He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many waysher walk, her height, the flawless texture of her skin and her lips. Michelles lips had been thin and expressive, but this womans were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.
He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking too clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening
an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television, TV program guide and a remote control. No bills, coupons, cassette tapes, film canistersnothing like the clutter in his house.
The mantel above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and found the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers, but found only bare-essential kitchen items.
Looking for something? she asked, her voice low and sultry with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?
He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.
The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. Shed transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman whod just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such an ugly facade?
Im sorry, Miss Morgan. Im afraid Ive let my curiosity overcome my good manners, he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.
She raised a skeptical brow.
I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama wouldve been remiss if she didnt pound those Southern manners into me every day of my rebellious life. He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any ladys heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasnt biting any more than a gator in December.
What can I do for you, Mr?
Detective MacIntyre, he repeated.
She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.
How long have you lived here? he asked.
What does that have to do with my locket?
First things first, all right?
I dont understand, she hedged.
Please answer the question.
Three years.
He looked around, disbelieving. In this house?
Yes.
Dont believe in too many possessions, do you, Miss Morgan?
May I have my locket?
Im afraid not. He propped himself against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest.
And whys that?
Was that a quiver in her voice? Evidence.
Her gaze shifted down and her small white fingers fluttered like a butterfly as she played with the top button on her dress. When, then, may I have it?
Dont you want to know why its being held?
A shadow passed in front of her eyes. She mouthed something, then dropped her hands to the counter between them.
He stepped closer to her, determined to discover what had her so fidgety. Im sorry. I didnt catch that.
No. I dont, she blurted.
Now I find that mighty strange. He took another step toward her, placed both hands on either side of hers and leaned in close. Close enough to see the creamy white skin of her throat flutter as she swallowed. Why wouldnt you want to know what happened to an obviously cherished possession?
She took a step back, refusing to meet his eyes.
Most people would, he continued. Why not you?
She didnt respond. Just stared at the floor between her toes and wrung those small white fingers. Fingers that could have slit Michelles throat? He was finding that difficult to believe, but she was afraid of something.
Is there some point to all this, Detective MacIntyre?
Her lower lip quivered, and he felt an urge to reach out his thumb and still it. What do you do, Miss Morgan?
Excuse me?
For work?
I write.
A writer, huh? What do you write?
Would you like some coffee? Iced tea? she asked.
Tea would be great. He leaned against the kitchen counter, kicking one boot over the other, and watched as she passed, sorely tempted to blow on the fine hairs that had slipped their bondage to feather against the back of her neck. He forced back the thought and considered how hard he should push for the answers to the questions she was so obviously evading.
She opened the fridge, removed a large pitcher of tea and filled two glasses. She placed a glass in front of him, along with a bowl of sugarcoated pecans.
Thank you, maam. Thats mighty hospitable of you.
Without looking at him, she picked up a pecan and bit into it. A dab of sugar creased the corner of her sweet little mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out and licked the sugar away. The movement warmed the chill in his blood. He ignored it and gulped down his tea. Her large