He felt his heart begin to race, even as he reached for her

She didn’t resist as he took her into his arms. His lips touched hers, gently at first. So gently that he felt both unsatisfied and tantalized by the sweet and seductive taste of Holly. With a soft moan of frustration, he pulled her closer. Tightly against him. Deepened the kiss. Waited for her to resist, to pull away, tell him to get lost.

But she didn’t. Instead, he heard a soft sound of surrender and need as she pressed herself against him.

His tongue delved into her mouth, tasting her. Wanting to taste her more, all over.

Gabe pressed against her, felt her respond by a low moan that made him even crazier. She didn’t pull away and didn’t seem to want to.

Did that mean she desired him as much as he desired her?

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We’ve got what you need to start the holiday season with a bang. Starting things off is RITA® Award-winning author Gayle Wilson. Gayle returns to Harlequin Intrigue with a spin-off of her hugely popular MEN OF MYSTERY series. Same sexy heroes, same drama and danger…but with a new name! Look for Rafe Sinclair’s Revenge under the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD banner.

You can return to the royal kingdom of Vashmira in Royal Ransom by Susan Kearney, which is the second book in her trilogy THE CROWN AFFAIR. This time an American goes undercover to protect the princess. But will his heart be exposed in the process?

B.J. Daniels takes you to Montana to encounter one very tough lady who’s about to meet her match in a mate. Only thing…can he avoid the deadly fate of her previous beaux? Find out in Premeditated Marriage.

Winding up the complete package, we have a dramatic story about a widow and her child who become targets of a killer, and only the top cop can keep them out of harm’s way. Linda O. Johnston pens an emotionally charged story of crime and compassion in Tommy’s Mom.

Make sure you pick up all four, and please let us know what you think of our brand of breathtaking romantic suspense.

Enjoy!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Tommy’s Mom
Linda O. Johnston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Linda O. Johnston’s first published fiction appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.

A practicing attorney, Linda juggles her busy schedule between mornings of writing briefs, contracts and other legalese, and afternoons of creating memorable tales of paranormal, time travel, mystery, contemporary and romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper, then working in advertising and public relations, and later obtained her J.D. degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.

Linda belongs to Sisters in Crime and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles, Orange County and western Pennsylvania chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband, two sons and two cavalier King Charles spaniels.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Holly Poston—Daughter of one cop and widow of another, she will do anything to keep her young son safe, while vowing never to get involved with another law enforcement officer.

Gabe McLaren—The newly hired chief of police has a covert reason for taking the job. He learned the hard way that the relatives of all cops should be treated like family.

Tommy Poston—Holly’s four-year-old son was in the next room when his daddy was killed. Why won’t he speak about what happened?

Thomas Poston—Holly’s murdered husband was a good cop…wasn’t he?

Al Sharp—Thomas Poston’s partner will do whatever it takes to solve his partner’s murder, as long as it doesn’t harm him.

Edie Bryerly—Holly’s best friend and chief baby-sitter.

Mayor Evangeline Sevvers—Her family raised Gabe, and now she wants him to pay them back—maybe even at the expense of his own integrity.

Mal Kensington—Gabe’s predecessor as police chief died of an apparent heart attack….

Sheldon Sperling—Beaten and robbed by the person who killed Thomas Poston, he is looking for justice.

To Evelyn and Robert Johnston, in love and gratitude, especially for Fred.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Prologue

The yelling made Tommy Poston look up, but only for a second. He knew big people yelled at each other. His mommy and daddy did sometimes. Mostly they didn’t. And they both loved him. They’d told him so.

He was a big boy. That was why Daddy had said he could stay in this room all by himself and sit here at this table and color his pretty pictures.

Tommy liked to use crayons. Bright colors were his favorite. Lots of bright colors. Today, he colored some flowers, red and purple and yellow with great, big, pretty green leaves.

Daddy was still yelling in the next room. So was someone else. How many big people were there yelling? Tommy couldn’t tell. He didn’t like so much yelling. He picked up an orange crayon and drew a sad face with it. But sad faces shouldn’t be with flowers, so he crossed it out. He took a red crayon and tried to make another flower.

Then there was a loud sound like when he dropped something, two loud sounds, and no more yelling. That was better.

Except that after another minute, Tommy didn’t like being by himself in here anymore. He didn’t hear talking, either. Did Daddy and Mr. Sperling go away? Did they leave him alone?

“Daddy?” Tommy called.

But Daddy didn’t answer.

“Daddy?” His lower lip trembling, Tommy pushed his big chair away from the table and jumped down. Just like his mommy taught him, he reached way up high to the table and packed his crayons back into their box. He put them with his papers and other stuff into his pretty red bag and put the bag away.

“Daddy?” he called again. But Daddy didn’t come. And Tommy still didn’t hear him in the next room.

Daddy didn’t say he couldn’t come see him, so Tommy went to the door and pulled it open.

Mr. Sperling’s shop had lots of shelves and cabinets, tall ones that Tommy couldn’t see over, with lots and lots of things on them and in them. Tommy stopped and looked around. He didn’t see Daddy or Mr. Sperling. He walked farther into the room.

He didn’t want to cry. He was a big boy. But he wanted his daddy or his mommy. “Daddy?” He tried just to whisper, but it came out loud.

He saw a movement and turned toward his daddy. Only it wasn’t his daddy. It was a monster! It had come to life!

Its face was great big, green and ugly, with a red tongue, giant teeth and a mean frown. And it came toward him. Its arms were raised and it reached its claws toward Tommy.

“Grrrr!” It was growling at him. “Go away, little boy,” it shouted. “Get out of here! Now!”

“Nooo!” Tommy cried out as he ran toward the door of the shop. Only there was a big counter in the way. As he got near it, he tripped. He looked down. And screamed, “Daddy!”

But Daddy was asleep. There was bright red all over him. Blood, like when Tommy fell down and cut his knee.

And the monster came closer.

“I said get out of here, little boy. And if you ever talk, if you ever tell anyone what you saw, I’ll come and get you.”

Gasping to breathe, Tommy ran around Daddy and toward the glass front door. It was a big door. A heavy door. But he pushed and pushed. And then he got it open.

Tommy ran outside and down the sidewalk, screaming and crying and very, very scared.

Chapter One

“Oh, Holly, you poor thing. I want you to know, the whole town is nearly as devastated as you about Thomas’s death.” Evangeline Sevvers breezed into the funeral parlor’s small anteroom off the front of the chapel.

Evangeline would be aware of what the whole town felt, Holly Poston thought wryly. In addition to owning a boutique down the pedestrian mall from Sheldon Sperling’s arts and crafts gallery, she was mayor of Naranja Beach, California.

Holly had been waiting in the small room for the memorial service for her husband to begin. Sad, numb, scared—those were emotions she applied to herself for the loss of Thomas and the turmoil from the circumstances surrounding his death.

Devastated…not really. Not yet, at least.

She glanced down toward her son Tommy, at her feet. He looked at Evangeline, but quickly resumed playing with a toy car on the floor.

His hair, as dark a brown as Holly’s, had been neatly parted and combed to the side a few minutes ago, but now it was mussed. She would undoubtedly have to brush dirt off his black dress pants, maybe off his white shirt, too, but Holly was thankful that Tommy was acting like a normal child…almost.

He hadn’t said a word for the past four days.

“Wait until you see how many people are here to pay their respects to Thomas.” Evangeline’s enthusiasm sparkled in her eyes.

“That’s great,” Holly replied, a lot less excited.

Evangeline, ever the politician, would be pleased for a throng anyplace she happened to be. Evangeline was also a good friend. A consummate professional woman, she almost always wore a suit—at least while not in costume, for she was a driving force and starring actress at the Naranja Community Theater. Today, she wore a tailored deep cranberry suit that should have clashed with the dyed shade of her red hair but somehow didn’t.

“You’ll see for yourself soon,” Evangeline continued. “Right now, though, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Oh, lord, Holly thought. Not yet. She’d brought Tommy here early, before anyone else arrived, to protect him from the polite verbal poking and prodding of other mourners. And the not-so-polite intrusion of the media. As a result, she had avoided them, too. She would have to face them eventually. Probably soon. But she had to prepare herself.

Before she could object, a man entered the room behind Evangeline.

“Holly, this is the new police chief of Naranja Beach, Gabe McLaren. Gabe told me he hadn’t met you yet.”

No wonder Evangeline wanted to introduce them personally, Holly thought, as a very tall man entered behind the mayor, practically filling the small room by himself. He was a relative of Evangeline’s, or so Holly had heard.

Chief McLaren wore a navy blue suit and a conservative tie. Could his shoulders and chest be as vast as indicated by his clothing, or had he worn body armor to a funeral?

He had a wide forehead, and his thick brown hair was cut short in a military style, parted on the side and combed off his face. His jaw was an expanse of steel, his mouth an earnest line beneath a strong and even nose.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Poston,” he said, holding out his hand.

I should say the same to you, Holly’s thoughts rang sardonically. She knew from long and sorry experience that cops only cared about other cops, and their duty.

This man had lost one of his officers in a crime still unsolved. He was in charge of a police force with a blemish on its record, at least so far—an unenviable position for a police chief.

