in her condition, then she was, by God, not guilty.

“Are you booking me? Should I call a lawyer?” she asked after they’d entered the precinct.

Oh, great. Now she was going to lawyer up. “If you want to call one, that’s fine, but you’re not under arrest. All I want to do is get on record what took place. It’s standard procedure.”

Mitch didn’t want to hang around here the rest of the night waiting for her attorney to show up and then be advised he’d have to either arrest her or turn her loose. He was ready to get down to business. “We’ll be in room three,” he notified Nick Simon, who was manning the desk.

He took Robin Andrews’s arm and guided her down the hall. He hoped her written statement and the following interrogation didn’t turn up anything new and he could simply release her.

Mitch didn’t want her to be guilty, and truthfully didn’t think she was, but she had a lot going against her. She had possible motive and opportunity. She had been at the scene, had the victim’s blood on her hands and prints on the weapon.

She was the spouse and the most likely perpetrator according to statistics, he reminded himself. Sure, she’d phoned it in herself, but as he had told her earlier, she could have done that to try to divert suspicion.

Mitch supposed it could be a crime of passion. A shot to the head. Weapon dropped on the floor by his body. The apartment had been trashed.

That last aspect bothered Mitch a little, however. The mess wasn’t exactly consistent with the tossing an angry wife might do after shooting her husband in a fit of anger. It looked more like a quick, frantic search. Maybe she’d been looking for something. But if she’d found it, where had she put it? And if she hadn’t found it, why had she called 911 and just sat there on the victim’s bed until they arrived?

Oh well, he would take her statement, read it, then do his best to find holes and inconsistencies.

Robin Andrews was an exquisite woman, a pale, slender blonde with aristocratic features, who, in spite of her height of around five-ten, appeared to be as fragile as thin crystal. But he couldn’t allow that to color his opinion of her one way or the other. He should be the last man on earth to be taken in by beauty and a look of vulnerability. Given a fit of rage, she could have shot her husband.

But she didn’t. You know she didn’t, said the insistent voice in his head. Gut instinct aside, Mitch intended to bend over backward to counteract that feeling, to leave no doubt about her innocence or guilt when he was finished with her.

“This way,” he directed, releasing her arm and pointing to the door at the end of the hall. She preceded him wordlessly and hurriedly, obviously wanting it to be over. He could tell by her body language that she was terribly afraid. The question was why? Fear that she’d be railroaded for a crime she hadn’t committed, or fear that she would let something incriminating slip out?

She had made no further mention of a lawyer.

He took his time seating her in the uncomfortable straight-back chair. “Just take it easy, Mrs. Andrews, and we’ll get this out of the way as soon as we can. Don’t you be nervous now. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Mitch went down the hall to the coffee room and poured two cups of sludge that had been steeping for several hours by the smell of it. He loaded both cups with sugar and powdered creamer, then returned to the interrogation room.

“Here you go,” he said, placing one of the cups in front of her. She just stared at it, wide-eyed, then slowly cupped both hands around it, probably seeking warmth. The air-conditioning was working overtime.

Her long, elegant fingers were free of the blood now, but their tips still bore faint traces of the ink used to fingerprint her again when they’d first arrived. This time they’d taken three sets, for local, state and FBI use. He’d told her that was so they could distinguish her prints from any others that shouldn’t be there at the scene. The explanation hadn’t reassured her.

He had explained what the paraffin test was for and she had seemed almost eager to have that done again, assuring him they wouldn’t find any gunpowder on her anywhere. Of course, she might be under the impression water and soap would have washed it off.

Mirandizing her would probably scare her to death, but it was necessary. Kick might have neglected to do it. Mitch had to do this by the book in the event she broke down during questioning and admitted to the murder. So he began, trying not to sound too gruff. “You have the right to remain silent…”

She hung on his every word, nodding, and in the end, decided against calling an attorney or having one appointed.

The woman didn’t know any lawyers in Nashville. As far as he knew, she didn’t know anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line other than her dead husband and her mother in Florida.

Calling for legal counsel was the smart thing for her to do, and he had no right to prevent it or even discourage it.

“Do you want me to get a lawyer for you, Ms. Andrews?”

She glanced up at him and swallowed hard, meeting his eyes with a bravado he knew she was faking. “Are you sure I’m not under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, not under arrest, but you are in custody for questioning at the moment, so if you think you might say something that could incriminate you during this interview, you’d be wise to have legal counsel present.”

It was a mind trick, of course. He couldn’t, by law, say as much, but the implication was there. Ask for a lawyer and look guilty as hell. Waive the right and take your chance on outwitting the law. Mitch hated games, but he knew how to play them.

“No, I don’t believe I need an attorney,” she said, just as he’d expected her to. “I haven’t anything to hide, Detective Winton. Ask me anything you want to know. I’ll cooperate fully.”

He smiled at her, part of the act to put her at ease. Or was it? Reaching into the drawer of the gray metal table, he withdrew a tablet of lined blank forms and a ballpoint pen. When he had filled out the top portion, he slid the pad across the table to her and handed her the pen.

“Just write down everything you remember happening from the time you arrived at the airport.”

She eyed him warily and then stared at the writing instruments. “All right.” She picked up the ballpoint.

He watched her gather her thoughts, knowing that would be like herding butterflies at the moment. She was sleep deprived, barely over a case of shock and she was scared. He felt cruel for putting her through this, but he had no choice.

In the end, after she had written her statement and he had filled in the gaps by questioning her further, Mitch’s instinct assured him once again that she’d had nothing to do with Andrews’s death.

He had tried every trick he knew, even assuring her he could well understand how an estranged wife might fly off the handle and do something she would never consider doing without provocation. She’d looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, advocating murder that way. He had preyed on her conscience. Apparently it was clean as a whistle. Or nonexistent. He had accused her outright. She had stuck to her story like Scotch brand cellophane tape and, in an uncharacteristic flare of anger, flat-out demanded that he stop wasting time and get out there and find whoever had killed James Andrews.

If he was wrong about her innocence and she had killed the man, the physical evidence would have to point it out, because she had perfectly logical and believable answers to all his questions and accusations. Her reactions were totally consistent with those of an innocent. So she was that.

Or she was very, very clever.

They would have to keep her around until all the evidence was evaluated, of course, but at the moment there was nothing that would justify placing Robin Andrews under arrest.

