“I’m your surveillance, Cassie.”

Disbelief clouded Cassie’s expression. “You’ve got to be kidding… Chief Bradley assigned you?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And if I say no?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But I don’t want you,” she snapped.

“Too bad, baby. You’ve got me.”

Dear Reader,

Happy New Year! Silhouette Intimate Moments is starting the year off with a bang—not to mention six great books. Why not begin with the latest of THE PROTECTORS, Beverly Barton’s miniseries about men no woman can resist? In Murdock’s Last Stand, a well-muscled mercenary meets his match in a woman who suddenly has him thinking of forever.

Alicia Scott returns with Marrying Mike… Again, an intense reunion story featuring a couple who are both police officers with old hurts to heal before their happy ending. Try Terese Ramin’s A Drive-By Wedding when you’re in the mood for suspense, an undercover agent hero, an irresistible child and a carjacked heroine who ends up glad to go along for the ride. Already known for her compelling storytelling abilities, Eileen Wilks lives up to her reputation with Midnight Promises, a marriage-of-convenience story unlike any other you’ve ever read. Virginia Kantra brings you the next of the irresistible MacNeills in The Comeback of Con MacNeill, and Kate Stevenson returns after a long time away, with Witness…and Wife?

All six books live up to Intimate Moments’ reputation for excitement and passion mixed together in just the right proportions, so I hope you enjoy them all.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Witness…And Wife?
Kate Stevenson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of my father, Aleck Fine

1916-1995

KATE STEVENSON

After more then twenty years in Colorado, author Kate Stevenson considers herself a “near native.” Drawing on her knowledge of people and the Rocky Mountain Front Range, she writes stories about strong, risk-taking heroes and heroines who struggle to build lasting relationships in today’s challenging world.

Now that her children are grown, Kate spends her time writing and teaching. She shares her home, at the base of the Rocky Mountains, with her husband and their cat, Spike.

Kate always enjoys hearing from her readers, who can write her at P.O. Box 20271, Boulder, CO 80308-3271.

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

Cassie Bowers hated being late, even a little. Even when it wasn’t her fault.

With an impatient gesture, she shoved back the hood of her khaki raincoat and hurried away from the security checkpoint at the Boulder Justice Center. Water dripped from the hem of her coat, leaving a trail of moisture in her wake, and her shoes made a squishing sound against the marble floor. Without slowing, she nudged aside her wet sleeve and checked the time—6:05. She quickened her pace and angled left into a dimly lit hall.

From behind the closed door of one of the offices she passed, a phone rang unanswered. Except for Cassie and the guard who’d let her through security, the Justice Center seemed empty.

Of course, she knew that wasn’t true. Besides the night cleaning crew, at least one other person was here late—Judge Thomas Wainright, the man who’d left the message on her home answering machine. The only man capable of pulling her away from her snug house on a soggy evening after a day of running down leads.

A gust of wind rattled windows high on the wall across from Wainright’s office, and as Cassie rapped on the door the lights flickered.

When no one responded to her knock, she tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal a small, shadowed anteroom. In the feeble light cast by the only window, the room’s furnishings appeared indistinct and vaguely threatening. Along one wall, file cabinets stood sentry duty, while a secretary’s desk in the center of the room guarded the entrance to the judge’s chambers.

“Judge Wainright?” Cassie stepped forward, her soggy shoes sinking deep into plush carpet.

“Judge Wainright?”

Behind her the latch clicked softly into place.

“Judge Wainright, it’s Cassie Bowers.”

Rain splattered against the window like the echo of distant enemy fire. A shiver ran up Cassie’s back.

Where is he?

Crossing to the desk, she switched on the brass lamp and examined the appointment book that lay in the pool of light at its base. Strange. Her name wasn’t there. Flipping the page, she checked on the next day’s calendar. Not there, either.

Puzzled, she glanced toward the judge’s chambers. The door stood slightly ajar, but no light showed.

Mentally she reviewed bits of the message she’d heard on her answering machine when she’d returned from Denver. …something odd… Meet me at six. I’ll explain then.

If it weren’t for the note of urgency underlying the words, she’d have postponed their meeting till morning in spite of her curiosity. Instead, she’d thrown her coat back on and raced across town—to find him gone.

Unless he’d just stepped out for a bit.

She hesitated an instant, then shrugged out of her coat, depositing it across the top of a wing-backed chair. Since she was already here, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. Plopping onto the chair, she crossed one leg over the other and ran her fingers through her damp curls in a hopeless attempt to make herself look presentable. Water trickled down her neck.

A sigh of exasperation escaped from her lips. She hated delays. When she’d taken the job on the Denver Tattler a year ago, she’d thought her days of hurry-up-and-wait were at an end. With a weekly publication, she’d believed she could pick and choose her times. Yet, here she was—cold, wet…and waiting. Only one step removed from her years on the local daily newspaper.

Impatience wriggled inside her, betrayed by the soundless tapping of her fingers against the upholstered armrest. Shifting her weight, she tried to calm her irritation by envisioning the public’s reaction to the articles taking shape on her computer. Local drug traffic. Money laundering. White-collar crime. The series was certain to stir up a furor, establishing her once and for all as a top-notch investigative reporter. A reporter even Pop would approve of.

Her meetings with Judge Thomas Wainright were going to be instrumental to her success. In today’s world, nearly anyone could write a decent piece on drugs. But not everyone had access to Wainright. One of the best-known judges in the state, he was celebrated for hard-nosed justice when dealing with the drug cases that passed through his courtroom.

And he never gave personal interviews.

Cassie, however, held a trump card. Wainright and Pop had sat on the bench together, and even better, they’d remained friends after her father had retired to teach law.

She’d been certain Wainright would assist her in her mission. Though she’d seen him only occasionally in recent years, she still recalled his visits to the family home in Denver. His imposing figure, the air of reserved authority that clung to him, as well as her father’s obvious respect for the man’s integrity, had all combined to make an indelible impression on her young mind. Wainright was one of the few men Pop truly admired, and given half a chance, he’d expound for hours on some of the judge’s more famous cases. “Mark my word,” Pop would say. “Some day you’ll see Wainright on the Supreme Court.”

A crack of thunder split the muffling quiet. At almost the same instant the room brightened with a flash of lightning. Startled from her musings, Cassie checked her watch.

6:15.

In spite of her determination to be patient, she frowned. Where was he? She was positive she hadn’t garbled the message, yet it wasn’t like Wainright to overlook an appointment, and she’d only been five minutes late.

Maybe she’d misread his tone, mistaken distraction for urgency. Or he could have hoped to fit her in before another meeting, then decided not to wait when she didn’t show. After all, he couldn’t be sure she’d received his message in time to come.

A glance at the window told her nothing had changed outside. Rain buffeted the building, rippling the clear glass like a fun-house mirror. Unwilling to brave the weather again so soon, she decided to give him more time. Half an hour. If he hadn’t come by then, she’d leave a note and call in the morning.

Shadows crept across the carpet until she was finally on the outer fringe of lamplight, the darkness pressing at her back. The air in the room grew heavy and oppressive, a result of excessive humidity, she felt sure. But knowing the cause didn’t calm the jittery feeling in her stomach nor make breathing any easier. When she felt an eternity had passed she tilted her wrist.

6:20.

Maybe she should find the guard and ask for help locating the judge. She rose from the chair, then hesitated. What if Wainright showed up while she was gone?

A barely audible scraping sound, like the whisper of cord across metal, emanated from the room on the other side of the desk.

Cassie froze, hairs rising on the nape of her neck. When the sound failed to repeat itself, she let out the stale air locked in her lungs. She paced to the window and peered into the dreary landscape, feeling more sympathetic toward Noah than she ever had during years of Sunday school.

Air shifted against her back. Her heart thudded.

Get a grip, woman! Next, you’ll be seeing ghosts.

She smiled nervously. Cassie Bowers never let her imagination run away with her. She was too sensible, too down-to-earth. Why, if a ghost had dared rear its head, she would have laughed it back into the grave.

Although she’d checked her watch mere moments ago, she looked again… 6:22. She pressed her lips together and decided her nerves couldn’t take eight more minutes.

Her mind made up, she crossed to the desk, intent on scribbling a quick note. Something halted her hand as she reached for the notepad next to the lamp.

A soft, nearly inaudible sound.

A moan?

She held her breath and waited for the sound to repeat itself. It didn’t. Narrowing her gaze, she stared at the slit of black that outlined the unsecured door to the judge’s chambers.

No way could he be here. All the lights had been turned out, and she’d called loud enough to wake the dead.

Dead?

A sudden vision of the man, lying ill or injured, floated through her mind. She took a hesitant step toward the door. “Judge Wainright?”

With the flat of her hand, she pushed at the unresisting barrier. It swung noiselessly inward. In spite of the prickling along her scalp, she took another step and ran her fingers along the wall in search of a light switch.

A movement within the darkened room caught her attention, drying her mouth and making her pulse flutter.

“Judge Wainright?”

Even as she spoke, she suspected it wasn’t the judge. The shape that detached itself from the murky shadows wasn’t tall or solid enough.

Unnerved by the apparition’s failure to respond, she widened her eyes, trying to adjust her vision to the deep gloom, and groped once more for the elusive light switch.

The figure seemed to sense her purpose. With lightning speed, it leaped forward. In the dim light something glinted in its upraised hand.

Cassie’s heart thudded wildly.

Disbelief cramped her stomach.

Fumbling, she found the switch as something crashed against her skull.

Bright light exploded.

The room went dark.

Chapter 1

Straining to open her eyes, Cassie fought the darkness that pressed in from all sides, ominous and threatening like the murky depths of a midnight ocean. An undertow caught her, dragging her deeper and deeper into the abyss. Desperately she snatched at handholds to slow her descent.

Her clutching fingers came up empty. The current grabbed her, sent her tumbling and spinning farther and farther from the surface. A scream welled up inside her. She was trapped. Prisoner in a surreal world of turbulent water and inky despair.

Minutes…hours…went by while she struggled, driven as much by fear of the unknown as by instinct to survive. Seaweed tangled around her legs. Her movements grew sluggish. Warmth drained from her body, like blood from an open wound.

A traitorous voice urged surrender, told her she couldn’t win. She refused to listen. Ignoring her aching chest, her cold-numbed limbs, she gathered herself for one final assault.