She accepted his proffered handshake and said, “Thank you.” She knew she wasn’t being fair. Sometimes crimes were solved quickly, sometimes they took a while. But a cop had been downed. The Naranja Beach Police Department wouldn’t rest until they knew exactly what had happened that misty morning in Sheldon Sperling’s shop.

And if, along the way, they learned who beat Sheldon unconscious and traumatized her small son so much that he wouldn’t speak, that would be an added benefit to them.

To her, it was a prerequisite for getting on with her life.

Chief McLaren was still holding her hand. She wanted to pull it away but found this stranger’s grip oddly comforting.

Never mind that what she knew about him wasn’t favorable. She had heard Thomas and his partner Al Sharp discuss the new chief hired three months ago after the sudden death of the former chief, Mal Kensington, from an unexpected heart attack. Nepotism, Thomas and Al had complained, since McLaren was a distant relation of the mayor’s. Sure, he had police administration experience, but he was too young to be seasoned. He had an attitude, made it clear he would run things his own way, never mind that things had run just fine under old Mal Kensington.

Chief McLaren continued to grip her hand, and his green eyes, beneath thick, unruly brows, bored into hers.

“Mrs. Poston,” he said, “I want you to know—”

“Hi, Tommy, my lad. And Holly. Chief McLaren, Mayor Sevvers… May I come in?”

Holly moved so she could see the anteroom’s doorway. Sheldon Sperling stood there.

Sheldon was one of Holly’s oldest friends. The pallor of his face nearly matched the whiteness of the sling he wore to support his right arm. He was only sixty-one years old, but the wrinkles around his eyes and the hollows in his soft cheeks had deepened over the past four days, making him appear a decade or more older. He had gone through a lot, poor man.

“Sure, come in, Sheldon,” Holly said uncertainly. She wasn’t sure where he would fit.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. Poston,” Chief McLaren told her, releasing her hand. It felt suddenly empty.

Watch it! she admonished herself. She wasn’t going to be one of those widows who clutched at anyone and anything to avoid feeling alone. And certainly not a stranger.

“I’ll go with you, Gabe,” Evangeline said. “See you in a bit, Holly.”

As they left, Sheldon squeezed by them into the anteroom. He moved slowly, easing himself down on an upholstered chair facing the floral print sofa where Holly sat. He looked gaunt in his black suit.

She hadn’t much black in her own wardrobe, but she had put on the next best thing: a short charcoal skirt with a lace-trimmed blouse several shades lighter. She’d had to belt the outfit tightly at the waist. She had lost weight in the past few days. She hadn’t been able to eat.

“How are you feeling now, Sheldon?” Holly asked softly.

“Much better. The headaches are almost gone, and I can move my wrist a little now. And you? How are you two getting along?”

Terribly! Holly wanted to shout, but of course she couldn’t. Not with Tommy there. “Tommy has been a very good, very brave boy,” she said. “And he has been a real comfort to me.”

At least that wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t sure what she would have done without her son to keep her going. For despite all that had happened between Thomas and her, all the anger and bitterness and even indifference, she had never anticipated—had refused to anticipate, despite his being a cop—that she would finally lose him this way.

And that it would hurt so much.

“I’m sure Tommy has been a big help,” Sheldon agreed. “He certainly helped me.”

Holly shot a warning look toward Sheldon. She didn’t want to remind Tommy of that terrible morning any more than she had to, not right now.

Holly wasn’t sure how much Tommy had seen, and that frightened her even more. He hadn’t told her. He had been taken to the hospital that morning and examined, then released. Physically, he was fine. But after consulting with a child psychologist, she hadn’t allowed the police to interrogate him. Not yet. She had, however, permitted her husband’s partner Al, whom Tommy knew, to visit while off duty and ask a few simple questions. Tommy hadn’t answered.

Soon she would do everything necessary to get him to talk about what happened, for only then would her small son begin to heal. But for now, they had to get through Thomas’s funeral.

Sheldon nodded his understanding, just as the door opened once more. It was Evangeline. “I hate to bother you again, Holly, but there are so many people here who want to express condolences in person. I know it’s usually done after the service, but would you mind coming out for a little while?” Evangeline was engaging in her primary role in life: organizing, making certain things ran smoothly.

Holly hesitated. Maybe it would be better to get it over with. Yet if she greeted them now… She glanced down at Tommy.

Evangeline obviously got the message. “Do you know what?” she said brightly. “Edie’s out here, and she really wants to go for a walk. Do you think Tommy might want to keep her company? She doesn’t want to go by herself.”

“What do you think, Tommy?” Holly asked. “Can Aunt Edie take you for a walk?”

Edie Bryerly was Holly’s closest friend. A couple of years younger than Holly, she was the ultimate bohemian in this seaside town full of individualists, notwithstanding her mundane job at City Hall as a secretary in the Planning Department. She often baby-sat for Tommy.

Tommy turned on the floor and looked toward Holly, small brow furrowed as if he considered this request carefully—the fear caused by his terrible experience obviously outweighing everything else, even his love for Edie. When her son finally rose, Holly had her answer.

Evangeline ducked out of the small room, and in a minute Edie came in. She was very tall and very curvaceous. Today, she was clad conservatively, for her, in a leotard top and abbreviated green skirt. Though the short pixie style of her platinum hair emphasized that her nose was too large for the rest of her features, it somehow made her appear stunning.

“I hear I’ve got some good company in here ready to come for a walk with me,” Edie said. “Is it…Mr. Sperling?”

Tommy shook his head in the negative.

“Is it…Mommy?”

Again her son shook his head, and Holly smiled.

“Well, then, it must be Tommy!”

This time he nodded and smiled. But he still didn’t speak.

It’ll come in time, Holly told herself. She hoped.

“Please keep him in the garden,” she told Edie. The funeral home had a secluded garden for the family of the bereaved. Their privacy was maintained by high, thick hedges. No one would bother them there.

After Edie and Tommy went through the exit into the garden, Evangeline, at the doorway to the chapel, motioned to Holly.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this just because Evangeline told you to,” Sheldon whispered into her ear. “It’s not normal protocol. People will understand.” He probably hadn’t spoken aloud out of fear he’d be royally reprimanded by Her Honor, the Mayor.

But he had managed to contradict her nonetheless, and Holly smiled at him fondly. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. But thanks.” She felt the warmth and comfort of having friends around in this very difficult time. She appreciated them all. A lot.

Thomas’s parents had died years ago in a car accident. Her own family hadn’t come to the funeral. They lived a thousand miles away in Chicago. Her mother, recuperating from pneumonia, was too ill to travel. Her father had made appropriate noises about needing to stay home to take care of his ailing wife. Holly knew better. What her mother said—and didn’t say—made it clear her father, a long-time detective with the Chicago Police Department, hadn’t made time to come. He was on yet another big case. Holly wasn’t surprised by his absence, but it still hurt.

Holly figured she should muster her courage, square her shoulders and march into the chapel like a brave trooper. After all, most of the people out there who waited to greet her were troopers. Cops. As Thomas had been. As her father was.

But she wasn’t. Still, letting her overwrought emotions hang out like freshly washed underwear on a towel rack would only embarrass her in the long run. She was expected to take it.

For now, she would do what she could to meet those expectations.

After all, she was the widow of a cop.

“I CAN’T TELL YOU how sorry I am, Holly,” said Al Sharp. He was dressed in his blue uniform. Al was about forty years old, and he had an extra chin despite how lean his body remained. His hairline had receded, and what was left was cut into a stubble. He had delivered the news about Thomas’s death, for he had been his partner. He had also come to see her the next evening and talk to Tommy.

“I know, Al,” she said. She stood at the front of the large, high-ceilinged chapel, near where Thomas’s closed casket lay on a bower surrounded by huge flower arrangements. The luscious, vibrant aroma of once-living blossoms whose lives had been cut short to mourn her husband’s death wrapped around Holly and choked her. She wondered vaguely if she would ever be able to work in her own garden again.

Behind Al, other cops lined up to pay their respects to her. Lots of cops—men and women. Maybe hundreds, certainly more than the entire Naranja Beach force. Some stood in the chapel’s center aisle and others at the sides before the stained glass windows. She recognized a few, but most she didn’t. Some were in different uniforms, indicating they had come from other jurisdictions to salute a fallen comrade. Some wore suits, signifying they were detectives, not patrol officers.

No cameras, at least none that she could see. Maybe the reporters who had hounded her since Thomas’s death were somehow intimidated by such a large showing of law enforcement, but she doubted it. Wouldn’t it instead act as a magnet to them?

She swallowed hard. Could she take this? There were so many people. And despite her resolve to show only courage, she wasn’t certain she could continue….

Chief Gabe McLaren joined them. “Mrs. Poston.” He took her hand once more and shook it, as if in greeting. But he had shaken her hand before. “May I talk with you for just a second? I need to tell you what I started to say earlier.”

She had the impression that what he intended to communicate was private, yet they were in the midst of a flood of people. Shouldn’t he wait until later? But he obviously didn’t want to delay it.

He was the chief of police. He had been her husband’s superior. Courtesy dictated that she not brush him off. And he clearly wasn’t about to leave her alone until he’d had his say.

She looked up at him, waiting for him to speak.