The tests on her hands showed no powder residue consistent with her discharging a weapon. Her prints were on it, but not in a configuration that would indicate she had gripped it in a firing position. She could have worn gloves, disposed of them, then touched the gun. But where were the gloves? And where was the blood spatter she would have gotten from shooting Andrews at such close range? On someone else, of course. She hadn’t done it. He was convinced. Almost.

In the meantime he and Kick had a murderer to catch.

Kick would be interviewing the neighbors as instructed. Tomorrow he would start running down all of the victim’s contacts, checking his finances, looking for enemies. They would both be on it. The caseload was low right now and they could give it full attention.

But it was very early morning, not even daylight, and he couldn’t just cut Robin Andrews loose to fend for herself in the shape she was in. She didn’t even know her way around town. He had an idea.

“Do you have a place to stay?” he asked her. “You know, you can’t leave town until we wrap this up, and you sure can’t stay at your husband’s apartment.”

Her eyes grew large, the shadows under them emphasizing their redness, and she was biting her lip again, shaking her head, looking confused.

“No, no I hadn’t planned to stay there. Even before…” Her voice drifted off, then strengthened. “James promised to arrange for a hotel, but I’m afraid I don’t know which one he chose.”

She was too tired to think straight, totally wiped out and barely hanging on to her composure. Mitch had the absurd desire to hug her and tell her that everything would be all right. He’d been fighting that urge since the minute he first laid eyes on her. But everything might not be all right, and he had no business hugging her even if he knew it would.

“Come on with me,” he said, rounding the table and reaching for her arm. “I’ll find you a place to crash. Trust me to do that?”

She looked up at him like a little lost girl and nodded. He knew she didn’t trust him any further than she could pick him up and throw him, but she was too frightened to say so. She was afraid he would take offense and lock her up. He could read her right now as clearly as the big print on a wanted poster.

It reassured him that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a frightened woman in a terrible situation over which she had little, if any, control. His early training kicked in big-time, totally overriding anything he’d ever learned at the police academy or later on the job.

Treat every woman with the respect you show your mother and your sisters. The golden rule applies here, Mitch. Every female you meet is some mother’s daughter. Mitch could hear his father’s words of wisdom as clearly as if the man were standing there looking over Mitch’s shoulder at Robin Andrews. What would Pop think of her? She certainly was unlike any woman Mitch had invited to dinner so far. The thought made him want to smile.

“You should get a little rest before you phone your mother,” he told her. “It’s still too early, anyway. Give me the address and I can get a local minister or family friend in the city where they live to go and tell your husband’s family if you like.”

She fumbled inside her purse for a small address book, riffled through the pages and handed it to him, open. “James only has a half sister. If you could get someone to inform her personally, that probably would be better than if I called. We’ve exchanged Christmas cards, but I’ve never actually met her.”

“Consider it done. Will your mother be badly upset? Maybe we should send a minister or priest to tell her. I know how mothers can be,” he said.

“She’ll worry about me, I suppose, but she didn’t know James very well, so there shouldn’t be any grief involved. I’ll call her.”

She supposed her mother would worry? Very interesting. And Mitch couldn’t imagine marrying anyone when you didn’t know their family. His own had always been such a large part of his life, he rarely made a move they didn’t know about. All their advice and interference might be a little over-bearing at times, but Mitch was as guilty of that as they were. That’s what families were for. His, anyway.

Captain Hunford was waiting in the hallway when they exited the interrogation room. Mitch had known someone had been observing through the one-way mirror. He had sensed it even while he was working.

“Hey, Cap’n. What’re you doing down here at this hour?” The three of them walked down the hall to the bullpen. The lighting seemed eerie and uneven with the flickering of screen savers on the computers. The desks were deserted, their surfaces stacked with case files and the usual assortment of pens, coffee cups and the occasional family pictures.

“Taylor called and filled me in when he first arrived at the scene,” Hunford said in a tired, gravelly voice. “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“This is Robin Andrews,” Mitch said by way of introduction. “Wife of the victim. Ms. Andrews, Captain Hunford.”

“Ma’am,” the captain said with a nod, his only acknowledgement of her. He looked at Mitch. “Since you’re here, I need to see you for a few minutes,” he ordered, leaving no room for delay or argument.

Hunford was okay, maybe a little too conscious of public opinion at times, but Mitch supposed the boss had to be. The man had been on the job nearly twenty years now and obviously knew what he was doing. Judging by his expression, this was probably going to be one of those times when Mitch wouldn’t think so.

Mitch spared a look at the woman and saw she was almost asleep on her feet. “Wait out here,” he told her after he had guided her to a chair beside one of the vacant desks. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He crossed the room, glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t leaving, then entered Hunford’s office and closed the door.

Mitch briefly detailed the findings on the prints and lack of powder residue. “So, what do you think?” Mitch asked. “You hear the entire interview in there?”

“Most of it. There’s not enough for an indictment. Not yet, anyway. I’ll read what you got from her earlier and get with Taylor on it. I was looking for you this afternoon. You’re on suspension, pending an inquiry.”

Mitch blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand over his face. “The review board? About yesterday,” Mitch guessed.

“You know to expect it, Winton, any time you fire that weapon. You shot that boy in the arm and the leg. The doctors say he might have a permanent limp.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “He’s damned lucky he won’t have a permanent nap. He shot two people right there in the restaurant before I took him down.”

“I know. You did what you had to do.” Hunford leaned back in his chair, his palms flattened on the desktop. He stared at them and frowned. “But his victims didn’t die. And the kid you shot—”

“—was thirty-one years old and holding a smokin’ nine-millimeter,” Mitch finished. “I identified myself and he turned on me. When a guy’s that hyped on coke, you can’t talk him down, sir. You try, you die. I could have killed him and been justified—and you know it.”

“Just the same, I’ll need your badge and piece. You were planning to be gone for a couple of weeks, anyway, so it’s not like you’ll miss it. Take your vacation, let the review board do their thing, and we’ll get this ironed out soon as you get back. Don’t worry, I’ll go to the mat for you. You know that.”

Mitch nodded. It wasn’t like he had a choice here.

He unclipped the badge from his belt and tossed it on Hunford’s desk. Then he reached under his jacket and removed his department-issue Glock. His backup pistol rested comfortingly against his ankle. With a weary sigh, he unloaded the official weapon and carefully laid it on top of the desk blotter.