She called on her last bit of willpower and launched herself.

Forward.

Upward.

Toward freedom.

For long moments she floated, pulling great gulps of air into her burning lungs as the nightmare receded. Gradually her breathing steadied and the world stopped spinning. The gentle rocking of waves solidified into a hard, lumpy surface that poked uncomfortably into her backside. She opened her eyes. Beneath her head, the pillow was damp. A sheet twisted around her legs.

Sounds, muffled and distant, grazed her ears. A low hum. A faint rattle. Her muddled brain registered the whisper of rubber-soled shoes brushing against tile. An antiseptic smell hung in the air.

Groggily she peered around, straining to make sense of the dim shapes. Metal bars hemmed the bed. The outline of a nightstand. And on the other side of the room, the edge of a darkened doorway.

A hospital? What was she doing in a hospital? Alarm spasmed through her.

“Awake?” a voice whispered.

The single word perforated the quiet of the room. Her heart lurched. She jerked toward the source and instantly regretted the movement. Pain stabbed behind her eyes, setting off a jackhammer in her skull. Muscles screamed in protest.

She gasped. What on Earth was the matter with her?

“Take it slow, slugger.”

Slugger? No one called her slugger anymore. The only ones who used the nickname she’d earned at age eight were her brothers and…Luke.

No, it couldn’t be him.

The metallic taste of despair coated her throat, overriding the throbbing in her head. She closed her eyes in denial, remembering the last time she’d lain in a hospital bed, the last time she’d heard the same gravel-edged voice utter the silly nickname.

The last time.

Or was the last time now?

Her stomach knotted and she clenched a fist against it in an attempt to ward off a rising tide of nausea. Surely she hadn’t just…

Fragmented scenes flashed across her mind—bits and pieces of her life that assured her she hadn’t imagined the passage of time. Her queasiness eased.

A nightmare, then.

She frowned, wincing as skin tightened over bone.

No nightmare. She felt too awful to be dreaming. Taking care to make no more sudden moves, she shifted her head and peered into the shadows, hoping she was wrong about the speaker’s identity.

“Can you stand a little light?”

No. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know who was there. Before she could protest she heard a click, and white pricked the darkness, illuminating the figure next to the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut as her suspicion was confirmed.

It was Luke.

A rush of longing, more potent than anything she’d allowed herself to feel in ages, clogged her throat. What was he doing here? No one had told her he’d returned to Colorado. But then, why should they? No one knew it mattered. No one—not even her family—knew what it had cost her to offer her ex-husband his freedom and then watch him walk out of her life. Without a single protest.

A familiar, aching hollow opened inside her, an emptiness more draining than whatever had landed her in this bed. Wearily she opened her eyes, knowing she had to say something. “What…happened?” Her tongue, suddenly three sizes too big for her mouth, stumbled awkwardly over the words.

“There was an accident.” He lifted the water container from the table beside the bed. “Would you like some water?”

She nodded, then regretted the movement as pain needled down her neck. What did he mean, “an accident”?

Before she could make sense of the statement, he’d slipped an arm beneath her shoulders for support and eased her higher, allowing access to the container’s plastic straw. She gulped greedily, trying to ignore the pressure of firm muscles at her back and his palm warm against her arm. When he finally drew away, it was like losing him all over again. Perilously close to tears, she said the first thing that came to mind. “I thought you were in Texas.”

Only when his expression tightened did she realize how accusatory she sounded. Helplessness enveloped her. Around Luke, it seemed she never said the right thing.

“I’ve had enough of Texas. Two years was all I could take.” He shrugged, the nonchalant gesture at odds with his bleak tone. “No Rocky Mountains.”

Two years? It seemed like yesterday. Through eyes barely open she studied his heavily shadowed jaw and uncompromising mouth. He hadn’t changed a bit. Except that now, instead of condemnation, she sensed a flicker of concern in his eyes. Tears prickled against her lids.

Too late. An eternity too late.

Two years ago she’d needed him. Not now. She concentrated on the throbbing in her head in an attempt to blot out the pain in her heart.

It hurt so bad.

When she raised a hand to her forehead, her fingers brushed a padding of gauze. “What—”

“Leave it alone,” Luke said. Laying a restraining hand on her arm, he reached across her to press the button on the bed’s control panel.

Although Cassie tried to summon resentment at the authority in his tone, her senses overrode her. His touch warmed her chilled skin. His familiar scent filled her nostrils, stirring old memories, old needs, old desires.

The hall door swung open.

“You’ve finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” said a cheery voice. The nurse touched Cassie’s wrist, checking for a pulse Cassie felt sure was elevated, then smoothed the bed-clothes. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been keelhauled.”

“That’s to be expected. How’s the head?”

“Sore. What happened?”

“You had an accident.” The nurse shot a glance at Luke. “Hasn’t Detective Slater—”

Confused, Cassie saw Luke shake his head, halting the nurse midsentence. A look of consternation crossed the woman’s face, but she recovered quickly. “You’ll be fine,” she assured Cassie with a comforting pat before leaving. “I’ll let the doctor know you’ve regained consciousness. He’ll want to see you right away.”

Cassie scarcely registered the nurse’s departure over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Every instinct screamed they were hiding something—something worse than the car accident she’d imagined when Luke first spoke. But that was crazy. She wasn’t pregnant. Not this time. Dizzy with tension, she fumbled for alternatives. For an instant she envisioned herself paralyzed, but a quick test of her legs beneath the covers assured her everything was in working order.

The fact that she was relatively uninjured did little to stem her rising flood of panic. She hadn’t imagined the odd exchange between Luke and the nurse, so what else could it be?

A gruesome thought popped into her head. “Did someone die?”

Avoiding her eyes, Luke massaged the back of his neck in an all-too-familiar gesture of reluctance.

My God, that’s it. I’ve killed someone! Her breath caught in her lungs as she waited for the answer.

“Yes.”

She recoiled. Around the lump of horror forming in her throat, she managed to croak, “Who?”

Luke turned away, his voice muted. “Judge Wainright.”

Judge Wainright? Why would Judge Wainright be in her car?

Cord whispered across metal.

Cassie’s gaze leaped to where Luke stood at the window, pushing aside the curtains to look at the predawn sky. She stared in alarm at his slumped shoulders while faint impressions brushed her consciousness.

Rain.

Shifting shadows.

Darkness.

Abruptly, before she lost her nerve, she spoke. “I don’t remember the accident. Tell me.”

“No accident.” Luke let the curtain fall back into place. “Murder.”

Light flashed across her memory. Light and the sound of thunder.

A storm. Yes—a storm! She’d been on her way to interview Judge Wainright… She remembered rain splattering her face as she hurried from the parking lot into the building.

Into the building?

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Something about the building. She gripped the bedrail, struggling to remember.

Shifting shadows.

The taste of terror on her tongue.

A flash of light.

Her gaze leaped to the door of what she supposed was the bathroom, strangely unsettled by the darkness beyond. And like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point, the string of impressions snapped.

Shuddering, she released the railing and stared at her open hand, unsurprised to see the imprint of the metal bar on her palm. She rubbed at the ache and took a shaky breath. “It’s all a blank.”

Luke took forever to settle into the room’s only chair, an eternity of time during which her anxiety level went up several notches. His guarded expression, when he finally raised his eyes, made her tense in anticipation.

“At approximately seven-thirty last night, a guard at the Justice Center called the police to report a homicide.”

She clutched at the sheeting. “Judge Wainright?”

Luke touched her fisted hand and nodded.

“How?”

For several moments she feared he wouldn’t answer. Head bent, he loosened her grasp from the sheet and, with elaborate attention, smoothed her fingers between his palms. His clumsy attempt at comfort only increased her apprehension.

“Please,” she pleaded.

His hands stilled. “A blow to the head. Something heavy enough to crush his skull.”

She’d thought she was prepared to hear the details. She wasn’t. Her stomach plummeted as an image of Thomas Wainright’s benevolent smile formed in her mind. “He called…left a message…”

Luke lifted his head, slipping into cop mode. “What about?”

“I don’t know. I assumed it was something to do with the series I’m working on. He’d been helping me—”

“What’s the series about?”

“Drug traffic—the new white-collar crime.”

Luke frowned, but didn’t comment. “Did you erase the machine?”

“There wasn’t time. I jumped in the car and—” She swallowed convulsively and gripped his hand. “He wasn’t there. At least, I thought—”

Something stopped her, an elusive scrap of memory that fluttered ghostlike on the edge of her consciousness.

“Tell me what you remember.”

“I heard something.” The tape holding the gauze in place tugged at her skin as she knit her brows, but the harder she tried to concentrate, the farther away the memory slipped.

“I can’t remember.”

“Take your time. It works better if you don’t try to force it.”

She recognized the tone. She’d heard him use it often enough on others. Accident victims and hysterical witnesses—they all responded to his quiet concern and spilled their guts. But Cassie had nothing to spill. No explanation. No insight. Nothing except a vast void.

And a lump on her head.

“We found you just inside the door to Judge Wainright’s chambers, unconscious,” Luke explained, his gaze fixed on her face as if hoping the telling would prompt her memory. “The attacker probably hit you with the same object he used on Wainright.”

The same object? With Wainright’s blood still dripping—

Cassie jerked her trapped hand free, then stiffened, tormented by fragmented images. Shifting shadows. A flash of light. Thunder.

“I don’t remember…” she whispered, fighting against a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Anything.”

If her response frustrated him, Luke was careful to hide it. His expression remained neutral as he leaned back in the chair. “Okay, Cassie. It happens sometimes. Especially with head wounds. Given time it’ll come back. Meanwhile we’ll see what we can get from the tape.”

His composure grated on her nerves. She hated the way nothing bothered him. She’d always hated it. No matter how bad things got, Luke remained calm and unruffled. Even when…Cassie turned her face away to hide the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes.

If only her head would quit pounding. If only she could forget the past as easily as she’d forgotten last night. If only…

She’d fallen asleep. Somewhere between protest and angry silence, she’d drifted away. Luke moved to the side of the bed, noting the dark smudges beneath Cassie’s eyes, the dried tear tracks on her cheek.

She whimpered and stirred restlessly. Without thinking, he brushed back the damp curls that clung to her forehead, and she stilled beneath his touch.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. And in desperate need of a champion.