“I want you to know something, Mrs. Poston.”

“What’s that?” She didn’t exactly feel comfortable held in his unyielding grip, the subject of his frank stare, but she didn’t pull away.

“I’ve instructed the entire Naranja Beach Police Force to do two things. First, to find out exactly what happened to Officer Thomas Poston and bring his killer to justice.”

That was no less than what she had expected. Another stanza of the same old song she had heard sung throughout her life, first as the daughter of a police officer, then as the wife of one: cops take care of their own.

He continued, “Second, everyone on the force is your family, and they’re to treat you as such. Myself included. Every need of the wife and son of a fallen officer will be taken care of, I promise. Anything you want, anything bothering you, just let me know. House or car repairs, gardening, you name it.”

Sure, Holly had heard that was supposed to happen. Other cops’ wives had told her so. The spouses even had a coalition to share mutual concerns. She’d gone to some of their meetings. A bunch were here to show support—including, she’d been told, representatives of a national group for widows of fallen law enforcement officers.

Plus, a collection might be taken up for her. She would want to refuse their check, no matter how kindly it was meant, but she wouldn’t because of Tommy. Thomas had left insurance and sales of her artwork would help, so she wouldn’t need to get a job at least until Tommy was in school. Still, she wanted to start a college fund for Tommy.

But in her experience, anything more—anything requiring more than a check and an occasional visit from the cops themselves—was just another unsubstantiated urban legend, which was fine with her.

Yet Chief McLaren’s gaze was so straightforward that it shouted of sincerity. He meant every word he said. Didn’t he? And if so…

She had sudden disquieting visions of cops everywhere, well-meaning but underfoot, not allowing Tommy and her to get on with their lives.

And that, she was certain, would include Chief Gabe McLaren—perhaps the most disquieting of them all.

HE WASN’T her family. He didn’t even know her. But to emphasize his words, the show of support he’d offered, Gabe took his place beside Holly Poston in the makeshift receiving line.

He caught her sideways, questioning glance—like, who was he to hang around her?

“I know there’re a lot of people here, Mrs. Poston,” he said. “They all want to say how sorry they are for your loss. If you don’t feel like talking to any of them, you don’t have to. I’ll thank them for you. Or you can wait till later, after the service. Just let me know. We’ve already excluded the media from the chapel.”

She faced him directly, her expression surprised and, if he read it right, outraged at his audacity. But then it softened. She even managed a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Chief McLaren.”

“Call me Gabe,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment.

Sure, it was damned presumptuous for him to stand here with her, but his presence emphasized a message he’d already communicated to his own officers: we’re all members of the same family, and families stick together.

Holly Poston appeared exhausted, with dark circles beneath her stunningly doelike brown eyes. She was most definitely a beautiful brunette. Her hair was a shade of brown he’d describe as deepest, darkest chocolate. It was cut unevenly in a becoming style, longer in back, swept away slightly to show her ears, and fringed along her forehead. Her eyebrows were an even darker shade, arched but not plucked thin the way so many women did. Her mouth was full and lush, moist-looking despite the fact she wore no lipstick. Her cheekbones—well, he’d never really noticed cheekbones much, but he noticed hers. They helped to add definition to the oval shape of her face.

All in all, she was a stunningly beautiful lady despite the pain so obvious in her eyes.

Thomas Poston had been a lucky man—until someone had stabbed him to death four days ago.

Poston was the first police officer lost during Gabe’s tenure as chief, though he wasn’t the only one whose death had been suspicious lately. Gabe hoped Poston would be the last, but he, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous being a cop could be. Even in an area as laid back as Naranja Beach.

He didn’t know whether Poston had been murdered because he was a cop, but Gabe sure as hell would find out.

REVEREND MILLER had appeared. It was time for the funeral service to begin.

“Excuse me,” Holly said. “I have to get my son.” A small sense of relief passed through her at this perfectly logical reason to flee not only the continuing parade of well-wishers but also the presence of this intense and disturbing man.

This man who wasn’t merely a cop, but a leader of cops.

Who had made it clear he intended to inflict more cops on her, in the name of helping her.

The kind of help she really needed required that she never again, for the rest of her life, see a policeman.

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come with you.”

“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can—” But he took her elbow and began politely bulldozing a path through the crowd toward the door from which she had previously emerged.

She should despise his take-charge attitude. And yet, for this moment, at least, it felt good to have someone deal with the crowd on her behalf.

She’d been handling ninety percent of the things in her life and Tommy’s by herself for quite a while now. There was time enough for her to learn to deal with the other ten percent alone.

But perhaps she should just let Tommy stay outside during the memorial service. She knew Edie would continue to watch him, for her friend was like a second mother to her son. He was so young, after all. The funeral wouldn’t bring any closure to someone so unknowledgeable about what it was supposed to mean. And although Holly had checked with the child psychologist and been given the go-ahead, she wondered if it was a good idea to have him here after what he’d gone through.

Still, whatever he experienced here might allow him in the future to deal with his father’s death better. Thomas was about to be given a hero’s sendoff. That might help little Tommy remember his daddy. Whatever else Thomas had been, he had been a good cop.

Chief Gabe McLaren’s vast shoulders appeared to shrink the size of the already small waiting room once more as he led her through it and outside the door to the adjoining garden. There, Edie was pointing to something on a flower. As Holly drew closer, she saw it was a butterfly.

Tommy was laughing, and Holly felt herself smile in response. It was the first laughter she had heard from her son since that awful morning four days earlier. She soaked it in as if she was the butterfly, and the sound was the nectar from the loveliest of blossoms.

Edie looked toward her, and their eyes met. “It’s time,” Holly mouthed. Edie’s nod didn’t dislodge one hair in her short pixie hairdo, and she stood.

Even as tall as her friend was, she still seemed almost petite compared with Gabe McLaren. Edie clearly noticed, for she smiled up at the chief from beneath flirtatiously lowered lashes and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said, and introduced herself.

“Hi,” Chief McLaren said in return. He extracted his hand from Edie’s and extended it to Tommy. “I saw you before, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. You’re Tommy, aren’t you? I’m Chief McLaren. Your dad and I worked together.”

Tommy’s smile faded. He regarded the large man with huge, solemn eyes. He held out his small hand that was dwarfed by Gabe McLaren’s much greater one and received the polite handshake in an adult manner that nearly made Holly cry.

Holly couldn’t help liking the way Gabe hadn’t diminished Thomas in his son’s eyes by stating the truth: that his daddy had worked for him.

“It’s time to go inside, Tommy,” Gabe said. “Is that all right with you?”

Tommy nodded, still not speaking, not even to another man. But of course this man was a stranger. Holly took her son’s hand and together they walked toward the chapel. She didn’t look to see if anyone followed. She knew Edie would, and most likely Gabe McLaren would, too. Maybe she shouldn’t leave the flirtatious Edie behind. She certainly didn’t want her best friend to wind up involved with a cop.

What was she thinking? This wasn’t a singles bar. Edie and the chief weren’t here to make small talk to one another. This was a funeral. Thomas’s funeral. And Chief McLaren was probably already married.

Holly felt sorry for his wife…didn’t she?

They went through the door from the small waiting room into the chapel. The minister stood at the front of the room at the pulpit overlooking the closed casket and its surrounding garden of aromatic, dying flowers.

Holly took a deep breath as a thick lump formed in her throat. She somehow had to get through this.

The seats right beside the door where they entered were all occupied by police officers. As Tommy and she entered, everyone stood. A sea of uniforms surrounded them.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, Tommy began to scream.

Chapter Two

Holly quickly knelt before her son, held his small, shaking body against hers as he continued to sob and shriek wordlessly. “What is it, honey? Tell Mommy. Please, Tommy, it’ll be all right.” Her own voice cracked with all the emotions evoked by Tommy’s terrified screams. The loud, heart-rending noise resounded in her ear, pulsed through her brain like a siren that was the herald of an indescribable disaster.

But even her tight hug, the attempt to soothe her panicky son with quiet, loving words, didn’t calm him.

“What’s wrong?” Edie stood beside them, her hand lightly on Tommy’s head. Tears filled her wide eyes as she caught Holly’s gaze. “What can I do to help?”

Holly didn’t know. She noticed Sheldon and Evangeline hovering about, too. Evangeline turned and began talking to Reverend Miller, taking charge of the situation, as usual.

But still Tommy screamed.

“Tommy?” Holly said. “Tommy, please hush, honey. I can’t help you while you’re crying so loud. I need to understand what’s wrong.”

She knew what was wrong. His daddy was dead. Tommy had probably seen Thomas’s bleeding body. There was even the possibility that he had seen his father being murdered, though Al Sharp and the others had reassured Holly it was unlikely. Someone with as little compunction about killing as the fiend who’d stabbed Thomas would probably have had no scruples against killing any eyewitnesses—even one as young as Tommy.

Scant comfort, but Holly had understood its logic. And it had given her hope that whoever it was would not, after the fact, harm her son.

But what had triggered Tommy’s agonized reaction now? Had the sight of the coffin upset him so much? Did a four-year-old even understand the significance of a coffin?