“There you go. Hey, you don’t mind if I give Taylor a little unofficial help on the Andrews homicide, do you?”

Hunford pursed his lips and thought for a minute. “I thought you were going fishing?”

“Hadn’t decided. I’d rather hang around, do what I can. I’m still on the payroll, right?”

“Well, yeah. If you do lend Taylor a hand, be discreet about it. I mean, very low profile. You got that? Suspended is supposed to mean suspended.”

“Okay. If that’s all, I’m outa here,” Mitch said, heading for the door.

“You taking her to a hotel?” the captain asked, inclining his head toward the glass wall through which they both could see Robin.

“No. She might have to be in town for a good while and that could get expensive. Thought maybe I’d try to find something a little more reasonable for her. Sandy’s apartment is empty.”

Hunford raised one bushy brow. “That’d keep her handy, I guess. You think she’s a flight risk?”

Mitch shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t mind keeping an eye on her for a while.”

Hunford studied him for a minute. “Might not be a bad idea if you or somebody did that.” He held up his finger again. “And, Winton?”

“Yessir?”

“Don’t shoot anybody else if you can help it. And for goodness sake, don’t get personally involved with the suspect.”

“You ever known me to do that kind of thing?” He hid his exasperation and left before he said something he shouldn’t.

Don’t get personally involved with the suspect? However, the boss did have an excellent reason to issue such a warning, Mitch admitted to himself. He just hadn’t thought his interest was that obvious. Hell, he’d just been polite to her. There were no longing looks or unnecessary touching in that interview room. Nothing suggestive at all. He’d been very careful of that.

As he approached Robin Andrews now, Mitch was struck anew by that fawnlike vulnerability wrapped in such a deceptive package of striking sophistication. He knew he was going to have to watch himself as closely as he watched her.

The way she looked, she shouldn’t need to fear anything. The world should lay itself at her feet and wait to be walked on. But the outer package was camouflage, Mitch knew. Inside there was a young woman who needed someone to take care of her. To care about her. He could do that temporarily without going off the deep end.

Mitch puffed out an exasperated breath, stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. Even knowing what he might have to face later, he still couldn’t bring himself to send her out into a strange city all alone.

“Let’s go, Ms. Andrews,” he said, accepting the inevitable. He wouldn’t get involved, damn it. Not exactly. He’d just make sure she had a place to stay. Nobody could argue she needed that, and there was no one else who would see about it.

“I know where there’s a furnished apartment. One bedroom with a kitchenette in an old Victorian,” he told her. “Actually, a friend of mine left me the key, and plans to be away for the next couple of months. You could sort of sublet if you’re interested. There wouldn’t be a lease or anything to fool with. Rent’s next to nothing. Much less than a hotel will be if this runs on for a week or so.”

It would be considerably longer than a week, almost surely, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that now.

“No, thank you. I would prefer a hotel. The expense is no problem,” she said.

Mitch smiled. “I’d feel better knowing you were in a safe place. The Captain said I should make sure you were okay until we catch the shooter.”

She still looked doubtful.

“Come on, it’s a nice apartment. Cozy. How ’bout it?”

“All right, thank you. That would be fine,” she murmured. “Does this mean you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with James’s death?”

“It means that after I complete the report and hand it over, I’m off the case. Detective Taylor, that young sergeant you met earlier, will be in charge. Right now, I’m just trying to get you settled.”

She got up and adjusted the strap of her expensive leather handbag over her shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you, Detective Winton.”

“Don’t mention it,” he answered with a fatalistic shrug. “And you might as well call me Mitch if we’re going to be neighbors.”

“Neighbors?” she repeated with a look of concern.

“That’s right,” he confirmed. He opened the door for her, and they walked side by side through the parking area to his old brown Bronco.

The rigid set of her shoulders slackened, and she sighed with relief when she saw they were not returning to the unmarked car he’d used to bring her there. He opened the front passenger door and she got in. Thought she was home free, he guessed, and wished to God it were true.

No, he was not behaving professionally by wishing that, but figured he had better be fully aware of it so that he could act accordingly. He was attracted to her, felt protective toward her and, consequently, had the overwhelming urge to prove her innocence. His objectivity, if he’d ever had any with regard to her, was completely shot to hell.

Traffic was almost nonexistent in the wee hours. Mitch automatically kept a check on their surroundings and the rearview mirror. The habit was so ingrained it was annoying sometimes. Most of the time he did it without even thinking.

“Nashville looks like a nice city judging by the little I’ve seen of it,” she said softly. “I’ve never been here before.”

Mitch glanced over, taking in her profile. She was wearing a small, sad smile, probably thinking about her husband and what he’d told her about the town. She needed distracting. “You stated your occupation is graphic designer. What exactly do you do design?”

“Web pages for businesses,” she answered. “I’ve always been fascinated with computers.”

“Sounds like a perfect job for you, then,” he said, wishing he knew more about computers so he could discuss them intelligently. “I know how to log on at work and access the info I need, that’s about it. You know, I actually had you pegged as a model?”

“I used to be, but I outgrew it.” From her curt answer, Mitch concluded she definitely didn’t want to elaborate.

“Thanks for trying to take my mind off…things,” she said. “You’re very kind for a stranger.”

“‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,’” he quoted. “Blanche DuBois, Streetcar Named Desire.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, with a surprised little laugh. “She was such a wimp!”

“I didn’t mean to imply that about you. What you said just reminded me of the phrase. You like old movies?”

“Sometimes. Books are better.”

“I guess,” he said, bringing that particular conversation to a dead end. He rarely had time to read, other than for additional training or information. He liked to, but if he couldn’t sit down with a book and finish it in one sitting, he didn’t pick one up.

“So,” he said, broaching another subject as he turned onto the loop and snaked his way around the city, “I guess New Yorkers keep to a much faster pace than we do down here.”

“Evidently,” she said dryly without elaborating.

Mitch smiled. “Never rush when we can take our time. Never run unless somebody’s chasing us.”

He heard a short laugh of surprise, then a soft little “Sorry. I did sound condescending, didn’t I?”

“No problem. Being underestimated works mostly to our advantage. Mine, anyway.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she said, but without any asperity.

Mitch hadn’t meant it as a warning. Or had he? Was he subconsciously trying to prepare her for the fact that he wouldn’t cut her any slack if she was lying about killing Andrews? This second-guessing himself was driving him nuts.