Abruptly he withdrew his hand and shoved it deep into his jeans pocket. Cassie was anything but helpless, no matter how she seemed right now. He would only end up looking like a fool if he let himself believe otherwise.

Before self-pity could gain a fingerhold, he strode out of the room, nodding to the cop on guard duty outside the door. Luke had a statement, for what it was worth. There was nothing more he could do here. Only pausing long enough at the nurses’ station to leave his phone number and call Cassie’s father, he hurried through the empty corridors and out into the early morning.

His battered Ford sat at the far edge of the parking lot, looking like a poor relation to the half dozen or so late-model cars scattered around it. As he made his way down the aisle, the sun pushed its way above the trees, burning off the remnants of last night’s storm. The world sparkled with color, crisp and sharp. Not even a hint of breeze disturbed the air. It was going to be a scorcher.

Before climbing into his vehicle, Luke followed the progress of a slow-moving car on the opposite side of the street. Bundled newspapers shot from the passenger window, thudding against concrete driveways at regular intervals. Last night’s events had probably made the morning edition. Thank God, the press had agreed to withhold Cassie’s name. He would have hated to see it spread across the front page, especially now, when she seemed to be the only lead.

Weariness washed over him. He was getting too old for these all-nighters, he decided as he climbed into his car and started the engine. He felt like one of those ads that showed a plate of scrambled eggs: “This is your brain on…” Insert lack of sleep.

Shaking his head, Luke tried to clear his mind. Right now all he wanted was a steaming shower and a few hours’ rest, but first things first. Chief Bradley expected a report. Pulling from the parking lot, Luke began reviewing the previous night’s events.

Cassie was the last person he’d expected to find at the scene of a murder. When he’d returned to Colorado three weeks ago from temporary assignment with the Dallas Police Department, he’d known he stood a good chance of running into her. Boulder’s size made it inevitable their paths would cross. He’d prepared for a casual encounter, not the heart-stopping experience of identifying an unconscious victim as his ex-wife. Not since his rookie days had he felt so utterly helpless. And then anger had overwhelmed him—raw, pulsing rage that made him want to smash his fist against skin and bone. Unfortunately there’d been no one to punch.

Well, he needn’t worry about inappropriate reactions much longer. Bradley was certain to invoke the unwritten rule against working on an investigation that involved family. And rightly so. Luke’s marriage to Cassie was history, but too many memories remained. Memories that would certainly play havoc with his objectivity.

Memories.

Like that first morning when she’d slipped through the doors of the police station. In one swift glance from across the room he’d taken in her white blouse, black skirt, pale blond hair pulled into a tight knot at her nape and had tagged her—a teenager masquerading as a grown-up.

He’d amended his assessment when she confidently approached the front desk and questioned the clerk. A woman. Small and delicate, but definitely a woman. He revised his estimate of her age upward several years. He didn’t know he was staring until she scanned the room, searching for someone. Him, he realized, when she met his curious gaze and started toward him.

A current of electricity shot through him, and hot coffee nearly overflowed his mug. At the last instant he looked down and released the lever on the coffee machine, battling a sudden case of nerves that left him feeling more like a gawky boy than a seasoned cop.

And then she was standing before him, smiling. Open and friendly, her smile was hard to resist. But Luke’s fate was sealed when he gazed into her eyes.

Cassandra Bowers had eyes the color of Amazon rain forests.

She’d laughed when he told her that the first night they made love. “How do you know?” she asked. “Have you been there?”

“No,” he replied, letting the strands of her hair run liquid through his fingers. “I’ve only dreamed.”

“A poet,” she whispered and kissed his lips with gentle urgency. “I’ve fallen in love with a poet.”

She hadn’t been entirely wrong.

Because of her, poetry had sung in his heart. He just couldn’t speak the words out loud. And somehow, when tragedy had struck, the words became lost in the cadences of sorrow.

A growl of almost physical pain reverberated in his chest. Savagely he ground the car’s gears in his haste to put distance between himself and his memories.

A horn blared.

He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt a few inches past a stop sign as the other car crossed the intersection, its driver raising his hand in a one-fingered salute.

Luke grimaced and continued down the street, ticking off the names of men who could take over the investigation. Burns, Jessup, Haggerty—all competent replacements.

Competent, but unimaginative.

They’d follow the book, track down leads and patiently wait for Cassie to regain her memory.

And not one of them would worry about what she was going through.

Just as he hadn’t two years ago when they’d lost their child.

Luke pulled in at the station and turned off the ignition, trying to convince himself there was no comparison. The two situations were entirely different. He’d been going through hell himself.

Still, the fact remained—he could have done something.

Wrong, he argued, staring out the windshield. Cassie hadn’t wanted his help. Hadn’t wanted him after the baby had died. And he couldn’t blame her. After all, the entire tragedy would never have played out if Luke had not authorized a high-speed police chase.

He rubbed the back of his neck to work loose a knot of tension and climbed from the car, feeling every one of his thirty-six years. Hindsight was easy. Easy and useless. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he might wish to. And, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about Cassie’s current problems.

In an hour he’d be off the case.

Chapter 2

“I feel fine,” Cassie protested.

“And you’ll feel finer tomorrow.” Dr. Denning’s tone brooked no argument. “A concussion, however mild, is nothing to mess with, young lady. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you walk out tonight. I’ll stop by first thing in the morning, and if things check out, you can go home then.”

“So what’s to check out?” Cassie grumbled, resentful of her forced inactivity. Headache or no, it felt wrong to be lying in bed like an invalid instead of up getting things accomplished.

The doctor smiled as though he understood her impatience. “Try to get a good night’s sleep,” he suggested before leaving.

Sleep! Since when did people sleep in hospitals? Between the staff’s poking and prodding, visits from overly cheerful volunteers and the shrill demand of the telephone, Cassie hadn’t managed to nap once today. Even the painkillers she’d been given didn’t make her tired.

Woozy, yes. Sleepy? No way.

Rebelliously she stared at the white tiles marching across the ceiling. If Denning wanted her to get some rest, he should send her home.

When the phone rang, she considered ignoring it. The last thing she needed was more sympathy from her family or another round with Peter Eckhart.

Peter, her boss and editor at the Denver Tattler, had expressed the same concerns as her father and brothers, but once satisfied Cassie was all right, he’d focused on her articles. His emotions had roller-coastered from fear she wouldn’t finish on time to elation over the possibility for a dramatic conclusion to the series.

Cassie didn’t blame him. He was only doing his job. But the thought of another such conversation stayed her hand. Five rings later she decided the caller wasn’t giving up. With a sigh she rolled toward the metal nightstand and lifted the receiver.

“Cassandra Bowers?”

Cassie had always hated her given name, and no one used it but her father. No one, she amended, except Luke, and he only did when he wanted to get a rise out of her. The certainty that this wasn’t Pop or Luke cooled her response several degrees. “Yes?”

“How’s your head?”

“Okay.” Her head felt like a helium-filled balloon, although she’d be darned if she’d admit it. Easing it back onto the pillow, she began a tally of tile holes.

“Such a tragic accident. A woman isn’t safe anywhere these days.”

The slight emphasis on the word tragic caught her attention, halting her tile-hole count. “Who is this?”

“Just call me a…concerned citizen.”

The caller’s chuckle gave Cassie the uncomfortable feeling she’d missed a joke. She shifted the phone to her other ear. Wishing she’d refused the painkiller the nurse had brought half an hour ago, she tried to focus on the raspy whisper.

“A smart girl like you should be more careful.”

Why was everyone always telling her to be careful? First her father and brothers, then Luke, now some crackpot with a frog in his throat. It wasn’t as though she went looking for trouble.

“Course, some people claim there’s no such thing as an accident. They talk about being stupid, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Borrowed trouble. That’s what her father had once called her job, and she’d denied it, laughing. I’m only reporting trouble, not borrowing it, she’d answered. She wanted to laugh now, but instead, a chill trickled along her spine.

“Play it safe. I’d hate to see more accidents happen.”

The caller’s voice droned on, scraping her nerves like a nail file against sensitive fingertips.

“…to your car some morning on the turnpike or to that cute little dog…”

A noose seemed to tighten around her neck, cutting off her air. Whoever this was, he knew far too much. About her. About the assault. About her life. An inner voice urged her to slam down the phone, slice off the rambling monologue, yet some contrary part of Cassie’s brain wouldn’t let her.

It took Luke, who chose that instant to walk in, to end the one-sided conversation. One glimpse of her frozen expression and, without a word, he pulled the phone from her numb fingers. He listened for only a minute, then carefully returned the receiver to its cradle. For long seconds he stared at the instrument, the muscles of his jaw clenched. From the hall came a burst of laughter.

“Recognize the voice?”

Cassie shivered, recalling the hoarse whisper. Mutely she shook her head.

Luke dragged a chair to the side of the bed and straddled it. Hooking an arm over the padded vinyl back, he took her limp hand in a grasp that belied the careful control of his voice. “What did he say?”

Warmth radiated into her cold fingers, giving her courage to relate what she remembered in a matter-of-fact tone. The caller had upset her more than she cared to admit. Now, reading Luke’s obvious concern, she experienced something she thought she’d long ago purged from her heart.

You’re a case, nothing more, she reminded herself. But as her fear slowly ebbed, she confronted the truth. Much as she hated to admit it, Luke’s presence made her feel a little safer.

“How many people did you call today?” Luke asked.

Puzzled, she met his intent gaze. “Dad and my editor. What difference—”

“The creep knows your name, knows you’re here. Since the papers and TV kept quiet, someone you talked to—” For an instant his grip tightened painfully.

Cassie’s sense of well-being disappeared in a wave of indignation. Pointedly she withdrew her hand from his grasp. “Now I’ve heard everything. Some kook calls and it’s my fault? What about reporters, police, ambulance drivers—even the coroner’s office? Anybody could have mentioned the murder, mentioned my name.”

“True,” he conceded with obvious reluctance. “But it’s obvious that someone—”

“Next, you’ll be saying this whole thing—” she motioned to her bandaged head, irritation smoldering “—wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been working on a series on local drug trade.”

“It wouldn’t have.” He ignored her scowl, picked up the phone and punched in a number.