“Hey, sport.” Gabe McLaren knelt beside them, talking softly despite the likelihood that Tommy could not completely hear him over his own screams. “Know what? You’re right. This place sucks. I noticed you were in that garden outside. I liked it, too. And those butterflies? Awesome. Would you like to see if they’re still there? I’m not from this area. Are there monarch butterflies around here? They’re those pretty, bright-colored ones, oranges and browns and yellows.”

That had been the exact right thing to say to distract Tommy, though Holly doubted that Gabe realized it. Her son liked nothing in this world more than colors, the brighter the better.

Tommy’s screams subsided into sobs that indicated he was gasping for breath. He seemed near hyperventilation.

“Slowly,” Gabe said. He reached over and gently took Tommy from her. He held his shoulders. “I was taught in police school how to breathe when I’m upset.”

Holly doubted it, but this wasn’t the time to call him on his veracity. Unless maybe he had paramedic training, too. She looked around. No paper bags here. Wasn’t that what was needed when a person hyperventilated, to breathe into a bag?

Tommy regarded Gabe with wide, frightened eyes that asked a question.

“Here. Like this.” Gabe took an exaggeratedly deep breath, and let it out very slowly. And then another. “You try it.”

Tommy coughed, then stilled his panting long enough to studiously inhale, then exhale.

“Hey, that’s great! It took me a lot of practice to get it right, and here you’re doing it first thing.”

Tommy smiled as he breathed the same embellished way once more. His respiration grew more regular.

“Good deal,” Gabe said. “Now, are you ready to see if we can find some of those butterflies?”

Tommy gave one decisive nod.

“Do you remember their names, the kind I told you about?”

Again, Tommy nodded.

“And what is it?”

Tommy stopped smiling. He blinked.

He obviously wasn’t ready to talk yet.

“You can tell us later, okay?” Holly said.

He nodded and held out his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, then glanced around. Edie still stood beside them. Reverend Miller, on the pulpit, regarded her questioningly, with Evangeline standing beside him. Sheldon had taken a seat nearby.

Holly knew the eyes of all the hundreds of funeral attendees were on Tommy and her. She couldn’t exactly take Tommy out into the garden for a lesson in entomology right now. But she couldn’t abandon him, either.

Gabe apparently understood her ambivalence. “Tell you what, sport,” he said to Tommy. “I think your mom needs to stay in here for now. Grown-up rules and all. But for the moment they don’t apply to me, so just you and I will go outside, okay?”

Tommy looked at her, appeal in his gaze. He obviously wanted to go with this man. Speaking of ambivalence—was Holly ready to let her frightened son out of her sight? Especially now?

But he couldn’t be in any safer hands than those of the chief of police, could he? And this man, this stranger, had somehow known exactly what to say to calm her son.

“That’s a good idea,” she said, her words stronger than her conviction.

“Great. Come on, Tommy. I guess this isn’t a good place for a race, so we can’t see who can get out there fastest. Maybe once we’re outside we can play a game. Okay?”

Tommy grinned and nodded yet again.

Gabe McLaren had to be married and have a houseful of kids, Holly thought as she watched Tommy tuck one small hand into Gabe’s huge one. How else could he know how to deal with a terrified child that way?

And why did the thought of his active marital status send a pang of disappointment through her?

The very large man and the very small child walked hand-in-hand out of the crowded chapel. As they reached the door, she saw Tommy turn back and glance not toward her, but toward the crowd. His sweet face screwed up again as if he was going to cry once more.

Gabe apparently noticed, for in a moment he swept Tommy into his arms as if he were as light as meringue, and they disappeared through the door.

NINE O’CLOCK in the evening was too late to come to the Poston house. Gabe knew it, even as he pulled his blue Mustang up to the house with the number he’d been searching for. He could see by the streetlight that it was an attractive pale blue stucco home with white trim. As with the rest of the eclectic residential neighborhood a couple of miles inland from the beach, the Poston house resembled none of its neighbors. Gabe had to drive around the block, looking for a parking space.

A few media vans still lurked here on California Street, but their occupants appeared to be packing up. Gabe had designated an information specialist from his department to deal with reporters. She was to act cooperative while saying as little as possible about the Poston case.

He had meant to arrive earlier, but time had gotten away from him after Thomas Poston’s funeral. There were several administrative matters he’d had to take care of that day, and the memorial service had messed up his schedule.

More importantly, he’d delved further into the investigation of Poston’s murder. Even though the detective in charge was the best, Gabe wasn’t happy about the progress so far.

Especially not when it might relate to the undercover matter that brought him here in the first place.

And so, he’d decided to insinuate himself right, smack into the middle of this one. In fact, he was going to work on it here and now. Tonight. Assuming he found a parking space.

Not that he was about to try to twist Tommy Poston’s arm. Poor little tiger. He was the closest thing to an eyewitness they had. Gabe didn’t completely subscribe to the theory popular around the N.B.P.D. that, if he had witnessed the killing, Tommy would have been dead right alongside his daddy. Maybe it was so. Maybe it wasn’t. In any event, Gabe wouldn’t risk the boy’s life on it. He’d warn Holly Poston not to let Tommy out of her sight unless he was with someone completely trustworthy.

He finally found a parking spot and pulled in. Deciding to leave his holster and 9mm Smith & Wesson in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and swapped them for a smaller pistol. Carrying a weapon was standard procedure, no matter which police force he’d worked on. Here, because of his undercover investigation, it was imperative. He stuffed the pistol in his pants pocket and put his suit jacket back on, his cell phone in an inside pocket.

His thoughts still swirled as he walked the two blocks along the dimly lighted residential streets to the Postons’ house.

Gabe suspected Tommy had seen something, even if it wasn’t the actual murder. That could be why the kid wasn’t talking.

Poor Tommy obviously missed his daddy already. He’d latched onto Gabe in the garden as if he were starved for a man’s attention, hanging onto his hand, listening to everything he said, pointing out all the flowers and butterflies and birds.

He hadn’t spoken at all. That was another thing Gabe needed to talk to Holly about. He’d learned, from the perfunctory report filed by Al Sharp after visiting the boy, that this silence was probably a result of the trauma of losing his father. It wasn’t normal for Tommy Poston. But was Tommy talking to his mother? If so, maybe Gabe could coax him, over time, to describe what he’d seen. Or maybe he’d already told Holly.

Now, Gabe heard the hubbub of voices as he strode up the short, yucca-lined walkway to the Postons’ front door. It might not be too late after all. He’d assumed that neighbors and friends would continue to rally around widow and son after the funeral service, bringing food and whatever cheer they could. He just figured most would be gone long before now.

Maybe that had, in fact, factored into his non-decision to come late. If there were too many people around, he wouldn’t be able to speak much with Holly about Tommy.

Gabe also wanted to know what he and his officers could do to help her, to make sure her chores got done, repairs made, expenses met—everything her fallen husband had done. Except the most important things, of course—companionship, love, sex…

He scoffed at himself even as he rang the bell. Sure, Holly was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, despite the sorrow that shadowed her face. But to think of sex right now in relation to this poor lady—this lovely, provocative, sensuous lady—who’d just lost the man most important in her life… “Pervert,” he whispered aloud to himself.

“Excuse me?” The front door had opened. Holly stood there looking at him. She had changed clothes and now wore brown slacks and a short-sleeved yellow sweater that hugged her slender curves.

He felt his face redden. “Er—Mrs. Poston. Holly. I hope it isn’t too late, but I’ve come to pay my respects.”

There was a wry look of amusement on her face. Damn! She must have heard what he’d said. He only prayed she hadn’t figured out why. “No, it’s not too late. I’ve still got a lot of visitors. Come in.” She stood back to let him walk inside.

Very carefully, he skirted past her. He didn’t want to brush her accidentally. He didn’t want to touch her at all. She might get the wrong idea. He might get the wrong idea.

Of all the women in the world, this one was the farthest off-limits to him, assuming he even wanted a woman. Which he didn’t.

Holly Poston was a new widow. And on top of that, she was the widow of a cop.

Even if she were ready to entertain the idea of a man’s company again so soon, which was highly unlikely, that man wouldn’t be Gabe. He’d been a rebound lover once. That was one time too many.

He stopped inside the door. The entryway to the two-story home was compact, and it was filled with people. Most women had purses slung over their shoulders.

“You’re just in time to say good-night, Chief,” said Al Sharp. “We were just leaving.”

Good. With this crowd gone, just maybe Gabe would be able to get Holly Poston to himself. For conversation. Only for conversation.

“I SHOULD STAY the night,” Edie Bryerly insisted. She was at the rear of the group of cops and others filing out from Holly’s entryway. “Don’t you want some company?”

“No, but thanks for asking. I need to be alone.” Holly was exhausted. She doubted she’d sleep, but she was ready to curl up with a cup of herbal tea in front of an old movie on television and just rest.

She’d done that many nights when Thomas had come home late. She was used to it.

“Okay, then. You call me if there’s anything you need.” Edie’s eyes, surrounded by a wide swath of liner and mascara, regarded her sympathetically.

“I will. Thanks.”

Holly wondered how Edie could look so stunningly alert and pixielike this late at night, after working her butt off. She had bustled everywhere, helping Holly keep coffee brewing and guests’ plates full of the casseroles and desserts people had brought to the get-together at the Poston home that had begun a couple of hours after the memorial.