“Will you be all right?” he asked, shoving his self-analysis to the back burner. “Financially, I mean. What about your work?”

“I can function just as well from here, assuming I can have my laptop back.”

“Back? Where is it?”

“It’s at James’s apartment. So is my suitcase,” she said.

Mitch bumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I should have thought about that. We can go for your things first.”

He moved into the lane to take the next exit, intending to reverse their direction. “They’re probably finished checking them out.”

“Wait!” she said, reaching out, almost touching his arm. Then she drew back. “Could…could we not go back there just now?”

He understood. “Sure. I’ll call and have one of the guys bring them to you or I’ll go pick them up.”

“Thank you.”

The ensuing silence extended and became uncomfortable. He was usually a pretty good conversationalist, but for the life of him, Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to talk about that didn’t involve discussing some aspect of the murder. He had nothing at all in common with a woman like Robin Andrews.

Instinctively he knew she was going to hate the apartment. He could imagine her world, envision her living in monochromatic, uncluttered splendor in some New York high-rise. Where he was going to put her, she’d think she had landed on another planet, or at least in a former century. But it was the best he could do for her under the circumstances. She would just have to get used to it.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, figuring he couldn’t go wrong applying the lowest common denominator. Everybody needed food.

She considered for a minute. “I could probably eat, yes. Fruit or something light.”

“How do you feel about waffles?”

“Ambivalent,” she said, sounding resigned.

Mitch sighed. Damned if he was going shopping all over town for yogurt, fresh fruit or whatever this time of night. She could eat what he ate or go hungry.

“Waffles it is, then,” he said.

He had a feeling Robin Andrews was going to have trouble adapting outside her natural habitat. All the more reason to get the Andrews case solved as soon as possible and send her back to New York where she belonged.

Chapter 3

Robin slid into a booth at the diner. Detective Winton— Mitch, since he had insisted on first names—took the side facing the door. She remembered reading once that gunfighters of the Old West had done that.

He smiled when he handed her a plastic-coated menu and held the pleasant expression as he looked up at the waitress. “Hey, Mabel. How’s it goin’?”

The heavyset blond with frizzy hair grinned back and popped her gum. “Great. Y’all want coffee?” She wrinkled her nose at Robin and said with mock confidentiality, “This rascal’s on my list. He ain’t been in here for weeks. You musta been keepin’ him real busy lately.”

Mitch cleared his throat to regain the waitress’s attention. “Just bring us the coffee, Mabel. Got any of that country ham I like?”

“You betcha.” The waitress thumbed a page off the top of her order pad, scribbled, paused and asked, “Your usual with it?”

“Yes, ma’am. You want eggs with yours?” He raised a brow at Robin.

She declined and placed the menu on the table. “No eggs, no ham. Just a waffle. And a glass of water.”

Mabel laughed and winked. “You ain’t gotta watch that figure, hon. Bet he’ll watch it for you.” She scooped up the menus and wriggled off behind the bar. Robin winced at the way Mabel screamed the order through the opening to the kitchen in back. So all Southern belles weren’t soft spoken.

“The cook’s a little hard of hearing,” Mitch explained. He clasped his hands on the table next to the rolled-up napkin that held his flatware. “I guess this place is out of the ordinary for you, huh?”

It seemed to amuse him, bringing her to a restaurant like this. Robin was determined not to react the way he obviously expected. She had eaten in worse places, though not often.

Dylan’s Diner looked like a fifties diner that hadn’t been refurbished since its creation. More antique than retro. A bar ran the length of the place, its chrome stools topped with mottled red leather cushions. Old photos of Elvis, Dolly, and others she didn’t recognize dotted the walls in a haphazard arrangement. An old-fashioned jukebox stood at the far end of the room in front of the rest rooms.

The booths were in fairly good shape. Blinds covered the windows that began at table level and nearly reached the ceiling. Thankfully they were closed, so Robin didn’t have to see the neighborhood outside. It had looked rather seedy driving through it.

“Sorry, but there aren’t too many eating places open this time of the morning, at least not on the way to where we’re going. Dylan’s plays host to the night crawlers in this area.” He shrugged. “I’m one of ’em when I pull night duty.”

“This is fine,” Robin said, gingerly unwinding her fork, spoon and a serrated steak knife from their paper wrapping and arranging them in a proper place setting. The utensils appeared to be clean, she noted with relief. “I’m really not that choosy.”

“Good sport, aren’t you?” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and laid it in the corner of the booth. “Beaner is a fair cook. The food’s good here, trust me.”

Robin sighed. He kept saying that. Trust me. If he only knew how impossible that was, that she would put her trust in any man. Or any one else, for that matter. It was good that he didn’t seem to expect an avowal of it. Maybe it was only a figure of speech with him.

“How far is it to this apartment you mentioned?” she asked, wondering if she would be required to stay in this particular area with its unkempt houses interspersed with run-down storefronts.

He didn’t answer her. His full attention was suddenly riveted on the entrance. Robin had heard the door open and close, felt the draft.

She started to look over her shoulder and see who had come in when Mitch grasped her hands, squeezed and whispered. “Trouble! Lie down, Robin. Sideways in the seat and slide under the table. Do it now!” He shoved her hands off the table sending her flatware clattering to the floor. She followed.

Robin didn’t even think about protesting. She did exactly as ordered, curling herself around the sturdy chrome pedestal. Mitch was grappling with his ankle which was mere inches from her face. He pulled a gun from a small holster strapped to his leg.

Oh, God, it was a robbery! That had been her first thought when he warned her to duck out of sight, and she’d been right. All those years in New York and never a bit of trouble, and now… She heard Mabel scream and scooted as near the wall as she could.

“Drop it, cop, or I’ll blow her away,” said a deep voice.

A clunk sounded on top of the table above Robin.

“Move back,” the voice shouted. “To the back of the room.”

Robin watched Mitch’s legs and feet as he slowly backed out of her limited line of vision.

Desperate for something to defend herself, Robin searched the floor for the steak knife, but couldn’t find it. She grasped the fork. Her breath rushed in and out between clenched teeth and she felt sick.

When a head appeared wearing a ski mask, Robin yelped. A large and rather dirty hand reached under the table, attempting to grab her foot, the closest part of her to the aisle. He was cursing, saying something, but the words wouldn’t register. In terror that he would drag her out before she could stop him, Robin struck. She stabbed the fork into his hand. The tines disappeared into hairy flesh and the resulting roar was deafening.