Trust Luke to be literal, she thought resentfully as he filled Chief Bradley in on her call. Following his logic, if she hadn’t been working on the articles, Judge Wainright wouldn’t have called and she’d never have gone to the Justice Center that night! And if Thomas Wainright hadn’t been a good friend of her father’s, she might never have gotten his cooperation. And if Pop had never been a judge, himself… Well, she could go on forever.

She tuned back in to Luke’s fractured conversation in time to hear him deliver a curt “Yes, sir” before hanging up. His use of the phrase, more than the clipped tone, told her he wasn’t pleased with whatever the chief had said, though his carefully schooled expression told her nothing.

“Bradley wants someone with you when you go home tomorrow.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can get myself home.”

“Getting you home’s not the problem. It’s what happens after you’re there.”

“Are you talking surveillance?”

Luke nodded. “Routine patrol, at the least. Possible round-the-clock if he can find the manpower.”

Cassie’s heart sank. Even she could see the sense. She was the sole witness to a murder, living alone. But the thought of strangers invading her home, watching her every move… No. She wouldn’t stand for it.

“Maybe your father or one of your brothers could stay—”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” She didn’t dare tell him she’d already turned down the same suggestion over the phone four different times today. While she loved her family dearly, their concern was stifling. No, Pop would smother her with attention, and her three brothers—well, they still treated her like a tagalong little sister. “They’d drive me crazy in minutes.”

Her face must have reflected horror because Luke suddenly grinned. “You’re probably right, but—”

“I’ll be okay,” she insisted. “I have a phone, locks on the doors and Duffy.”

“Duffy?” Luke raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Cassie’s lips twitched in an effort to maintain a suitably serious expression. While she’d be the first to admit the little terrier had problems following directions, she didn’t consider his behavior a laughing matter. At least not now, when she was trying to portray him as protection. “I’ve been taking him to obedience classes,” she said primly.

“I wondered why he raised one paw when I brought out the dog food.”

His comment pulled her up short. “You went into my house?”

“I had to get the tape of Wainright’s message off your answering machine, and since I was there, I couldn’t let Duffy starve.”

He remembers where I keep the spare key.

The thought of Luke walking through the rooms they’d once shared, touching her things, absorbing the nuances of the life she’d created without him was disturbing, but she dared not examine her feelings too closely. Shutting her eyes, she concentrated on important issues. Murder. Judge Wainright. The voice on the phone. She shivered.

“No one’s trying to curtail your freedom, Cassie. We only want to protect you.”

Her eyes snapped open. “I know,” she answered, wondering how he still had the ability to read her mind. “I just hate not having a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Cassie felt a knife edge of guilt as she remembered past choices, ones he had every right to censure her for. She darted a glance at him. His expression remained unreadable. Maybe she’d imagined the blame in his tone.

She sighed. “All right. I guess I can put up with anything for a while. I’ll just have to make the best of it.”

Luke lips thinned into a tight smile. “You always do.”

“Don’t be a damned idiot!” From behind his cluttered desk, Chief Bradley glared at Luke.

Knowing the chief of police was only venting frustration on the nearest target, Luke refused to take offense. Besides, in the last hour he’d called himself far worse. He knew how his request would be viewed. Friends would suspect him of living in the past, Cassie would accuse him of meddling, and his colleagues would say he’d taken leave of his senses.

Hell, he didn’t know, himself, why he was insisting on being put back on the case, and adding surveillance to his other duties was crazy. But he had to do it. Maybe because of the mess he’d made of things two years ago. Maybe to erase his one big mistake. And maybe because he had a weakness for people in trouble. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t just walk away now. He had to help her or carry the guilt for the rest of his life.

“You know the rules. No family. Period.” The chief’s chair squealed in protest as he leaned back, arms crossed over his massive chest.

“There’s nothing on the books. I checked.”

“Okay. So it’s unwritten. It’s still damned good policy.” Bradley’s scowl deepened. “Bad enough when the creeps get off on technicalities. Imagine what a good defense lawyer would do with an investigation headed by the victim’s nearest and dearest.”

“She’s hardly nearest and dearest. It’s been two years.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bradley grumbled. “They’d have a field day. You wouldn’t be able to hear the charges over the screams of prejudice and conflict of interest.”

Luke latched onto some of the infinite patience for which he was known and kept his mouth shut, aware of the chief’s propensity for arguing both sides of the issue without anyone else’s help.

“Crackpot lawyers,” Bradley muttered. “Whadda they know?” He stared glumly at Luke, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

Swearing, Bradley launched himself from his chair and paced across the room. “I’ve already had three calls from the D.A.’s office and one from Mayor Brannigan. ‘Shocking state of affairs when we’re not even safe in the Justice Center,’ he tells me. Says to make the investigation ‘top priority.”’ Bradley jabbed one finger at the duty chart on the wall. “McCormack’s tied up with the Swenson case, Haggerty’s too green, and Jessup’s already whining about not enough manpower. And the mayor wants top priority.”

Stretching his legs before him, Luke crossed one foot over the other and studied the tips of his dusty loafers, a perfect picture of unconcern.

“Crazy bureaucrats expect miracles. How am I supposed to deliver when they cut budgets and tie my hands?”

“Sure looks as though they have you over a barrel,” Luke observed.

“That’s what they think.” The chief swung around, eyes narrowed. “It’s been two years, you say?”

Luke nodded.

“Should be long enough to put things in perspective.”

“Plenty long enough.”

“No regrets?”

“None.”

“And you were first on the scene.”

Luke confirmed the chief’s statement with another nod.

“Then it’s settled.” Bradley lowered himself into his chair and shuffled the folders on the desk. “You’re back on the case. Investigation and surveillance.”

“Thanks.”

“Just make damned sure she stays out of trouble.”

“Guaranteed.” Luke unfolded himself from his seat, ignoring the chief’s snort of disbelief. “And if I can’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

“She won’t appreciate it, you know.”

The chief’s words halted Luke as he reached for the doorknob.

“She never did like you interfering. I never met anyone so headstrong—” Bradley shot him a sly look from beneath bushy brows “—except for a certain bullheaded detective.”

Luke acknowledged the truth of his statement with a wry smile. He was bullheaded. No doubt about it. Which was exactly why he could handle Cassie. Resolutely he shut his mind to a voice that reminded him of the many occasions when he’d been less than successful handling her.

It wouldn’t be easy. Nothing concerning Cassie ever was. But, by God, this time he’d make sure she was all right, no matter how furiously she resisted his efforts.

As he left the office, he thought he heard Bradley chuckle.

“So when does she get here?”

“Who?” Luke watched Cassie stretch to retrieve two ceramic mugs from her kitchen cupboard, her shorts riding high on her bottom. She had no right looking so good when she’d been released from the hospital only this morning.

“My bodyguard—protector—whatever you call her.” Her bare heels plopped to the floor, and she threw him a puzzled look.

He swallowed, his mouth dry. “Oh, her.”

A scratching sound saved him from an immediate answer. Grateful for the reprieve, Luke opened the unlocked back door and let Duffy in. Knowing from past experience it would do no good to lecture Cassie about her bad habits, he merely closed the door and threw the bolt. The terrier bounced around him, his tail wagging furiously. Luke leaned down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“I can see he really missed me,” Cassie said, arching one delicate brow.

Luke shot her a sheepish look, remembering how the puppy he’d given her for a birthday present, the same puppy whose affection she’d courted with biscuits and hugs, had always preferred Luke’s company. “He just remembers I fed him last.”

“Right.” She poured coffee and brought it to the table. As she settled into her seat, Duffy wiggled past her and waited expectantly next to Luke’s old chair. Luke reluctantly took his assigned place, wondering how long it would take for Cassie to return to her original question.

Not long.

She stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee, then looked up. “Well, when does she arrive?”

Luke met her curious gaze and decided to get it over with. “She’s here.”

“Where? Outside?”

“No, here.”

Her mug poised halfway to her lips, Cassie glanced toward the living room, then back at Luke.

“No.” He shook his head. Shifting one ankle to rest on the opposite knee, he dropped his bombshell. “She’s a he. Me. I’m your surveillance.”

Disbelief clouded Cassie’s expression. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Luke shook his head.

“Chief Bradley assigned you?”

“Yep. At least, when I’m not needed on the investigation.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And if I say no?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But I don’t want you,” she snapped, slamming down her mug for emphasis. Brown liquid sloshed onto the oak surface of the table.

“Too bad, baby. You’ve got me.”

She glared.

Luke feigned stony indifference. This was one battle she wasn’t going to win, no matter how hard she fought, because he was doing this for her own good.

Cassie was the first to look away, down at the puddle on the table. Her mouth tight, she grabbed a rag from the counter and dabbed at the mess, as though the spill was her biggest concern.

Luke knew she was using the time to regroup.

He waited while she tossed the rag into the sink. Waited while she stood with her back to him, staring out the kitchen window. And waited while she returned to her chair and studied her mug in silence.

He recognized the strategy as one of his own. Forcing the suspect to wait, stretching minutes till they seemed like hours, raising the anxiety level. She wasn’t half-bad at it. Even though he was aware of what she was doing, his nerves felt like strings on a fiddle, anticipating the bow stroke.

“There’s no way I can change your mind?”

“Nope.”

She gritted her teeth, releasing an exasperated breath of air. “So I’m supposed to sit around all day, staring at the walls.”

“No,” he replied, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a grin. “Just when I’m not here. When I am, you can stare at me.”

The look she threw him was murderous. “This may be funny to you, Luke Slater, but I’m dead serious. I can’t stop living my life because of some nebulous threat. I have a job, a social life….”

Something twisted inside him. He’d spent the last two years censoring his thoughts about who she might be seeing, who now shared her bed. Too much of a realist to believe she’d remained alone and celibate, he still wasn’t prepared to hear details. “Don’t worry,” he told her grimly. “I don’t plan to play chaperon to you and your current boyfriend.”

Indignation crossed Cassie’s face. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, he cut her off. “As for your job, have you considered the possibility that Wainright’s death might have something to do with what he wanted to see you about?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There could be dozens of motives for his death. Revenge, for instance. Or robbery—maybe he interrupted someone in the process of burglarizing his office.”

“We checked that angle with his secretary. Nothing was taken. No files were missing. No jewelry. He still had two hundred dollars in his wallet.”

“Maybe my arrival scared the robber off.”