“We’ll get together soon, okay?” Edie persisted. “Tomorrow if you’d like. After work.”

“We’ll see,” Holly said. “In any event, I’ll be in touch.”

Edie stooped to press their cheeks together, and then she followed the horde outside.

Even though it was a summer evening, this residential area was only two miles from the Pacific Ocean, and the air was cool. Holly shut the door behind the group as soon as she was able.

Was she alone at last? She had put an exhausted Tommy to bed hours ago. Maybe it was finally her turn to relax.

But as she approached the door to her living room, she heard low voices. As she entered, she saw Sheldon engaged in a conversation with Gabe McLaren. They stood in the corner near the front picture window, with its draperies drawn tightly shut for privacy. Their heads were together, and they each held a glass—Sheldon’s in the hand of the arm that wasn’t in a sling. Both were still dressed in the suits they had worn to Thomas’s memorial service. They were so engrossed in what they were saying that neither looked up as she approached.

“Can I get you anything else to eat or drink, gentlemen?” Holly asked brightly. Playing perfect hostess at this hour might give them the hint that they were about to overstay their welcome.

“No thanks, Holly.” Sheldon was the first to glance at her. Awkwardly, he moved his glass around so he could look at his watch. “It’s late. I’m heading home now.”

“All right,” Holly said, noting that Gabe didn’t echo the sentiment. Instead, he watched her with narrowed eyes. They were green, weren’t they? She couldn’t tell in the room’s dim light, but she had noticed before.

She walked Sheldon to the front door, hoping that Gabe would follow. To her relief, he did.

To her dismay, he didn’t follow Sheldon out.

Inhaling the fresh, ocean-chilled air, she watched Sheldon limp down the front walk. Poor man wasn’t recuperating from his injuries very quickly. His age might be a factor. Sixty-one wasn’t that old, but he certainly had begun to look and act older this week. Plus, he had a heart condition that he kept under control with medication. She would have to help him every way she could. He had been very kind to her, selling her stitchery creations in his shop, promoting them to tourists….

“Can you spare me a few minutes, Holly?” Gabe asked. He still stood behind her at the door.

She turned, wanting to tell him “no” but assuming he had something to discuss with her. Something about Thomas’s death. Why else would he want to talk to her?

Of course she had heard his strange comment as she’d opened the door to let him in: “Pervert.” She’d gathered he was chastising himself for some reason. It had struck her as funny, at a time when her sense of humor had gone on an extended vacation. She’d appreciated it.

“All right,” she responded. She didn’t look at him but regarded the chipped pink nail polish on her right index finger critically. She didn’t suggest further refreshments to Gabe. She hoped he wouldn’t stay long…didn’t she? “Would you like to come back into the living room?” she asked him.

She didn’t wait for his reply but headed there. At least she could be comfortable, in this room she had decorated to feel homey, with its thick russet-colored plush carpeting. She took a seat on the fluffy beige sofa, pushing some of the gold and green throw pillows aside. She slid her shoes off and slipped her feet onto the low coffee table. Knowing she was going to have company, she’d removed the small stack of magazines that she kept on it, piling them in the closet. Usually, she rested her feet right on top of the periodicals. Thomas hadn’t liked that habit. He’d told her so often.

At first, she’d made an effort to comply. Over time, it hadn’t mattered.

Gabe removed his suit jacket and folded it carefully over the back of the reclining leather chair beside the sofa.

Then he sat on that chair. It had been Thomas’s chair. Exclusively.

But Thomas wouldn’t mind now.

Did she? This man was making himself right at home.

Thomas had worked out a lot. He’d been five-eleven and muscular. But the substantial chair that had once belonged only to him now seemed a lot smaller with Gabe occupying it.

She caught the glint of amusement in Gabe’s eyes as he glanced at her bare toes, with their bright red polish, then back up at her face.

So what if she didn’t take as much care with her fingernails as she did with her toes? She couldn’t reach her toenails as easily to pick off the polish when she was upset or nervous.

But she felt discomfited by Gabe’s stare. She curled around so her feet were tucked up under her. “So, Chief McLaren, I gather you have something on your mind,” she said. Besides my toes, she wanted to add but didn’t.

“Gabe,” he corrected. “Yes, I do. A few things. First, I know some of my officers have been in touch with you, but I wanted to let you know personally how the investigation into Thomas’s death is progressing.”

A chill passed through Holly that had nothing to do with this house’s proximity to the Pacific, and everything to do with her fear about what Gabe would say…and what he might not say.

“Have you caught his killer?” she asked softly. She doubted it. Al would have told her right away, if he’d known.

Gabe shook his head. There was a grim tightness about his lips that had told her his answer already. In fact, he looked angry. “No,” he said. “Not yet. But we will. You can bet on it.” He spoke with so much intensity that Holly believed him. He’d get the killer. And soon.

She was uncertain how much she really wanted to hear, but she asked anyway, “Do you know exactly what happened that morning? How Thomas was killed and Sheldon hurt?”

“We’ve pieced it together, though we’re not sure how accurate we are so far. But before I tell you, I have to ask a few questions. I know you’ve already talked to Al Sharp. Since he was your husband’s partner, the guys doing the footwork on the investigation thought that would be easier on you.”

She nodded.

“But I’m handling the investigation now. Personally. I want you to know that. And I have some questions that Al wasn’t able to answer. Okay?”

He leaned forward. He had unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and loosened his dark blue tie. The combination of formal clothing and the casual way he wore it seemed boyishly charming.

And yet there was nothing immature about this man who seemed to take charge, no matter where he was. Even in her living room.

His large hands were clasped between his knees as he watched her with compassion. She had a feeling that, if she told him she just couldn’t talk about it, he would understand.

But there was an intensity in his stare as well. A fervor that told her that if she didn’t cooperate, if she couldn’t cooperate, he’d simply bulldoze around or through her to get the information that she could most easily impart.

She liked that, somehow. Even if it made her uneasy, she felt that Gabe McLaren’s zeal and dedication ensured the fact that someday soon, somehow, this cop would fulfill his duty. They would know exactly who killed Thomas, and why.

And then maybe her son would talk again, once the bad guy was in jail.

“All right,” she said. “What would you like to know?” She’d tell him what she could, as long as it wasn’t personal. There were a lot of things about Thomas, and about Thomas and her, that were not relevant to the investigation but would hurt her, and Tommy, if people learned about them.

“First of all, what was Thomas doing at Sheldon Sperling’s at that hour of the morning? And with little Tommy, too. Thomas was already in uniform, but he wasn’t on duty yet.”

Holly nodded. She could talk about this. “It was part of our daily routine. I tend to work late and sleep in. Thomas woke early even if he went to bed late. To let me rest, he’d get ready for work and take out Tommy, who’s an early bird, too. Sheldon has been a close friend for a long time. He even sells my work. He’s an early riser, like Thomas, and they’d often meet at the shop, then either just walk along the beach or the pier, or stop in for breakfast at one of the restaurants on Pacific Way near Sheldon’s.”

“I see. Then it wasn’t unusual for Thomas to be there that early, in uniform, with Tommy?”

“No.”

“What’s your work, and how does Sheldon sell it?”

Holly blinked and looked at Gabe. He smiled, so winsomely that she couldn’t help a tentative grin back.

“I know that doesn’t have anything to do with the investigation,” he said. “I’m just curious.”

“I’m an artist of sorts,” she told him. “I create quilts and wall hangings and other pieces out of fabrics—mostly impractical, but intended to be attractive. Fortunately, some people seem to think so. They sell well, mostly to tourists. Sheldon carries most of them in his shop for me, and he gets a percentage of everything he sells.”

“I’d like to see your work,” Gabe said. He glanced around the living room, but no pieces hung there.

It had been a sore point between Thomas and her—one of many. Thomas had considered what she did frivolous and resented the large amounts of money she made when any of her pieces sold—even though he didn’t mind her spending it on things he liked but couldn’t afford.

Like his reclining chair.

So as not to provoke additional arguments, Holly kept everything in her private workroom, an extra bedroom upstairs beside Tommy’s room.

Now, though, she would be able to display her work in her own home. Enjoy it herself…

She sighed. She could simply have divorced Thomas, if she’d wanted him fully out of her life. But she hadn’t, for there really wasn’t anything simple about it.

Gabe must have misinterpreted her sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you up late. I can ask most of my questions another time. But as far as the investigation goes, we believe what happened was an armed robbery.”

Holly couldn’t help asking, “Really? With a uniformed police officer there?”

Gabe shrugged. “It could have been an addict desperate for money for a fix. Or maybe the killer didn’t see Thomas until it was too late to back off. We were hoping to get more from Sheldon, but he apparently doesn’t remember much. I didn’t talk to him for long here so I haven’t confirmed it yet, but according to the police report he said that Thomas and he were having a heated little argument about the merits of the Dodgers over the Angels and weren’t watching the door. He doesn’t recall anything after that, but says he’d put some change into his register to prepare for the day. His cash drawer was empty when the crime scene investigation team checked it.”

“I see.” Holly looked down at her lap. Poor Sheldon. It had only been four days, and his injuries were still really bothering him.