All hell broke loose, and she couldn’t see a thing but the blur of tangled legs. Mitch Winton had attacked. That much was obvious.

Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn’t simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…

She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe. The police! Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.

“It’s safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.

Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.

“They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.

“Shouldn’t you…go after them or something?”

He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”

Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”

“That bastard shot my winder,” she complained, her voice rising as she got up off the floor. Her hair was a worse mess than before, and there was coffee all over the front of her white shirt and red nylon apron. “Broke my coffeepot, too.” Then her gaze jerked toward Robin. “Y’all didn’t get hurt, did ya?”

“No, we’re fine. That silent alarm works pretty good,” Mitch commented. “Quick thinking, Mabel. You’re a peach.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me I needed the thing.” She brushed herself off with a towel and smiled over the counter at Mitch, then at Robin. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffed. “Y’all will have to wait a little bit until I get another carafe out of the back and get some more coffee goin’.”

“Don’t worry about the order,” Mitch told her gently. “You look a little shaky. Why don’t you just relax and catch your breath.”

“Don’t leave!” whined Mabel, reaching out toward Mitch with a trembling hand. “Don’t go now.”

Mitch took it and smiled at her. “I won’t go yet, Mabel. But you go on and take a break, huh? Powder your nose and fix your hair. I’ll be here when you get back.”

She nodded and sidled down the back of the bar, around it and toward the door marked Ladies.

Robin knew how poor Mabel felt. Right now she wanted Mitch Winton and his gun as close by as they could get. He seemed to know that and came over to join her in the booth.

“You’re a scrapper. I wouldn’t have guessed it.” His chuckle was warm, approving. “Surprised the hell out of him, plowing that fork through his hand. Glad you were on my side.”

Robin stared at him, not sure whether she was upset at his apparent calm or reassured by it. She glanced at the door. “They might come back.”

He laughed outright at that, then grimaced, grasping his side.

“You’re hurt!” Robin cried, sliding out of the booth.

“No, no, sit back down. I took a kick to the ribs. Nothing serious. Either those guys really were as big as they looked or I’m gettin’ soft in my old age.”

“They could have shot you!” she cried. “What did you mean rushing them that way?”

He sighed and leaned back, his fingers still exploring the site of his injury. “You made him so mad with that fork, I was afraid he would shoot you if I didn’t move on him right then. They heard the siren and split before I could do much.”

Robin raked her hair back behind her ears, shook her head and gave a deflated sigh. “James’s death and now a robbery. What next?”

He leaned forward over the table and peered into her eyes. “Robin, he went straight for you. Once he had threatened Mabel, he never even looked at her again. His buddy was standing lookout at the door. Neither one asked for the contents of the register. Never demanded my wallet. They knew I was a cop, knew my name, but I’ve never seen them before. I think they knew who you are, too. It was your purse they were after. Didn’t you hear him?”

“No, I wasn’t really listening.” Robin frowned down at the thin strap that lay securely around her neck and across her body, the leather rectangle resting against her hip. “My purse? But why? Do I look rich?”

Mitch smiled. “As a matter of fact you do, but I don’t think it was your money he was after. It was something else. What do you have in there?”

She lifted the purse onto the table and opened it. “Powder, lipstick.” Robin listed the items as she emptied the contents piece by piece. “Credit cards, address book, a bit of cash, James’s CD, a small brush, old theater ticket stubs and,” she said, plunking down a little spray can, “pepper spray.” She frowned and scoffed. “I should have remembered that. I completely forgot I had it. All I could think about was locating the knife.”

Mitch picked up the spray container and turned it around several times, then shot her a questioning look. “Somehow, I don’t believe this was what he was looking for, do you?”

She surveyed the pile of stuff. “The CD, you think? What could anyone possibly want with that?”

“Your husband wanted it badly enough to have you bring it all the way from New York instead of mailing it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. She shoved it toward him. “You take it. Keep it.”

“No,” he said, returning it to her. “Hang on to it until we can have a look at what’s on it.”

Mabel returned from the ladies’ room, obviously relieved that Mitch was still around. “Be just a minute,” she said, pushing through the door to the kitchen. “I’ll get that coffee carafe.”

Robin exhaled and rested her forehead on her hand. “Could we leave, please?”

“No, not yet. We still have to eat, and I don’t think Mabel’s up to winging it with only ol’ Beaner in the back for company. We’d better hang around until Bill and Eddie come back or send word that they caught the bad boys.”

Robin resigned herself. “Somehow I always thought of Nashville as a rather tranquil city full of musicians.”

He laughed. “If that were the case, I’d be playing backup guitar and bemoaning the fact that I can’t sing.”

“You can’t sing?” she asked, eager for any diversion.

“Well, I can, but you wouldn’t want to hear it. Trust me.”

There it was again. Maybe it was only a figure of speech, his saying that so often. If someone was after James’s disk and was willing to go after it with guns, she knew she had to trust someone. Mitch Winton certainly seemed the likeliest candidate in town.

Dawn was about to break when they were finally able to leave the diner. Mitch kept stealing glances at Robin, wondering when she would crash. She seemed to have gotten her second wind by the time Bill and Eddie had come back to interview them about the supposed robbery. The poor girl must have had it up to her ears with cops by this time.

She had separated the miniblinds with one finger and was looking out the window now, probably marveling at how hospitable Nashville and its occupants had been to her since her arrival.

“Why didn’t you tell the officers your theory about the disk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He turned onto the off-ramp leading to his neighborhood. “Because it’s only that. A theory. Besides, they would have wanted to take it with them, see what was on it.” He smiled. “I thought we might do that.”

She remained quiet then, so he turned on the radio. “Fiddle with the stations there and see what you can find,” he suggested, really wanting to see what she would settle on. Her taste in music might tell him a little more about her. Was she really as highbrow as she looked, or was there a closet blues fan inside that slick exterior?

She parked it on the local news, listening intently. When the newscast was over and no mention was made of her husband’s murder, she clicked the radio off. A small frown marred her almost perfect features.

They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.

That made him wonder if she really had enhanced herself with surgery anywhere. Her breasts looked smallish and were probably real. She said she had modeled and small was necessary with braless fashions, he guessed. She might not be absolutely perfect but came a little too close to it for Mitch to believe it was all real. Oh well, models had to use what they had and improve it if they could, he reckoned. It was a business, and he couldn’t fault her for it if she’d resorted to that.