He knew from her haunted expression that she was grasping at straws. Cassie didn’t want to believe Wainright’s death had anything to do with her, but even she wasn’t naive enough to believe a burglar would choose the Justice Center as a good place to pick up loot. He locked gazes with her and let his silence refute her reasoning.

Biting her lip, she looked away, but not before he caught the shimmer of tears in her emerald eyes. As she gazed unseeing out the window, Luke fought back an overwhelming desire to erase the stricken look from her face. He longed to trace the curve of her cheek and feel the velvet of her lips turn into his palm, seeking the comfort he could offer.

He didn’t dare. For her own good, she had to face facts, had to accept reality, no matter how harsh.

Cassie took a deep breath, then slowly released it. Her expression, when she caught his gaze, was calm.

Too late, a cold shiver of premonition shot through him. He stiffened, primed to speak, to defuse the quiet determination he read in her eyes.

“I’m going to finish my articles.”

Chapter 3

“Damn it, Cassie.” The chair legs screeched on the linoleum as he leaped up. Startled, Duffy scrambled to his feet, shooting Luke an injured look. Cassie laid a soothing hand on the dog’s head to assure him he wasn’t the cause of the outburst, but he continued to eye Luke warily.

Luke paced across the kitchen. “Why can’t you listen for once? This isn’t a game. It’s real life. Make the wrong move and you lose more than your two hundred dollars for not passing Go.”

“I don’t play games with my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered without looking at her.

Choking back another retort, Cassie watched him pick up the coffee carafe and refill his cup. “For your information, Thomas Wainright was a family friend. And in my book you don’t just sit quietly by and let someone get away with murdering a friend.”

“So you’re on a crusade.”

“No. Yes.” She floundered, stung by his obvious disdain. “This is more than a crusade. It’s…” She ducked her head, fighting resentment at his unwillingness to hear what she said.

The stutter of a lawnmower drifted from a nearby yard, accenting her discomfort.

Why did it always seem as if the two of them were speaking different languages? No matter how hard she tried to explain, he would never understand. “You can’t stop me,” she repeated, keeping her tone reasonable.

“Anything for a story, huh?”

“For this one, yes. Judge Wainright didn’t often give interviews, but he talked to me because he thought what I was doing was necessary. Important. I owe him.”

“Owe him?” Luke resettled in the seat across from her, conveying cynicism with a quirk of the lips. “Or owe yourself?”

Cassie clamped her teeth together to prevent angry words from spilling out. Why did he always attribute the worst possible motives to her? Did he really think she wanted to end up just another statistic on the police files?

She took a sip from her mug, hoping the jolt of caffeine might kick-start her brain and supply her with the way to win his cooperation. Instead, the acrid taste of cooled coffee coated her tongue and brought a grimace to her face. She shot a glance across the table. Luke’s dark eyes glittered beneath lowered brows. Arms folded across his chest, he was obviously primed for a fight. Abruptly she changed tactics. “I suppose you’re right. I am thinking of myself.”

He showed no surprise at the admission, but a subtle softening of the lines that bracketed his mouth prompted her to plunge ahead. “If my…digging…set things in motion, then I’ve as good as murdered Judge Wainright myself. The only way I can think of to make up for it is to not let his death be meaningless. I have to figure out what he wanted to tell me and finish the articles.”

Luke shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Wainright made his own choices. You didn’t force him. And if his death was due to information he had, you’re risking your life trying to ferret it out.”

His cavalier disregard of her emotions, to say nothing of the ease with which he shrugged off her reasoning, blew Cassie’s composure. “Risk? With you playing bodyguard?” she scoffed. “The only risk I’ll be taking is tripping over you.”

Luke’s gaze swept over the front of her T-shirt in blatant appraisal, and despite an obvious effort to maintain a serious expression, his lips twitched with amusement. “Well,” he drawled, in a passable imitation of a Texas accent, “just make sure you’re facing me when you fall.”

His bantering caught her by surprise, and even knowing he wasn’t serious, she couldn’t stop the onslaught of tactile memories. The crispness of his chest hair grazing her swollen nipples. A tangle of legs as they sprawled across a bed, laughing. Hot kisses. Building passion.

Heat crept up her neck. If such a display weren’t guaranteed to inflate his ego, she’d have covered her breasts in a virginal attempt to shield herself from his gaze. Silently she cursed her unruly senses and wished she dared kick Luke in the shins for not playing fair. Their relationship was history. Dead history. And no amount of playacting on his part could convince her otherwise.

The thought, repeating itself like a mantra, enabled her to pin him with a quelling glance that wiped the amusement from his face. “I don’t plan to take risks,” she announced firmly. “I’m perfectly willing to play the game your way—cautious and careful. What I’m not willing to do is run scared.”

“It’s not running scared to give us time to do our job.”

“I don’t have time. I have a deadline. Eckhart has guaranteed me lead-story status if I wrap everything up within the week. Waiting will only give people the chance to cover up.”

“It’ll give us a chance to solve the case without you messing things up,” Luke retorted, his impatience getting the best of him.

“Me?” She turned and widened her eyes in pretended innocence. “You’re forgetting who trained me. You should have more faith in the job you did.”

She was playing with fire. She knew it from the familiar look of exasperation that narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his brow. Then, amazingly, his expression softened. Leaning forward, he covered her hand with his much larger one. “Let me do my job, Cassie,” he said softly.

Let me protect you.

The unspoken message was so seductive, Cassie was tempted to give in and do it his way. But she couldn’t. She’d battled too hard, too long, to yield now and let others dictate what was best for her.

She wasn’t asking much, and she knew she wasn’t being reckless. She’d agreed to delay action until he could be with her. He was just being bullheaded.

“I have to do this,” she insisted. “Now, not later.”

Luke jerked back his hand as though burned. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Stung by the bitterness in his voice, she thrust out her chin. “Neither have you. You still issue orders and expect everyone to jump.”

“Maybe if you’d jumped instead of insisting on having your own way—” He clamped his mouth shut, then catapulted from his chair, as though he couldn’t bear looking at her one minute longer.

Cassie felt the blood drain from her face. She didn’t need to hear the words to know what he’d almost said.

If you hadn’t insisted on having your own way, Danny wouldn’t have died.

Her heart twisted in agony, the same agony she’d lived with for two years: because she’d tried to have it all, do it all, their child was dead.

She would carry the guilt to her grave.

Everyone had warned her to slow down—Luke, her father and brothers, even her boss—but she’d thought she knew better than any of them. She was young and strong, a modern woman. And her doctor had backed her up, giving his approval to continue working as long as she felt like it.

Six months pregnant, she’d jumped at the chance to show them all she was capable of juggling career and motherhood as easily as any other female reporter. She begged for the assignment of interviewing a man being held at the county jail for murder. Everyone had a theory about why he’d killed his wife, then calmly turned himself in. Cassie planned to get the story from his own lips.

The meeting itself seemed to pose no risk. Held in a secured room under the watchful eyes of two guards, it had promised to be as tame as an afternoon tea. How could she have known the man would take her hostage in a desperate bid for freedom? And who could have foreseen the results of the police chase that followed, the chase ordered by Luke to rescue her?

She still had nightmares of the car careening off the highway, trees rushing at her and the bone-jarring impact. The ride to the hospital was blurred by pain, and it was only the next day, when she saw the pity on the nurse’s face, that she knew for certain she’d lost her baby. She’d wanted to scream denial, but one look at Luke’s stricken expression had silenced her. He was having enough difficulty dealing with the death without her falling apart.

Maybe she should have followed her first instincts and loosed her tears. At least then, Luke might have acknowledged her pain. Instead he’d acted like the loss was his alone, a grief she couldn’t possibly share because she hadn’t wanted to be pregnant—at least not initially.

And when his despair left no room for hers, she’d done the only thing she could—hide her sorrow and crowd the hollow in her life with activity.

In silence Cassie cleared the mugs from the table and carried them to the sink, sneaking a glance in Luke’s direction. Hands thrust into jeans pockets, he stood at the kitchen door, seemingly absorbed with something in the backyard, though the rigid set of his shoulders and his widely spread legs betrayed his inner tension.

For an instant Cassie felt an urge to step close, to wrap her arms around his waist and lay her cheek against his back, to whisper she was sorry, the way she’d done in their early days together. Things had been so easy then. One simple gesture and Luke would shake off his irritation and laugh at himself. He’d gather her close and tell her he loved her just the way she was—ornery and contrary and too damned independent.

Not for long. After they’d married, he called her headstrong, foolhardy, and she’d found his attempts to protect her stifling. Maybe people were right when they said the things you loved best about a person were what chafed the most as time went by.

No, she told herself, picking up a wet sponge, their differences couldn’t be settled with a simple apology.

She blotted a coffee stain from the countertop, wishing it were as easy to wipe out past mistakes. But hers had seeped into the very fiber of their marriage, like printer’s ink across a sheet of newsprint.

The curtains at the open window stirred briefly, and the hot, dry air seemed to suck all moisture from her body, leaving behind an empty, brittle husk. She closed her eyes and wished Luke would leave. She had enough to deal with without resurrecting the past. Things like a throbbing head and weary muscles.

Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, she felt a nudge against her bare calf. Even before she turned, she knew Duffy was regarding her with a hopeful look. Grateful for the diversion, she joined in the familiar game by cocking her head skyward and pretending not to notice. Duffy settled back on his haunches, pricked his ears and whined.

Though Luke turned at the sound, Cassie avoided meeting his gaze. Focusing, instead, on playing out the ritual with the dog, she stared at the ceiling and feigned indifference to his whimpers. He gave a sharp bark—her signal to look astonished and ask, “What’s the matter, fellow?” In response, he balanced on his hindquarters and raised his front paws, unashamedly begging.

Cassie dipped a hand into the cookie jar, all too aware that Luke now leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, narrow hips outthrust in a flagrantly male posture.

Watching.

His pose was so achingly familiar, she hesitated, her fingers curled around a dog biscuit. Memories flooded through her, memories of other times when he’d assumed the same stance, following her every movement with such passion-filled intensity, she’d grown faint with longing.

A second bark from Duffy broke the spell. Quickly she withdrew her hand from the jar and held the biscuit a few inches over Duffy’s head. He caught it midair and settled to the floor, crunching happily.

“I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Some old dogs,” Cassie muttered, then looked up in surprise when Luke chuckled.