“Holly, there are things we need to discuss about Tommy.”

She looked up with a start. Gabe had risen from the chair and stood beside it now. He looked huge and intimidating.

“What about Tommy?” she asked in a hesitant whisper.

He sat again, this time beside her on the sofa. His presence so near was even more disturbing. She swallowed.

“Al told me he stopped talking after the incident. Before, I gather he was like most four-year-olds I know who babble a blue streak.”

“Your own kids?” she blurted, then wondered why she’d said it.

He laughed. “No, I’m not married, never was and never had any kids. But I’m an uncle several times over—sort of. It’s a little complicated.”

He obviously didn’t want her to ask how, so she didn’t. But she felt ridiculously relieved that he appeared to have no closer ties than unclehood.

“Yes,” she replied to his question. “Tommy talked a lot until the…incident, as you call it. He hasn’t said a word since.”

“He hasn’t told even you what he saw?”

Hoarsely, she said, “No. But Al…I was assured that Tommy couldn’t have seen the murder, or someone as horrible as the murderer would have…hurt him, too.”

Gabe nodded. “Could be. But it also might not be.”

Holly stared at him. She had to look up, even though he was sitting beside her, to see into his unflinching eyes.

He was right, of course. But she had wanted so much to believe what Al had said….

“We need to get him to talk,” Gabe said, “just in case.”

“I agree,” Holly replied shakily. “Whatever he did or didn’t see, he won’t be able to start healing from losing Thomas unless he can talk about it.”

And if, incidentally, what Tommy said led to Thomas’s killer… No! Despite Holly’s inclinations to get involved, to help, that was police business. She, and most particularly her son, would stay out of it. Far out of it.

“Also, just in case…” Gabe moved closer to her on the sofa and took her hand. His was warm, and it dwarfed hers. But because of the nature of their conversation, it was anything but comforting. “I’d suggest you keep a close watch on Tommy. Don’t leave him with anyone unless you have to, and if you do, make sure it’s someone you trust. Without knowing for certain the motive for Thomas’s murder and the battery on Sheldon, we can’t be sure—”

“You don’t really think someone we know did this.” Holly made her words a statement, though she knew they were untrue. Her feet were on the floor now, and her back was stiff and straight. She looked toward the closed draperies, and not at the man beside her who, although gentle, did not allow her to pull her hand away. “No one we know is so hard up they’d kill for a few dollars from a cash register. They’d know they could come to us for a loan, and—”

“That’s assuming the money wasn’t just taken to make us think robbery was the motive.”

“Oh.”

Gabe squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Holly. For everything.”

He really sounded sorry, though he had done nothing to cause any of her pain. She appreciated that. She appreciated how kind this man seemed to be, and how he had been so disclosing about the investigation, despite not knowing much yet.

So gentle in warning her to protect her son.

“We’ll catch the murderer,” he continued. “But in the meantime…”

His voice trailed off, and she looked at him.

He was watching her. She felt unnerved. She wanted to rise and recapture her hand and tell him it was time to leave.

But she didn’t.

“In the meantime?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse. She watched his face. It was a strong and masculine face. Angular in all the right places, and very handsome.

Very intense. Too intense. Too sexy. But still she didn’t look away.

“In the meantime,” he said softly, his gaze unwavering, “I want you to tell me anything you need. Anything.”

He blinked then, obviously hearing what he had said and realizing how suggestively it could be interpreted.

He released her hand and cleared his throat. He stood and looked over her shoulder, not directly at her. “What I mean,” he said, “is what I told you before. I’ve directed everyone on the force to make sure you’re treated like a member of the family. You just tell one of us whatever you need. Like I said earlier, chores, repairs, we’ll do them. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said, not even attempting to repress the giggle in her voice now that the intensity of the moment had ended. That had undoubtedly been all he had meant all along. She had just read him wrong, hadn’t she?

She considered saying something light and teasing, to ease them over the moment. But before she could, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Tommy stood silently at the door to the living room, watching them. Tears were running down his face.

Chapter Three

“Hey, sport.” Gabe’s heart went out to the quietly crying child. “Did you have a bad dream?”

He nodded solemnly, one small hand clenched into a fist at his side and the other rubbing his eyes. He wore a baggy yellow pajama top and matching shorts that revealed his thin legs. His feet were bare.

“Oh, Tommy.” Holly headed across the room toward her son. She lifted him into her arms, nuzzling him.

For an instant, Gabe envied the little boy.

He joined them by the door and looked down at Tommy, who’d laid his head on his mother’s shoulder. There was a vague clean scent around him, like baby powder or soap.

It blended well with the fragrance hinting sweetly of luscious fruit that wafted gently about his mother.

Tommy’s dark hair was about the same shade as Holly’s. Gabe had thought so, but he hadn’t seen their hair so close together before. Tommy’s was mussed from sleep.

Holly’s was skillfully mussed, thanks to the artful look of her sexy hairstyle.

“Would you like to tell me about your dream?” Gabe asked, putting two fingers on Tommy’s damp cheek. “Sometimes it feels better if you talk about it.”

But Tommy didn’t move, except to close his eyes. Tears still streamed down his face. Holly rocked him gently.

“Okay, I’ve a better idea,” Gabe said. “How about if I read you a story?”

The small head rose, and Tommy smiled through his tears.

“That’s not necessary,” Holly said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired.”

“I’ll sleep better myself after a story,” Gabe said firmly. He wasn’t about to explain to Holly in front of Tommy, but he had begun his campaign to get the child to talk.

“Well…all right.”

Gabe got the message. She wanted him to leave. There could be a million reasons why, not the least of which was that he made her uncomfortable. He understood that. He’d felt uncomfortable, too, in those last minutes before Tommy appeared in the living room. Still did. Right down in his crotch. This woman was damn sexy without even trying.

She was also hands-off.

He intended to help her, whether she wanted help or not. He’d spend a little male quality time with her son, for starters. That was something she couldn’t do herself.

And if he got Tommy to reveal exactly what he’d seen the morning his daddy died, well, all the better.

HOLLY SAT on a small blue chair near the desk in Tommy’s room, watching her son’s enthralled expression as Chief Gabe McLaren read him a bedtime story.

Gabe had let Tommy choose the storybook. It was one of Tommy’s favorites, full of brightly colored pictures of wild animals, real and imaginary.

Gabe kept a muscular arm around the small boy in the pale yellow pajamas. Tommy’s head rested against Gabe’s broad chest. She saw it move up and down with the vibration when Gabe laughed at something in the story. Which was often.

It was a wonderfully moving sight—man and boy together in sweet companionship.

The problem was that the man was a virtual stranger.

Thomas had seldom read a bedtime story to Tommy. That was a mother’s role, he’d said. So was feeding the boy, bathing him and taking care of him when he was ill. Throwing a ball to him—well, that had been a father’s job, except that Thomas had gotten bored with it easily, particularly when Tommy hadn’t always been able to catch what he tossed.

Holly had been pleased and surprised that father and son had at least gotten into the habit of spending quality time together on the mornings she slept in. Or at least she assumed their time together went well. Thomas always shrugged at her questions, and Tommy had just beamed.

“Uh-oh,” Gabe was saying as Holly’s attention returned to the tableau on the bed. “You know what? I’ve forgotten what this animal says, and I’m too tired to read it. Do you know?” He looked at Tommy, who nodded.

“Good. That’ll help. The animal is a bird, isn’t it?”

Again, Tommy nodded.

“It’s a funny-looking one. I’ve never seen a big blue owl before, have you?”

This time, Tommy shook his head.

“Right here, it says the owl made a noise like owls do. But the letters are too fuzzy for my tired eyes. Can you read them?”

Tommy shook his head again.

“Well, do you suppose you could tell me what an owl says? If not, I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish the book. What do you think this owl said?”

Tommy looked distressed. Worried for him, Holly was about to join them and finish reading the darned book, when Tommy said, almost too softly for her to hear it, “Hooo.”

“That’s it!” Gabe gave Tommy a big hug. “That’s exactly what it says. I’m awake now. Let’s finish this book.” Over Tommy’s head, he caught Holly’s eye and gave her a big, conspiratorial wink.

It was all Holly could do to prevent herself from hurrying across the room to hug them both.

“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,” Holly said at the front door awhile later. Tommy was tucked once more into bed, sound asleep.

Gabe had gotten him to talk!

And, very patiently, he hadn’t pressed Tommy to say any more, not that night. But at least that one, tiny “Hooo” had been a start.

“You’re very welcome, Holly.” He was grinning, a very masculine, proud smile. He obviously recognized the significance of his accomplishment.

“So you’re a police chief and a child psychologist. What else do you do?” Holly couldn’t help teasing despite her exhaustion…and the fact that she was aware that, once he left, she was going to be very much alone in this house, a widow by herself with a sleeping child.

“Try me,” he said, his grin growing even broader. Damn, but he was sexy.

And damn her, too, for even noticing. Widow, she reminded herself, grinding the word into her mind, as if her overactive emotions were a food processor. You’re a widow. As in no men, no sex, just loneliness.

For now, that was fine with her. Maybe forever.

And yet, as Gabe shook her hand and held on long enough to warn her to lock her door behind him, there was a lingering heat in her fingers. The sensation bothered her. A lot.