“Nice nose,” he commented. “Mind if I ask what it cost? Mine’s been broken twice and I’d sure like the name of a good doctor, one who wouldn’t do a Michael Jackson on me and make me look like Janet.”

She laughed, sounding surprised. “You think I’ve had my nose done?”

Mitch shot her a smile. “Looks great.”

“Thank you. I was born with this nose,” she informed him.

“Don’t be insulted,” he said. “I just wondered.”

“Are you able to breathe well?” she asked.

“Sure, no problem.” Other than when she looked at him a certain way and stole his breath.

“Then leave your nose alone. It fits your face.” Then she added grudgingly, “Not because you broke it. It’s a nice nose…and face.”

She liked his face. Mitch mumbled his thanks and focused on his driving, not enjoying the little thrill that ran through him when she gave him that compliment. He had to get over this growing obsession with the woman, his need to know everything there was to know about her. Jeez, what did it matter whether she’d had her nose done? What was it to him? Nothing, that’s what.

What did that say about him, that he was getting so wrapped up in her this quickly? His objectivity was shot to pieces, had been since the minute she turned those baby blues on him in that bedroom at the crime scene. He needed to get a grip. Problem was, he wanted to get a grip on her.

That ol’ bugaboo, sexual attraction, of course. It had never hit him quite this square in the gut, however, and he was having trouble straightening up. The blow to the ribs he’d taken in the diner didn’t even compare. He pressed on the injury just to make it hurt, just to feel something that would counteract what she was making him feel.

Her hand covered his. “Broken?” she asked with a look of tender concern. The touch of her hand on his set his nerve endings jangling.

“Nah. Just bruised. You should see the other guy,” he quipped.

Her breath huffed out and she removed her hand. “I hope I never do! Do you really think they’ll try again? If it is the disk they were after?”

Mitch shrugged, relieved that they were on less intimate ground. “Could be. You don’t have to worry about that right now. No one knows where we’re going except the chief, and we aren’t being followed.”

She swiveled and glanced out the back window. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

A few moments later she had leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was all he could do not to pull the car over just so he could sit there and watch her sleep for a while.

Mitch sat up straighter behind the wheel and clutched it tighter than necessary, reminding himself that Robin Andrews was still the primary suspect in a murder case. Not only should he avoid getting involved with her on any level other than making sure she didn’t skip town, he should not let her bravery back there at the diner impress him so much.

So she had a healthy sense of self-preservation. So what?

He drove on, deliberately listing all the reasons Robin might have had to shoot that man she had married.

Had Andrews cheated on her? For whatever reason, he’d left her there in New York to fend for herself. And he might have gotten her mixed up in something shady by asking her to bring him that disk. The murderer had been looking for something in that apartment, something not found yet. And those guys who attacked them in Dylan’s were definitely after whatever Robin had. Maybe she knew more about that than she admitted.

Surely she wasn’t capable of murder. But she sure hadn’t hesitated to plant that fork in the perp’s hand tonight. Maybe she hadn’t hesitated to plant a bullet in James Andrews’s brain a little earlier in the evening.

The best he could do was keep an eye on her, get to know her as well as he could and try to determine the extent of her guilt. Or, best case, prove she was innocent.

“Well, this is it,” the detective told her as Robin became aware of their surroundings.

Streetlights cast their glow over shadowy houses with gingerbread trim. They stood like a double row of old-fashioned sisters, each unique yet bearing a family resemblance. Some were spruced up beautifully, but a few carried the marks of age and neglect. Ancient oaks spread their branches over small, neat yards as well as most of the street. “Peaceful,” she muttered.

“Quiet, anyway,” he agreed, opening his door and getting out. He came around and opened hers.

A gentleman to the bone, she thought, wondering what kind of cop that made him. Other than the intensity of those eyes, he seemed almost too deferential to be true. He frightened her with all of this courtesy.

Robin tried to shake off the fear, chalking it up to watching too much television and its stereotyping of lawmen from the South. Good ol’boys who had laws of their own. God, she hoped that had no basis in fact.

She took the hand he offered to help her out of the Bronco. It was warm and strong, his touch too casual to signify anything other than a gesture of assistance. But Robin felt the power of it, nonetheless, the tingling awareness that this man could destroy her if he wished.

He had given her fair warning. She would never make the mistake of underestimating Detective Mitch Winton.

There was no concrete reason to believe his attitude was a deception. If he was trying to lure her into trusting him enough to confess she’d killed James, he’d have a long damned wait for either her trust or an admission of guilt.

She knew she should have gone to a hotel. He’d said he lived near here, hadn’t he? What had she been thinking? Her brain was so foggy from stress and lack of sleep, she hadn’t been thinking at all. First thing in the morning she would find another place to stay. She would call a taxi and have it take her downtown.

Depending on the very person who had nearly arrested her for murder—and still might do so—was worse than absurd. Yet she couldn’t afford to alienate him completely. Making him angry was the last thing she should do.

He led her up the walkway and the brick steps of the house. The wide front porch with its draping ferns and off-white wicker rocking chairs seemed to welcome her.

Fishing his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the door and entered before her. When he had switched on the lights, Robin stepped inside, taking in the gaudy floral wallpaper and large, gold-leaf mirror hanging over a marble-topped rose-wood hall table. He immediately ushered her toward a sturdy, curved staircase. “Second floor.”

She made a note to examine the small paintings hanging in the stairwell later when she could focus properly. They appeared to be very old pastoral scenes. Everything looked old. Ancient.

Again he unlocked a door and turned on the lights.

“Make yourself at home. There’s the bedroom through there. Since she took practically everything but the kitchen sink with her, Sandra’s things shouldn’t get in your way. I expect there are some nonperishables left in the kitchen, but we’ll get you supplied with whatever you like later today.”

He glanced at his watch as if he had somewhere else to be, but she didn’t want him to go yet.

“Exactly who is Sandra?” Robin thought he’d said a friend, another policeman, rented this place. She’d erroneously assumed it was a man.

“Sandra Cunningham,” he explained. “She’s at the FBI academy for a training course.”

He sounded terribly proud of this person. Robin made herself smile at him. “Are you sure this friend won’t object to my invading her space while she’s away?”

“Positive she won’t, but I’ll call her and let her know.” He backed out of the door. “Speaking of calls, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some. I’ll do it from my place.”