No one, seeing Luke at this moment, would imagine him other than the most easygoing of men. He’d shrugged off his anger easier than a dog shook water from wet fur, but Cassie didn’t buy it. She studied the lazy smile playing across his lips and wondered what he was up to.

“We won’t solve anything by losing our tempers,” Luke said as though responding to her unspoken thoughts.

Cassie stiffened. “I was explaining my position. You lost your temper.”

Although a nerve twitched along his jaw—an obvious sign he wanted to throttle her—he merely shook his head in resignation. “Have it your way.” He even managed a halfhearted grin as he held up his hands in exaggerated surrender. “Truce?”

She eyed him with suspicion. Luke never gave in unless he’d already come up with an alternate strategy. She wondered what new surprise he had up his sleeve.

“Hell, Cassie,” he growled, his patience snapping. “I’m not the enemy.”

“Trying the ‘catch more flies with honey’ approach?” she asked in saccharine tones.

Even before he bridged the short distance between them, she knew she’d finally pushed him too far.

“Would it do any good?”

His husky whisper raised hairs on her neck. Cursing her runaway tongue, she took a hasty step backward and ran into the counter. Her retreat cut off, she took the only available course of action—she tensed and stood her ground.

Calmly, deliberately, he moved closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him. Close enough to read intent in his dark eyes.

Anticipation skittered up her spine. Surely he wouldn’t—

His fingers curled around her upper arms.

Sensation jolted through her, making a mockery of her efforts to remain indifferent. As her pulse leaped, she realized she’d been deluding herself. She was as susceptible to his charm as she’d been the first time they met.

Her mouth turned to parchment when he drew her to him, but she could no more break free of the gentle pressure he exerted than stop her heart from beating. His palms cupped her face, and she shut her eyes, feeling the soft caress of his breath as he dipped his head.

An alarm sounded in her mind.

She couldn’t respond to it.

Didn’t want to.

The touch of his mouth, coaxing and featherlight, took her breath away, and when he brushed her lips with his moist tongue, she thought she’d melt from pleasure.

It was insanity. Sheer madness. Yet Cassie was powerless to halt the swell of emotions that blossomed within her. As she surrendered to them, inhaling his familiar, masculine scent, the long years of separation vanished as though they’d never been.

His kiss transported her back to the beginning, when their relationship was fresh and new and full of wonder. Power radiated from his lean body; tenderness, from his stroking fingers. Her pulse leaped in an erratic dance of desire.

And then his hands dropped away, releasing her. Cool air slipped between them. She opened her eyes.

Luke’s face was expressionless, his gaze assessing.

“Enough honey?”

As his meaning penetrated, her stomach clenched and a bitter taste filled her mouth. It was a game to him, a cold-blooded experiment. She doused the pain in her heart with a surge of anger. Clenching her hands into fists, she opened her mouth to deliver a scathing put-down.

The phone rang.

No fighter, down for the count, could have felt more relieved than Luke did when Cassie whirled to grab the telephone. Her flashing eyes and thin-lipped glare had informed him she was furious.

Not that he blamed her. He was a fool to have pulled such a stunt, especially when he was trying to be reasonable. If she hadn’t thrown his good intentions in his face, he might have been able to carry it off, but her challenge had pushed him over the edge. There was only so much a man could take before setting the record straight.

Crouching, he scratched behind Duffy’s ears and tried not to eavesdrop. Unfortunately that left him replaying his colossal blunder. The instant she’d melted in his arms, he’d seen his error. Trouble was she’d felt so good, tasted so sweet he didn’t care. Tearing himself away was the hardest thing he’d done in a long time.

He glanced across the kitchen, noting Cassie’s still-angry posture. So much for teaching her a lesson. All he’d proved was their libidos were as healthy as ever, and he’d better make damn sure he never got that close again.

“What do you want?”

In spite of Cassie’s attempt to keep her conversation private, Luke caught a sharp edge in her voice. His senses sprang to red alert.

“What things?” she snapped. Then, as though sensing Luke’s interest, she lowered her voice and repeated the question in calmer tones.

Luke wasn’t fooled. Her white knuckles and stiff spine betrayed her. Rising swiftly, he crossed the tiles on silent feet and peered over Cassie’s shoulder, noting the caller ID display on the phone. Out of Area.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a swell of bravado, “but if you’re threatening me—”

Intuition told Luke the person on the other end was no ordinary crank caller; instinct warned him to tread with care. Cautiously he touched her shoulder to attract her attention. She shrugged from beneath his hand, then went rigid in response to whatever the caller was saying.

With sudden clarity Luke realized he would never win Cassie’s cooperation if they continued to fight. If he didn’t give in to her demands—or at least give the appearance of doing so—she was apt to bolt and ruin any chance he had of protecting her. Gritting his teeth, he resisted an urge to wrestle the phone from her grip and tell the creep what he thought of him in no uncertain terms.

Cassie slammed the receiver down so hard it rang in protest.

“What did he say?”

“He’s watching,” she replied without turning.

Reacting to the thread of fear weaving through her anger, Luke reached out to touch her but was deterred by her rigid stance. Frustrated, he punched in the numbers that would set in motion a trace of the call, by the phone company, when what he really wanted to do was wrap his fingers around the caller’s neck.

She faced him. “It’s the murderer, isn’t it?”

“Possibly,” Luke hedged.

“Probably,” she corrected. She rubbed at her upper arms, as though warding off a chill. “He described the house. The rooms. Duffy. He said he hoped I was a good girl who kept her opinions to herself.”

Though the quaver in her voice wrenched at his gut, Luke knew better than to offer assurances. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Do? I already went back over my notes like you asked. No likely suspects. The people Wainright mentioned by name are either dead or in prison.”

“You said you intended to continue digging so you could wrap up your story. Have you changed your mind?”

Indecision clouded her eyes for the merest fraction of an instant. Then, just as he expected, defiance replaced it.

“No.”

It was time. Time to convince her he was on her side. Time to secure her cooperation and make sure she didn’t go off half-cocked. “Okay. Where do we start?”

“We?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “But you said—”

“I’ve changed my mind.” When her expression conveyed disbelief, he motioned toward the phone. “The caller changed my mind.” Infusing his voice with what he hoped sounded like resignation, he continued. “Besides, what’s the point in working at cross purposes?”

Cassie stared at him, obviously unconvinced of his sincerity, but Luke knew when to hold his tongue. Given time, she would realize that the advantages of his offer far outweighed her reservations.

After long seconds his patience was rewarded when she gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, we work together.”

“Equal partners,” Luke agreed with a smile.

Chapter 4

Judge Wainright’s clerk, Chelsea Sparks, was every male’s fantasy. Tall and willowy, with a liquid fall of hair so platinum it could only have come from a bottle, she was padded in all the right places. Indeed, her ample curves strained the limits of her smartly tailored suit in a manner that was nearly indecent.

Feeling like nothing more than a mushroom in comparison, Cassie poked at her own wild mass of permed curls and watched Chelsea’s pouty Elizabeth Arden lips form into an expression of profound sorrow.

“He was the greatest boss a girl could have.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably under the syrupy flow of sentiment and wondered how long the woman had practiced the slight quaver in her voice and the sad flutter of mascaraed eyelashes. The display was so blatantly false, it curdled Cassie’s stomach. How could the woman just sit there, a room away from where her boss was murdered?

Deliberately Cassie looked at the closed door, ignoring her clenched stomach and clammy skin. Luke had expressed doubts about returning so soon to the scene of the crime, but Cassie had overridden his concern. Now, forcing herself to breathe deeply, she admitted he might have been right. Thank goodness she’d skipped breakfast.

She darted a glance at Luke, who leaned against a bank of metal file cabinets, pen and notepad in hand. He was eating up Chelsea’s performance, if the silly smile on his face was any indication.

Not that Cassie minded. As far as she was concerned, Luke could play the fool over any woman he wanted. Even one so obvious as Chelsea Sparks.

A throbbing ache settled in the spot between Cassie’s shoulder blades. She wished she hadn’t insisted she and Luke combine their efforts. It had seemed a logical solution at the time. Luke could conduct some of the interminable interviews necessary to a murder investigation while she tried to pinpoint the reason for Judge Wainright’s call and work on her articles.

Perfectly logical, mocked an inner voice, except for one small detail.

Watching Luke in action was driving her crazy. His slow smile. The lazy focus of dark eyes half-hidden behind heavy lids. His loose-jointed stance. His demeanor was so potently male it conjured up visions of sultry nights in shadowed bedrooms.

She squirmed in her seat, dismayed at the direction of her thoughts. The last thing she needed was to once again fall under the spell of raging hormones. She was far too familiar with where that could lead. With conscious effort she forced her thoughts back to what had brought her here—drugs, mayhem, murder. Not the most soothing of subjects, but definitely safer, she decided as she caught Chelsea’s murmur of distress in response to something Luke had said.

“I realize this is difficult for you, Ms. Sparks,” Luke commiserated.

Chelsea managed a tremulous smile that would have done credit to a vestal virgin. “I don’t mind. I know you’re just doing your job.”

Luke nodded approval of her attitude as he thumbed open his notepad. “I’ll be as brief as possible, since I see you’re busy.”

“Busy?” Chelsea followed his gaze to the half-filled cardboard boxes on the floor. “Oh, yes. I’m moving. But I have plenty of time to get things in order. I don’t start my new job for a couple of days.”

“New job?”

“Judge Kimball’s clerk recently retired, and he was kind enough to offer me the position.” Spurred by Luke’s raised brows, she elaborated. “He and Judge Wainright worked so closely, it’s rather like keeping it in the family, you know.” She fingered the gold chain at her neck and sighed.

The movement drew attention to her deep cleavage, a fact Cassie concluded was not wasted on Luke, based on the pregnant silence that followed. By sheer force of will, she refrained from shooting him an exasperated glance before she steered the conversation back on course. “What was Judge Wainright like to work for?”

“Wonderful. He was positively wonderful.” Chelsea appeared ready to launch into a soliloquy about her former boss, but before she could start, Luke segued to the next question.

“So you were aware the judge was working late?”

She nodded. “Yes, he had a trial starting first thing Monday morning and wanted everything ready. He often stayed late. Lots of people do here. There are fewer interruptions at night. And on Fridays almost everyone’s gone by six.”

“You didn’t know he was expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“Is that usual? I thought you kept track of his schedule.”