So did the way he looked at her—a disconcerting combo, in the depths of his eyes, of sympathy, amusement, distance…and lust.

Quickly, she shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it. She leaned on it, closing her eyes.

Gabe McLaren wasn’t just a man trying to be kind. He was aware of her as a woman.

She was aware of him as a man.

But that was simply because she was in mourning. Sure, she was lonely—a widow—but she wasn’t stupid.

Gabe McLaren was a cop. He might remain a part of her life until Thomas’s murderer was caught. After that, she’d merely need to convince him that neither Tommy nor she needed his help or any other cop’s to survive.

As she dutifully locked the door, though, she realized something: attempting to convince Gabe McLaren of anything he didn’t want to believe might be as futile as trying to get the wild waves of the Pacific to settle down for an afternoon nap.

HOLLY COULDN’T sleep that night. Big surprise. She hadn’t slept much at all since Thomas’s death.

Why? she wondered, lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t as if they had been so close that she missed him here, in her bed. Or even out of it.

Still…he had been her husband. He’d been a major part of her life, notwithstanding how distant they had become recently.

She groaned and sat up, flicking on the lamp on her bedside table. Glancing around, she recalled how she had so defiantly made this bedroom her own, decorating it with flowery Laura Ashley sheets and curtains.

One of the quilts she’d sewn was folded carefully at her feet. And a couple of her own favorite stitched creations hung on the walls.

What would Gabe McLaren think of her “silly little crafts,” as Thomas had dubbed them?

And why did she even wonder about it? Why hadn’t she shown him any when he’d expressed an interest in seeing her artwork?

Forget it. She had much weightier matters to think about. Like her husband. Thomas was gone forever now. He’d been buried today.

No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.

And no matter what Thomas and she had or hadn’t been to one another at the end, Holly mourned him.

Maybe it would help to keep busy. But she didn’t feel particularly creative right now. Perhaps what she could do was to start going through Thomas’s things.

Not his clothes. Not now, in the middle of the night when she felt so sad. But paperwork. That would keep her mind occupied without devastating her.

She rose, put a light cotton robe over her short nylon gown, and went down the stairs to the small room that had been Thomas’s office. She flicked on the light and sighed, “Oh, Thomas.” He hadn’t liked her to come in here, so she hadn’t, for months. Thomas hadn’t liked to pick up after himself, either, and this room, furnished with desk, chair, small tables for computer and TV, and junk, reflected it. Now, she would have to sort through all the piles, figure out what to save and what to toss.

“Not tonight,” she told herself. She nevertheless picked her way through the debris on the floor and sat down on the desk chair. The room smelled musty. She’d air it out tomorrow.

For now, feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task, she decided just to tackle the smallest piles on the desk. One contained mostly magazines. That was easy. Those about police she would donate to the station, if anyone wanted them. The risqué ones she would toss out. The few dealing with investments…well, those were probably disposable, too.

She wondered suddenly if Gabe McLaren read investment magazines, girly magazines or just ones sent to cops. She laughed at herself and went to work on another pile.

This one was more problematic. It contained files, mostly unlabeled. The ones that were labeled were primarily credit card bills—what credit card was this? It referenced a company different from the one that issued their shared card. It had been sent to Thomas at the address of the N.B.P.D. station.

She glanced at the charges: firing range practice, gasoline, a local department store. Nothing unusual. But why were these charges on a separate credit card? She hadn’t seen anything recorded in their checkbook indicating payments on this card.

She put that file down and tried another. It contained a list of all the shops along Pacific Way, the traffic-free street perpendicular to the beach where Sheldon, Evangeline and a multitude of other local trendy tourist establishments had their stores. Nothing too exciting about that.

There were a few other files, some with familiar financial information, others with photographs, mostly of Tommy.

Not her, of course. Or of all of them together.

Still, this folder caused tears to flow down Holly’s cheeks. No matter what else Thomas had been, no matter how estranged she and he had felt from one another, her husband had loved their child in his own way. And Tommy had certainly adored his daddy.

Who had killed Thomas? Was the money stolen from Sheldon’s worth a human life? Or had there been another reason…?

Shuddering, Holly arranged the stacks on the desk into neater piles, then headed back to her bedroom.

“YOU WANTED to see me, Chief?” Al Sharp’s posture seemed relaxed, with one hip leaning against Gabe’s desk and his arms loosely crossed, but Gabe saw a wariness glinting from eyes too insolent and set a little too close together. He was clad in his police patrol uniform, complete with Sam Browne about his waist containing his .35 Beretta and ammunition, but his hat was nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah. Sit down, Al.” Gabe motioned to one of the chairs facing him. It was late morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thinking about the Thomas Poston murder.

About his cute little son, Tommy.

And about beautiful, sad—sexy—Holly Poston.

Mostly about Holly Poston. About grieving Holly Poston, who was absolutely off-limits.

Still, he was going to get answers. Fast. For her sake and Tommy’s, as well as his own.

He’d come into the office full of determination. He’d reviewed the file again. And again.

And now he felt as frustrated as hell.

Al settled in and leaned back. His eyes left Gabe for the first time, taking in the rest of the office.

Gabe had left a lot as it had been when his predecessor, Mal Kensington, was chief of police, but he’d added his own touches to the décor. On the wall now hung a detailed satellite map of the area, some congratulatory plaques and medals Gabe had earned while with the Sacramento Police Department and, for his amusement and the possible discomfiture of those who came to visit, a photograph of himself shaking hands with Evangeline Sevvers, mayor of Naranja Beach—and Aunt Evangeline to him.

He’d also heard that he was a heck of a lot more organized than Mal had ever been. The top of his desk was nearly empty. He was a great believer in keeping things filed for easier access when he needed them.

“What’s up?” Al was clearly growing uncomfortable at the delay. With his extra chin and nearly shaved head, he resembled a tall and skinny bulldog. But he’d proven to be much less than a bulldog on the investigation.

“Thomas Poston’s murder. You know—”

“Chief. Sharp.” Jimmy Hernandez strode into the room and sat in the chair next to Al’s.

Detective James Hernandez’s Hispanic facial features were broad and sharply geometric, his body lean and trim beneath his khaki shirt and dark slacks. No uniform for him, as a detective. And usually no suit coat, either.

He had been hired by Gabe first thing when Gabe had been hired to run the Naranja Beach P.D. Jimmy had been one of the best damn detectives Gabe had ever met when they’d worked together with the Sacramento Police Department.

He was one of the few people who knew why Gabe had really been hired for this job. He’d come along to assist Gabe—as well as to head the local detective unit.

“Glad you’re here, Jimmy. I was just beginning to tell Al that I haven’t been happy about the progress we’ve made on the Poston case.”

“Yeah?” Jimmy glared at him. They might be friends and cohorts, but Jimmy made his own opinions known. Very known.

“Yeah,” Gabe replied. His cool gaze was on Jimmy, who barely hid a grin. They both knew the criticism was leveled at Al Sharp, not the chief detective. Most likely, Al knew it, too.

Al was a patrolman as his partner Thomas had been, and not a detective. Still, because of the special circumstances of this death, Al had taken a leading role in the investigation. He’d known Thomas well. He knew a lot of the same people Thomas had known. And he, maybe more than anyone else, was motivated to solve his partner’s murder.

“I’ve consulted with Jimmy every step of the way,” Al said, “just like you told me, chief. Right, Jimmy?” He glanced over at the detective beside him.

“You tell me, Al,” Jimmy replied.

“I’ve talked to everyone you suggested,” Al said defensively, “asked the questions you insisted on, and like that.”

“I figured,” Gabe said. “And ‘like that’ is why I’m taking a bigger role in the investigation myself. Five days have passed, and we don’t even have a suspect. That’s too long. Way too long.”

Gabe rose behind his desk and leaned forward as if he were going to get right in Al’s face. The patrolman had insisted on participating in the investigation. Thomas had been his partner. His friend.

But he was going to learn that wanting was not the same as succeeding. And if he took something on while part of Gabe’s force, he’d damned well better produce.

Gabe had been attempting to be a good guy since arriving in Naranja Beach and taking over the position as police chief. He’d figured he was more likely to get the information he needed for his covert investigation if he fit in, became part of the furniture. So far that hadn’t worked.

And Jimmy hadn’t been any more successful than Gabe so far.

Gabe was about to change his strategy. Especially since he believed the two deaths could be related.

“We’re going to know who killed Poston and why within the next week, or heads are going to roll. Got it, both of you?”

Jimmy nodded, but Al’s tone was curt, his expression surly as he said, “Yeah.”

“That’s ‘yeah, sir,’ Sharp.”

“Yeah, sir.” Al stood and gave a mock salute.

“What’s your plan, Jimmy?” Gabe asked. “Al knows people around here. Who do you want him to question?”

“Concentrate on the people who heard little Tommy Poston crying on Pacific Way that morning,” Jimmy said. He remained seated, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked up at the patrol cop. “Did he tell them anything?”

“You know the kid’s not talking.” Al’s attempt to hide his annoyance came across as a sneer he turned into a cough.

“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said. “But he might have been then, in his fear and excitement. In any event, talk to those people.”