“You live close by?”

“Just next door.” He looked at his watch again. “Try to get some sleep this morning and I’ll check back with you around noon.”

Robin turned the dead bolt after the door closed and leaned against the solid panel. She listened for his footsteps on the stairs, but didn’t hear them. He must move like a cat.

She looked at the phone on the table by the window, then decided it might be best to wait until after she had slept to call her mother. Dealing with her would take energy Robin didn’t have at the moment. Exhausted beyond bearing, she went straight to the bedroom and stretched out across the big brass bed.

Usually she preferred being by herself, but now almost wished Mitch Winton had stayed. She suddenly felt too alone.

Chapter 4

Mitch cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder while he shucked his shorts. He turned the taps on the old clawfoot tub and adjusted the temperature of the water, wishing he had one of those whirlpool thingamajigs attached. His muscles felt kinked and his brain was fuzzy from sleeping in the daytime.

He had gone directly to bed after leaving Robin in the next apartment and slept a good half day uninterrupted. Now his internal clock was screwed. He had to get back on track.

First he needed to find out what was going on with the case. Then he would go over and see how his houseguest was holding up.

Kick answered his cell phone on the fifth ring.

“What you got so far, Kick?” Mitch asked.

“A headache for one thing,” Taylor declared, sounding like he was in a real snit. “Hunford tells me you took the suspect home with you. What the hell are you thinking?”

Mitch grunted. “The boss thought it was a good idea.”

“You should have put her up in a hotel or something. Do that today,” he snapped.

“Soon as you make captain and start calling the shots,” Mitch replied easily.

He stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water, holding on to the phone so he wouldn’t douse it. “Anything new turn up after I left?”

Kick pouted for a few seconds before sharing. “Forensics found some red dirt stains on the rug. Hardly noticeable, but they could be important. We might want to check the lady’s shoes. Victim’s were clean, every pair he had.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. His cleaning lady was in there yesterday afternoon. I found her in the address book and called to see when she’d done the place last. I guess Andrews was getting things polished up, expecting his wife. We’re trying to find out if anyone else was seen coming in after the floor was vacuumed.” Kick was silent for a minute. “You keeping her in your apartment?”

“The cleaning lady? No—”

“Mitch, I’m not in the mood!”

Mitch smiled to himself, enjoying the yank on Kick’s chain. “She’s in Sandy’s apartment, across the hall.”

“Taking her to your own house is not wise and you know it.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just keeping an eye on her,” Mitch explained patiently. “And I figured Sandy’s was a good place to do that. She wanted me to sublet for her if I could.”

“Listen, Mitch,” Kick said, sounding calmer, though his voice held a warning, “everything we’ve got so far points directly at Robin Andrews. Blood on her hands, prints on the weapon, sound motive—he wanted the divorce, she didn’t. Or vice versa. And that ain’t all—”

Mitch scoffed. “That’s not enough to stand up. Way too circumstantial. Hunford even said so. She could never have brought the weapon in on that plane and didn’t have time to get one after she arrived.”

“The Beretta belonged to Andrews,” Kick said. “Registered and licensed. Already there.”

“Notice the results from the paraffin tests?” Mitch asked.

“She could have worn gloves.”

“Then what did she do with them?”

“We’re still looking.”

“Why are her prints on the gun if she wore gloves?”

Kick missed a beat, then picked it up. “Touched it later. Good move. Threw you off, didn’t it?”

“She’s innocent,” Mitch declared. “Look somewhere else.”

“All right, then, how about this?” Kick asked, deadly calm now and all business. “We found a life insurance policy in the desk. The Mrs. is about to be a hundred thousand richer than she was yesterday. Is that enough?”

“Not much insurance, is it? Peanuts for a guy who’s in the business.” Mitch sank deeper into the hot water, closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest. “Let me call you back, Kick. I’ll check her shoes.”

“You bring her shoes in, Mitch. That’s how it’s done.”

“Giving me orders again, hotshot?”

He heard Kick sigh. “No, just reminding you to think with the big head and not the little one.”

An hour later Mitch was back at the precinct.

“She could have scrubbed them,” Kick said, staring through the plastic bag at the classic pumps with their three-inch heels. “I really think she’s guilty.”

“Yeah, I know. You keep saying that. Just run tests for residue.” Mitch had elected to bring the shoes straight to Taylor immediately and turn them over expressly for that purpose. He wondered what Robin would do when she woke up and found herself barefoot. “Bet you my next paycheck you don’t find any red dirt.”

Kick scoffed. “If you live to get a next paycheck. It’s mighty risky taking a murder suspect under your wing. Besides, you’re on suspension.”

“I got the okay to do this, Kick. Look, I need to get back home. You want anything else, give me a buzz.” Then he remembered the computer. “By the way, I need to pick up Ms. Andrews’s suitcase and laptop. Are they here?”

Kick frowned. “Where did she leave them?”

“Right by the front door, she said.” He felt his heart jump when he noted Kick’s tightened lips. “What?”

“I went over everything in that apartment, Mitch. No computer. No bag.”

They stared at each other for a minute. “Either somebody on the investigating team has sticky fingers, which we know is not likely, or…the killer was still in the apartment when she arrived and took her stuff with him after she went into the bedroom,” Mitch said.

“That’s crazy,” Kick said. “Maybe she’s making them up. Ever think about that?”

“Maybe not. We know the shooter was after something,” Mitch said. “Could be he thought Robin Andrews might have brought whatever it was with her.”

Kick’s eyes narrowed, but he had nothing to say. Mitch didn’t mention the disk then. It seemed best at the moment to keep it to himself. Until he found out what was on the damned thing and if it was enough to kill someone over, he was not turning the disk over to Kick.

“Catch you later,” he said as he turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute! Let’s talk about this.”

But Mitch didn’t have time to waste arguing. Whoever took Robin’s things must have realized pretty soon that they didn’t have everything she’d brought with her to Nashville. The attack in the diner, the object of it being Robin’s purse, meant just what he’d thought it meant.

Whoever was looking for the disk wouldn’t have any idea where to find Robin at the moment. Hardly anyone knew where he lived. That was a closely kept secret, since he had made a few enemies during his time on the force. He had sent quite a few guys up the proverbial river who might paddle back down to find him after they’d served time.

Mitch was sure no one had trailed them to the neighborhood this morning. He had been alert to a possible tail after what had happened at Dylan’s.