“I do—did. Judge Wainright was a stickler for proper procedure. He insisted I record every appointment.”

Luke frowned. “Yet he didn’t mention a meeting with Ms. Bowers.”

Annoyance painted twin creases between Chelsea’s penciled brows. “If Ms. Bowers did, indeed, have an appointment…” She shot Cassie a skeptical look that indicated she wasn’t entirely convinced of the veracity of Cassie’s claim. “Judge Wainright was undoubtedly being considerate. He knew I was expecting my mother for dinner.”

Cassie refused to take offense at the insinuation she might be lying. Chelsea was obviously miffed she hadn’t been informed of all her boss’s activities. To tell the truth, Judge Wainright’s secretiveness puzzled Cassie as much as it did the clerk. Not for a moment did she consider it an oversight. The man was too conscientious to be forgetful.

No, he’d had some reason for not advertising the meeting. But what could it be?

Resisting the morbid lure of the closed door, Cassie glanced around the sunlit anteroom while Luke continued to question Chelsea. The room seemed no different from when she’d first interviewed Wainright. File cabinets still lined one wall, and the clerk’s oak desk sat in exactly the same spot, centered on a carpet of bright crimson, guarding the entrance to the judge’s chambers. Nothing to indicate a violent crime had occurred a few feet away.

“That’s where they found the judge.”

Chelsea’s voice cut through Cassie’s thoughts, making her aware the conversation had stopped. And to make matters worse, she’d been caught staring once more at the very door she’d tried to avoid.

“But then you already know that’s where it happened, don’t you?” Chelsea said, her tone hushed with morbid curiosity.

A lump lodged in Cassie’s throat, making speech impossible. Suddenly fearful the clerk would offer to open the door, she wet her dry lips and resisted an urge to wipe her palms against her cotton skirt. She didn’t want to see the room. Even if it proved to be the only way to remember what had happened, she couldn’t look.

Her overactive imagination, abetted by a year on the police beat, supplied a much-too-vivid picture of what probably lay beyond the closed door. Gaping holes in the carpet where investigators had cut out bloodstains. Empty chalk outlines identifying the original location of possible evidence. A coating of powder on every stick of furniture that might yield fingerprints.

She shuddered. So little to mark the passage of a man’s life.

“Ms. Bowers doesn’t remember.”

The sound of Luke’s voice wrenched Cassie from her grisly thoughts. Startled, she threw a glance over her shoulder. When had he crossed the room to stand vigil behind her chair?

“Not yet.” Luke patted Cassie’s shoulder.

Chelsea’s bright lips formed into a perfect O.

Cassie felt her cheeks flame at Luke’s theatrical gesture. She realized he hoped to keep the killer guessing, but did he have to act so proprietary? If it weren’t for the clerk’s sharp eyes taking in every move, Cassie would have shrugged off his hand.

“How dreadful,” Chelsea commiserated, widening her eyes in elaborate sympathy.

“A temporary condition, I’m sure,” Cassie replied evenly.

“Since I’m through for now, why don’t you go ahead with your questions, Cassandra?” His thumb grazed the nape of her neck as he withdrew his hand.

Heat zinged along her spine.

Startled, she stiffened, fighting the surge of awareness spreading through her body. His touch had lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental, but whatever message he’d intended was lost in her efforts to ignore her tingling nerves.

She wedged herself into the corner of the chair, as far from his wandering hand as possible, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he rested his hands on the top of the chair, hovering over her like a tenacious palace guard.

Still much too close. But since she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence flustered her, she turned her attention to Chelsea. “I’m sure you were aware Judge Wainright was assisting me with some articles I’m writing for the Denver Tattler.”

“Of course.” She sniffed. “After your interview he ordered transcripts from a long list of trials. He said he wanted to check his facts. It took me two trips to carry them all.”

Since Cassie had hauled her share of records while doing research, she could empathize with the clerk’s vexed air, but Chelsea’s remark raised an interesting possibility. Maybe Judge Wainright had found something Cassie had missed. “I don’t suppose you still have those transcripts?”

“Certainly.” Chelsea motioned toward the steel filing cabinets. “I never throw anything away without express orders.”

Too easy, Cassie thought. “Could I take a look at them?”

Uncertainty flickered across the clerk’s face. “I don’t know. I should probably get approval.” She picked up a pen. “Do you want me to try Judge Kimball?”

“I’d appreciate it. The transcripts might give me a clue to why Judge Wainright called.”

And whether his death had anything to do with me.

While Chelsea wrote herself a note, Cassie fingered the nubby fabric of the armrest and framed her next question with care. “You’re quite certain he didn’t mention anything? Some vague reference to a case, something that puzzled him?”

Chelsea shook her head.

Disappointed, Cassie changed tack, aware that approaching the problem from a different perspective sometimes jarred loose a subject’s memory. “You seem to have been quite close to the judge.”

“I worked with him for two years,” Chelsea informed her stiffly. “He often said I was indispensable.” She raised one brow and lowered her voice as though imparting a secret. “You should have seen the state this office was in when I got here.”

Cassie widened her eyes.

It was all the encouragement Chelsea needed to unbend. “Chaos. Complete chaos. Important papers mixed with department memos, files strewn everywhere. You couldn’t find a pen if your life depended on it.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Sounds like a real challenge.”

“How did you manage?” Luke asked, evidently forgetting it was Cassie’s turn to ask the questions.

Chelsea blinked. “Well,” she said, studying the appointment book in front of her, “I’m nothing if not organized.” She trailed one finger lightly over the book’s embossed surface, a look of genuine regret flickering across her face.

Regret for the job…or for the man? Cassie wondered.

With an impatient movement, Luke straightened and moved toward the file cabinets. His thoughts must have run in a similar vein to hers, for while Cassie fished for a way to tactfully get at the truth, he again butted in. “What can you tell us about his personal affairs?”

“Personal affairs?” Chelsea’s gaze was startled.

“Yes. Friends, people he socialized with, anyone he might have had disagreements with—things like that.”

“I only handled official engagements. Receptions, public appearances. You’ll have to ask his wife about his personal life.”

Cassie would have loved to explore the reason for the bitter twist of Chelsea’s lips as she pronounced the word wife, but the gleam of interest in Luke’s eye warned her she had to act fast if she didn’t want to lose control of the interview completely. Filing the clerk’s reaction away for later consideration, she asked the first thing that came to her mind. “What about enemies? Someone with a grudge?”

“Judge Wainright didn’t have enemies.”

“No enemies?” Luke asked in exaggerated surprise. “Odd. Most men accumulate one or two on their way up the ladder, and a man in Wainright’s profession…”

With startling clarity, Cassie saw where Luke was headed. He was deliberately provoking the clerk, hoping anger would force her to drop some useful piece of information. Unfortunately, in the process, he would ruin any chance for Cassie to gain the cooperation she needed.

In an effort to avert disaster, Cassie protested. “Detective Sl—”

“Not Thomas,” Chelsea insisted stubbornly, her attention focused entirely on Luke. “Everyone liked him.”

Luke’s uplifted eyebrow conveyed his skepticism more eloquently than words. “Even the people he sentenced?”

“Of course not,” Chelsea snapped. “But I’m sure they realized he was only doing his job.”

As she glanced from Luke’s disbelieving smile to Chelsea’s tightly compressed lips, Cassie heard the toilet flush on her interview. It was evident she’d get no more information from the clerk today, if ever.

Slapping shut her notepad, she stowed her tape recorder in her shoulder bag while Luke gave Chelsea a card and suggested she call if she remembered anything pertinent to the case. Not until Cassie and Luke were safely in the hallway did she vent her frustration.

Hands on hips, she rounded on him. “I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“That you wouldn’t keep our bargain. That you’d mess things up.”

“What did I do?”

His feigned innocence fueled her anger. If it hadn’t been a supremely childish gesture, she would have stamped her foot. “Do? What didn’t you do? We were supposed to take turns.”

“I guess I forgot.”

Forgot! The Luke she knew never forgot anything, nor made a single move without careful, advance consideration. Refusing to honor his bald-faced lie with a rebuttal, she listed the rest of her grievances. “First you act as though I’m an hysterical female about to shatter at the slightest provocation, then you butt into my interview and spoil everything, just when I was getting somewhere.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You were getting nowhere. That inane woman was feeding you a line, and you were taking down every word like it was gospel. All I did was get to the heart of the matter.”

“I didn’t believe her—I was drawing her out. She was about to open up when you had to jump in like a moose in a china shop.”

He grinned. “Bull.”

“What?”

“It’s a bull, not a moose.”

“I don’t care if it’s a ten-foot gorilla. You did it.” She swung away and marched up the hall, propelled by his chuckle at her back.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘good cop, bad cop’?”

Cassie planted leather-soled sandals against the marble floor and skidded to a halt. Evidently caught off guard by the abrupt maneuver, Luke bumped into her. An electric current rippled as the full length of his body pressed against her. Disconcerted, she shook off his steadying grasp. “We’re not playing cops and robbers.”

“Aren’t we?”

His familiar masculine scent, mixed with a hint of spicy aftershave, teased her nose. Startled, she met his stare and lost the thread of conversation. He was standing too close. She took a quick step backward and bent down, making a display of adjusting the strap of one sandal, while trying to ignore the heat coiling in her belly.

“Did you catch her slip?”

Cassie straightened, grateful for the excuse to steer her thoughts in a different vein.

“She called him Thomas,” he said.

“Big deal. Lots of secretaries—clerks—use their bosses’ first names. I hardly consider that cause for suspicion.” Except when coupled with obvious bitterness at his married state.

“Anyway,” she continued, picking up the thread of her earlier grievance, “in spite of what you believe, antagonizing people isn’t always the best way to encourage them to spill their guts.”

“It’s a good interrogation technique.” Luke fumbled his notepad from his pocket and flipped back the front cover.

“I was conducting an interview, not an interrogation, and you can’t just jump in every time you decide I’m not handling things right.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, his attention on the first page of notes. “I won’t do it again.”

Cassie’s mouth dropped open. Admitting they were wrong was hard for most men; for the old Luke it was well nigh impossible. What was he up to?

He closed the pad and looked up, his gaze piercing. “Did you remember anything?”