“I have.”

“I know,” Gabe told him.

Al’s glance signaled a hint of relief, as if he believed Gabe was about to support him. Wrong.

“I read your report,” Gabe continued. “But there’s a lot that isn’t in it. Talk to them again. Did they see anything else? Hear anything besides Tommy? I want to know everything from exactly what each of them was eating for breakfast at Naranja Diner that morning when they heard Tommy scream, to how many times it made them belch. How foggy did the marine layer make the air, or could they see anything or anyone along Pacific Way? Got it?”

“Yeah—er, yeah, sir,” he amended as he met Gabe’s eye.

Only then did Gabe let the patrol cop escape his office.

“You figure he’ll get those answers?” Jimmy asked dryly.

“What do you think?”

Jimmy grinned as he stood and walked toward the door. He turned back to Gabe. “I think I’ll do some follow-up myself.”

“You got it,” Gabe said. “And while you’re at it—”

“Yeah, yeah. If I can be subtle enough, I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the other situation.” Jimmy left the office.

What next? Gabe wondered.

He decided to call Holly, and ask her…what? Something to do with the case, like… Nothing. He was merely looking for an excuse to call her this morning, fool that he was.

Forget the call.

Shaking his head, he went to the file cabinet. Extracting a folder labeled Poston, he thumbed through it.

The physical evidence was minimal and inconclusive. The murder weapon was something sharp, like a knife, but hadn’t been found at the scene. Sheldon Sperling had said a decorative letter opener, part of his artsy stock, seemed to be missing. His shop had been dusted for fingerprints, scoured for hairs and other clues, but it was open to the public. Even if everything could be identified, it still might not point to the perpetrator.

Sperling. He’d been hit on the head and didn’t remember much. But he was a person Gabe wanted to question himself, a lot more than he’d been able to at Holly’s after Poston’s funeral.

And if he just happened, in Sperling’s shop, to see some of the needlework created by Holly Poston…

He was becoming obsessed with the woman, damn it, and he’d only just met her.

No. He was obsessed with the case. She was an integral part of it. Thomas Poston’s murder was his first big challenge as the head of the N.B.P.D.—his first big official challenge. He would solve it, and quickly. And, hopefully, the unofficial assignment, too.

But as soon as the Poston case was solved, he would let the others on his force play guardian angel to the Postons.

GABE DIDN’T MAKE it to Sheldon’s shop as anticipated. While driving his department-issued brown sedan along Naranja Avenue toward Pacific Way, he saw a familiar vehicle. Holly Poston’s bright red minivan was parked at a meter along the street.

Where was she? He pulled over at a yellow line—one of the perks of his job—and looked around. City Hall, where the N.B.P.D. offices were located, was a mile behind him. In this area, Naranja Avenue contained rows of low-rise stucco office buildings and a few retail shops—much less trendy than those along Pacific Way. Two blocks down was Naranja Community Hospital.

Gabe wasn’t able to guess where, around here, Holly had gone. But then he spotted her, hand in hand with Tommy, emerging from the nearest building. It contained mostly medical offices.

His insides compressed as if in a vise. Was one of them ill?

He exited his car and approached them.

Holly looked tired. Her lovely dark eyes drooped, and the dark circles beneath them had grown larger.

But somehow the sight of her spurred not only his sympathy but sexual stirrings, too. Again. The heat he felt looking at her wasn’t only from the strong California sun that beat down on the avenue on this midsummer afternoon. Not at all.

Holly was dressed in jeans and a form-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off every soft curve. Curves that just begged to be touched….

Idiot, he berated himself. Or was it pervert?

Holly watched her cute little son, who was clinging to her hand but lagging behind. He was in bright red shorts, a navy T-shirt and sandals.

“Holly?”

She looked up quickly, a startled expression on her face.

“Sorry,” Gabe said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your van.” He glanced behind her toward the medical building. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” she said, her tone a shade too bright. “We just came to see the doctor.” She knelt down beside her son and gave him a hug. But Tommy looked listless and didn’t hug back.

Gabe’s heart went out to him. To both of them.

“Tommy woke up a couple of hours after you left,” Holly continued, “and didn’t get back to sleep. He had a bad dream.”

Stooping down to their level, Gabe read between the lines. Tommy had awakened, crying, after a nightmare and had kept Holly up all night. She was frightened for him. What caring mother wouldn’t be? She had taken him to a doctor. A pediatrician or a psychologist? Poor little Tommy might need both.

“Did Tommy have a tummy ache?” Gabe asked gently, though he suspected what the answer would be.

“No.” The frantic expression in Holly’s eyes suggested that she had reached her wits’ end and didn’t know how to help her scared son. “We saw Tommy’s new doctor again, a special one who likes to talk to children and likes them to talk to her, too.”

“I hope it was a good visit,” Gabe said. But he could tell from Holly’s demeanor that it hadn’t been, that Tommy hadn’t opened up even to a specialist.

“It was a fine visit,” she said nonetheless, her voice falsely cheerful. “It was so good that we’re going back to see the doctor again next week. And maybe then Tommy will take his turn and talk, too.”

“Great. How about if I come over tonight and read Tommy another bedtime story. Would that be all right with you, sport?” Gabe held his breath. Tommy obviously had something he was keeping inside. Gabe wasn’t an expert like the doctor they’d seen. He wasn’t likely to be any more successful at extracting whatever it was from the child. But someone had to, for Tommy’s sake, as well as for the investigation. And Gabe was going to try. He’d gotten one word from the boy, at least. Maybe he could get more.

He allowed himself to breathe again when, very slowly and solemnly, the sweet-faced child nodded.

Gabe stood. “Great. You guys like pizza?”

Holly rose, too. “You don’t have to do that,” she whispered very softly, so only Gabe could hear.

“I know I don’t have to,” Gabe replied. “I want to.” The damned unsettling thing about it was that he did. He wanted to return to that pretty beach community house with its attractive furnishings. He wanted to spend more time with this very sexy woman whose only interest in him, if any, would disappear as time passed and memories of her husband faded.

Any man she became attracted to now, when her emotions were turned upside down by her loss, would be thrown out like yesterday’s pizza crusts when she began to heal.

And that wasn’t for Gabe. Not again.

But he intended to unravel the threads that had led to her husband’s death. As quickly as possible.

Almost subconsciously, his conditioning as a longtime cop kicking in, he heard the sound of someone driving too fast down this busy street. He looked up. At the same time, he heard one bleat from a siren. Good. A patrol officer was on it.

A small, white car pulled over to the side of the street into an empty space right beside where Gabe, Holly and Tommy stood, a patrol car with rotating lights hugging its rear. It was the unit assigned to Bruce Franklin and Dolph Hilo.

Gabe, and all the people on the sidewalk, watched as the two officers did all the right things: taking their time getting out of their vehicle—undoubtedly checking the plates with their onboard computer, then approaching the stopped car.

Dolph Hilo was the officer who got out on the passenger side, nearest where Gabe stood with Holly and Tommy. He smiled and saluted.

And just as at his father’s funeral, Tommy Poston began to scream.

Chapter Four

Terrified, wanting to cry herself, Holly dropped to her knees on the hard pavement and hugged her wailing son. “Tommy, honey, it’s all right,” she soothed. But her voice broke, and she knew she was lying. It wasn’t all right.

Why did Tommy scream this way? Of course it had something to do with Thomas’s death, but why this reaction? Had Tommy seen how his daddy was killed? Then why was he still alive?

Thank God he was still alive….

Holly looked up. Gabe—kind, thoughtful Gabe who had been there for her at Thomas’s funeral and last evening, too—knelt beside them. Bruce Franklin and Dolph Hilo had joined them. They had been friends of Thomas’s, fellow patrol officers, and…

And they were in uniform! Gabe was dressed in a well-tailored suit, befitting an administrator, but the other cops were in patrol uniforms—complete with navy blue military-style shirts with epaulets, badges and emblems, Sam Browne belts, matching dark trousers. Could that be it? There had been many officers in uniform at Thomas’s funeral, when Tommy had begun to shriek. Some were dressed more formally, but some looked just like this: the uniform Thomas had usually worn.

“Tommy, honey, are you upset because you see the uniforms like your daddy wore?”

He stopped screaming in her ear, took a breath. When she looked him in his red, blotchy, wet face, he stared at her. He didn’t nod, but didn’t shake his head no, either.

She looked desperately at Gabe, whose expression was both compassionate and angry, as if he would choke with his bare hands the demons tormenting her son. “Could that be it, do you think?” she asked. “Is this because he misses his father so much that every time he sees someone in uniform he gets upset?”

But how could Gabe know?

“Maybe,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’ll have to find out. But not now.” He took Tommy from her arms. He was sobbing once more, but at least he had stopped screaming. Holly was reluctant to let him go, but Gabe had known instinctively what to do with him before. Maybe he could help now, too.

“You know what?” Despite the ire Holly had seen in his face, Gabe’s voice was gentle. “I see these guys every day, and sometimes I feel like crying when they’re around, too.”

He made a quick sideways motion with his head. The patrol officers must have somehow understood, for Dolph, a short, dark-haired man with a barrel chest and Asian features, said, “Yeah, he does, too, the wimp.”

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