This suspension of his was coming at the worst possible time. Mitch needed to be on the Andrews case officially, where he could get things done without first having to run everything by Kick.

Going to bat for Robin against his own partner could produce some serious questions about Mitch’s abilities as a detective.

For his sake, as well as her own, Robin Andrews had better be totally innocent and he’d better be able to prove it. This new development was another solid indication that she was. Somebody had stolen her computer and her suitcase.

Unless Kick was right and she hadn’t brought either with her in the first place. Was she going a roundabout route to convince him someone else had been in that apartment besides her and the dead man?

Robin awoke, looked around the unfamiliar room and then squinted at her watch. It was afternoon, close to four o’clock. She felt as if someone had beaten her with a very large stick.

She got up, straightened her clothing the best she could and found the bathroom. Straight out of Country Homes, she thought. Ruffles and roses. Wine red and dark green on cream. Vanilla potpourri emanated from a small porcelain flower on the shelf below the mirror. Her reflection made her groan.

The makeup was history. Her hair was lank and in need of shampoo. The syrupy breakfast she’d ingested after the confrontation at Dylan’s Diner had made her feel queasy and she wasn’t hungry now. She figured she might as well do as Mitch Winton advised and make herself at home, at least temporarily. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do since he hadn’t returned.

After a long, relaxing bubble bath, she dried off, combed her wet hair into place and put back on her wrinkled clothing.

She was searching for her shoes when she heard the squeak of the doorknob as someone outside turned it. Again it turned slowly but firmly in both directions. The door was locked. It must be Mitch.

She padded to the door. There was no peephole to look through. “Yes? Who is it?”

Again the doorknob turned, sharply back and forth, this time without stealth. The door shook with the violent attempts to open it.

“I have a gun,” she cried as loudly and menacingly as she could, quickly scouting the living room for anything she could use to defend herself. “And I will shoot!” There. She had sounded determined. Forceful.

Silence. Then the wooden stairs creaked twice.

Robin waited, ear to the door, listening, but heard nothing further. No closing of doors, no hurried footsteps, no sound of a car engine outside. Just the silence peculiar to a quiet neighborhood with all the children at school and their parents away at work.

She dashed to the phone on the table beside the rear window to call the police. No dial tone. It was dead. Had the cop who lived here had the phone disconnected before she left?

Robin huddled in the corner, the dead receiver clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she doubted she could hear anyone breaking through the door with an ax.

If she were at home, there would be a solid steel door, not that lovely six-panel one, hung in a century-old door frame. The whole thing would probably collapse inward with one good body slam.

At her own apartment, this scare would never have happened. Building security was so efficient, whoever tried to get inside would never have made it to the elevator.

“Stupid!” she thought suddenly, replacing the receiver. That incident at the diner had made her paranoid.

Some friend had probably come to see the woman who normally lived here, that was all. When Robin had answered instead, they became concerned someone was in here who shouldn’t be. Now they had gone to notify the police that a stranger with a gun was in Sandra Cunningham’s apartment. Yes, that made sense. That was it. That was what she would do. She looked at the phone again, knowing she was grasping at straws.

“It’s broad daylight,” Robin reminded herself. “And this is Nashville, not New York. The crime rate here must be low.” But it wasn’t exactly that, now was it? James had been murdered in his own home just last evening. And two men had burst into the diner in a robbery attempt.

No matter how much she scoffed at herself or tried to explain away the visitor, Robin could not dismiss her fear. Someone had tried to enter the apartment without knocking first. And she was alone and unarmed. What if they came back, bringing some means to get through the door?

What were they after? Was it those same men from last night, perhaps after James’s disk?

Then she heard footsteps on the stairs again. This time whoever it was did not care whether she heard him! Terror mounted. She rushed through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Hurriedly she closed the door and realized there was no lock on it. “Oh, no!” she moaned.

Recalling Mitch’s order to get under the table when they were accosted in the diner, Robin knew she had to find a place to hide. She yanked open the large double cabinet beneath the sink and crawled inside. God, she was too large for this! She wound her body around the pipes, wedged half underneath them, and drew up her knees so the doors would shut. It was a much tighter fit than beneath that table in the booth last night. Plus, she had nothing at all to use for a weapon now. Not even a can of hair spray.

She held her breath, trying not to gasp so loudly that she would give away her location. Her only hope was that the intruder would believe she had left the apartment.

Even inside the cabinet with the bathroom door shut, she heard the footsteps on the hardwood floors, then muffled cursing, coming closer.

Her lungs were bursting, but she dared not take a breath or she would scream her head off. The bathroom door swung open with the loud, prolonged squeak she remembered from earlier, like a sound effect from an old horror film.

Robin froze, squeezed her eyes shut and moved only her lips in silent entreaty, “Please, please, please, please…”

Both cabinet doors flew wide, and she felt the instant rush of cool air on her face and legs.

“What the hell?” A deep voice thundered.

Hell. With two sweet syllables. Robin unclenched her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and began to laugh.

It took considerably longer to get out of her hiding place than it had to wedge herself in. By the time she managed to crawl out, her hysteria had subsided.

She sat there on the fluffy throw rug trying to catch her breath. Mitch was kneeling beside her, brushing dust bunnies off her arms and shoulders. “Was that you before?” she demanded. “Did you try the door earlier?”

His hands stilled and his intense blue gaze fastened on her at close range. Robin’s heartbeat accelerated dangerously. “No, I just got here. Tell me what happened.”

She did, including her panicked response and how foolish she felt about it now.

He simply listened but didn’t comment. When Robin had finished, he stood and offered her his hand to get up. While they were walking through the bedroom to the living room, he asked, “When you entered Andrews’s apartment last night, did you close the door behind you?”

“No.” She was certain she hadn’t. “I saw James the moment I entered. I set down my bag and computer—dropped them, I think—and ran straight to him.”

“Didn’t you worry that the one who attacked him might still have been there?” he asked.

She lowered herself to the sofa and leaned back. He sat near her, turned sideways, facing her, intent on her answer.

Robin thought back. “No, that didn’t even occur to me. At first I didn’t realize what had happened. He was lying there and I saw the blood. So much of it.” She shuddered. “I thought he had fallen and hit his head.”

“Go on,” he encouraged her. “I know this seems repetitive, but it’s very important, Robin. This time I want to hear not only what actually happened, but tell me your feelings. What ran through your mind?”

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