The abrupt question sent a chill up her spine. “No.” She took a step back, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

“It’s all right, slugger,” he assured her, his manner subdued by her obvious discomfort. “From what the doctor says, when your head wound heals completely, your memory will probably return. These things take time.”

Time she didn’t have, not if she intended uncovering a killer. Not if she ever wanted to feel safe again. Still, she managed a lukewarm response that seemed to satisfy Luke.

“I need to check in and see if Haggerty or Jessup have turned up anything on your elusive caller,” he said. “Then let’s see if Judge Kimball’s free this afternoon. He’s on my list, and you can check about those transcripts you want.”

“Good idea.” She started up the hall, her spirits taking an upward swing. “Uncle Harry will be happy to help.”

“Uncle Harry?”

As Luke fell into step beside her, she smiled, taking a measure of satisfaction in throwing him off balance. “Harry Kimball. I’m sure you’ve heard Pop mention him. He’s another old family friend—the one who couldn’t make it to our wedding.”

Old friend hardly described the urbane individual who entered the office where Luke and Cassie waited after lunch. Judge Harold Kimball appeared to be in his early forties, closer in age to Cassie’s brothers than to her father. And the man certainly didn’t treat her like any uncle that Luke had ever known.

“I hope you didn’t have to wait too long, honey,” Kimball said, settling a much-too-affectionate kiss on Cassie’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry about your loss, Uncle Harry,” she said.

“Terrible, terrible. It’s always hard to lose a good friend, but this kind of thing…” Kimball shook his head sadly. “So senseless, so unnecessary. A true tragedy.”

Maybe it was Kimball’s overblown manner or just the intimate way he clasped Cassie’s hands, but Luke couldn’t work up much sympathy for the man. Yet his grief seemed genuine.

“It must have been an awful shock,” Cassie said to him.

“You can’t imagine.” He paused, then seemed to pull himself together. “But what about you? I couldn’t believe when your father told me you’d been attacked. Are you sure you’re not overtaxing yourself?”

Not waiting for an answer, he grasped her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted her head to inspect her healing wound. To Luke’s amazement, she allowed the familiarity, although she pulled away when the judge raised a finger as if he intended to probe the bruises around her bandage.

“I’m fine, Uncle Harry. Pop always claimed I was hard-headed. I guess I proved him right.”

“Not hard-headed, my girl. Determined.” Kimball patted her cheek and smiled. “There’s a difference, you know. And with Benjamin for a father, I’d say you came by the trait naturally.”

Luke’s lips curled in disgust. If there was one thing he hated, it was hearing someone whitewash the truth to make it more palatable. A spade was a spade whatever you called it, and anyone who knew Cassie knew her stubbornness ran far beyond the bounds of ordinary determination. His estimation of the judge dropped a notch, and he cut in before the man could make an even greater fool of himself. “Excuse me, Judge Kimball, but I’m here on official business.”

One arm draped across Cassie’s shoulders, Kimball turned to Luke while Cassie performed the introductions. “Slater?” He rolled the name across his tongue as though trying to solve a puzzle, although Luke suspected he already knew everything he needed to know about Luke. “Weren’t you and Cassie once…”

“Married? Yes.” It was obvious the judge expected more of an explanation, but Luke refused to elaborate. Uncle or not, it was none of Kimball’s business why Cassie and Luke were together.

Evidently, good manners won out over curiosity, for after a moment’s hesitation, Kimball extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, detective.”

Like most cops, Luke dealt in impressions, and early on he’d learned to draw conclusions about a man based on the way he shook hands. If asked to guess, Luke would have pegged Kimball a political, two-handed shaker, for despite the manicured nails and custom-tailored suit, he wasn’t the least reserved. Unfortunately, Judge Kimball’s generic handshake netted Luke little new about his character.

“How about it? Do you have time for a few questions?”

Tilting his right wrist, Kimball exposed a slim Rolex. “I’m due in court in forty minutes.”

“Plenty of time. Shall we adjourn?” Without waiting for a response, Luke stepped into the judge’s private office.

Seemingly unconcerned by Luke’s presumption, Kimball ushered Cassie through the door. Only a slight tightening of muscles around his mouth betrayed his true feelings. Luke pretended not to notice. This was an investigation, not a cocktail party, and the sooner Kimball cut the social amenities, the sooner they could get down to business.

Attempting to curb his impatience, Luke settled into a chair and mentally inventoried the room. Although not an exact duplicate of Judge Wainright’s chambers, it was similar in size and shape. Cases filled with leather-bound legal references and a few mementos took up most of the open wall space. He focused on a grouping of framed certificates that proclaimed Harold Kimball to be a graduate of Harvard Law School, as well as a member of the Illinois and Colorado Bar Associations.

Money, Luke guessed. Conservative, old money, he added as he noted the lone photograph of a younger Kimball shaking hands with Ronald Reagan in the Oval Office.

Cassie, accompanied by the scent of wildflowers, slipped into the chair next to him. Just as they already had a dozen times today, his thoughts scattered before the tantalizing odor, and his body responded to her nearness. Grimly he squared one leg over the opposite knee, his foot aimed away from her.

Waiting only long enough for Kimball to settle behind the desk, Cassie edged forward on her chair, sending her snug, cotton skirt a few inches up her thigh. “Uncle Harry, I need a favor.”

A person would have to be blind not to notice how Kimball ogled the exposed expanse of tanned leg she was displaying, and Luke wasn’t blind. The fact that he himself hadn’t missed the mouth-watering sight was beside the point.

Oblivious to Luke’s chilling glance, Kimball smiled. “A favor? Name it, sweetheart.”

Kimball’s proprietary air and the syrupy names he called Cassie rubbed Luke the wrong way. Nerves twitching, he wondered how far the judge would like to stretch the tenuous bonds of kinship.

“Judge Wainright ordered some transcripts I’d like to look through. Nothing confidential, but I thought they might provide me with additional information for my series.”

“Say no more.” Kimball lifted a rock paperweight and offered Cassie the single manila folder trapped beneath. “Chelsea called, and when I found you had an appointment scheduled with me after lunch, I decided to save you the trouble of going back. That was the only one Chelsea found.” Taking care not to mar the spotless surface of the desk, he set the rock down, turned it a few degrees, then settled back to admire the effect of the glittering amethyst crystals at its hollowed center. “Now I want to know how you really are. Your father assured me you were doing fine, but I couldn’t believe you’d be out so soon.”

“You don’t need to worry, Uncle Harry. Luke’s looking after me.”

“Not too arduous an undertaking, I trust.”

Figuring the comment was rhetorical, Luke met the judge’s unctuous smile with impassive silence.

Cassie tightened her lips in obvious irritation, but evidently decided her best course of action was to ignore the silent innuendo. “Luke’s a little overcautious. Judge Wainright’s death had nothing to do with me, and as far as I can tell I wasn’t even a witness. But—” she shot Luke a sly glance, “—you know how cops are.”

“As far as you can tell?” Kimball’s brows knit in confusion.

“I don’t remember anything that happened. Blank. Zippo.”

“No?” Kimball gazed thoughtfully at Cassie and rubbed the side of his neck. “Even so, it’s usually better to err on the side of caution.”

Cassie stiffened. “Not you too, Uncle Harry.”

“I just wonder if it might not be best for you to— What’s the term?” He glanced toward Luke for help, then supplied the answer himself. “‘Lay low.’ Until the police have cleared up this matter.”

The murderous look Cassie threw Luke told him she suspected him of collusion, but he was too surprised at the judge’s unexpected support to do more than shrug.

“I have work to do,” Cassie insisted.

“I’m not suggesting you abdicate your responsibilities, merely that you table them until the police have done their job. Until it’s safe for you to be out and about.”

“And how long will that be? A week, months? What if they never solve the case?” Cassie was indignant. “No. I have a deadline, and I’m going to meet it whether you help me or not.”

Luke’s heart warmed to see someone besides himself provoking Cassie to rebellion. For a split second he nearly felt sorry for Harry Kimball.

“Now don’t get yourself worked up. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.” It was apparent from his placating tone that Kimball had dealt with Cassie’s stubbornness in the past. “I just haven’t had a lot of dealings with drug cases. It’s why I referred you to Thomas in the first place.” He paused, then added hopefully, “Surely by now you’ve collected enough material…”

“I thought so until Friday, when Judge Wainright called,” she admitted. “But now my instincts tell me he had something more—something important. I have to find out what.”

“Knowing Thomas, he was probably making sure he wouldn’t be misquoted.” When his attempt at levity fell flat, the smile faded from Kimball’s face. Frowning, he stared at Cassie for several moments before picking up a pen from the desk blotter. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

Cassie waited, her expression wary, as Kimball rolled the pen between his palms.

“Go through the papers.” He nodded toward the file in her lap. “I’ll see what I can find out. We’ll give it—say, three days. Then, if nothing new shows up, you write the articles with what you already have. Deal?” His hands halted their restless movement while he waited for Cassie to respond.

Luke didn’t have time to wait. Each second that ticked away was one less question he could ask, one less answer to analyze. In a few minutes Kimball was due back in court, and Luke still hadn’t gotten in word one. It was time to take matters into his own hands. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Cassie,” he said with only a hint of impatience. “Why don’t you think about it while Judge Kimball and I talk?”

Then, before she could voice an objection, he began his questions.

Leaving the chilled building half an hour later felt like stepping into a sauna. Hot, dry and sweat-popping. By the time they’d crossed to the parking lot, Luke was longing for nothing more than a cold shower and a frosty mug of beer.

Cassie hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Kimball’s office, not even after Luke called the station again. He’d expected her to be as frustrated as he over the delay in tracing yesterday’s call, but she’d brushed aside his explanations with an irritated wave of her hand.

He glanced sideways. Bright spots of color stained her cheekbones. She was angry all right, but not over having to wait for a subpoena of the cellular company’s records.

“I’ll drive,” he offered when they reached her car.

Grabbing a folded paper from beneath her windshield, she unlocked the passenger door, then silently handed over the key.

“What is it?” Luke indicated the paper in her hand.

“Advertising,” she answered curtly and ducked into the car.

Whistling tunelessly, he circled to unlock the driver’s side. If he’d had as much sense as God gave mud, he realized, he’d have kept his mouth closed when they left Kimball’s office. Only, the judge’s condescending responses to Luke’s questions had left him feeling like a cat whose fur had been rubbed against the grain.

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