Cynthia Cooke - Shiver

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

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

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

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

“Published?”

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

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

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

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

It never was.

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

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

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

“You sure?”

“Yes. I mean…I think I am.”

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

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

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

Devra nodded slowly. Of course she wouldn’t.

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

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

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

“Who are they?” he repeated.

“My parents.”

“Where do they live?”

“Washington State.”

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

She hesitated.

He looked at her, waiting, coldly calculating.

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

He didn’t.

“Is that all?” she stammered.

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

“Like what?”

“Do you have a record?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She just stood there, staring at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony raised a questioning brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s mouth twisted with disapproval.

“I’ll get my purse,” Devra said.

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