Mallory Kane - Double-Edged Detective

What was the matter with her? In the first place, she never did that. Never.

Certainly not with a stranger.

Leaning back against the headboard and pulling the sheet up over her, Nicole indulged in a bit of morning-after basking. Last night she’d slept better than she had in over a year. Maybe in forever. Her mother’s job as a night cleaning woman in Baton Rouge hadn’t contributed to sleeping well. Her hours had been from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. while she left her young daughter alone on the couch that they made into a bed in their room in a run-down rooming house.

Was it bizarre that the man who was trying to convince her that her life was in danger was the same man who made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before in her life?

Most definitely.

Nicole heard pans rattling in the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine what Ryker was cooking up out of her sparsely stocked refrigerator. She hoped the eggs weren’t too old. She couldn’t remember when she’d bought them.

Jumping up, she ran to the bathroom and washed and brushed her teeth, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that read Kiss the Chef. Just as she was running a comb through her hair, she heard Ryker.

“Come on and make the coffee,” he called.

“Whatever you found to cook, it smells wonderful,” she said as she came into the kitchen and headed for the espresso machine. By the time she had the mugs filled, the plates were on the table. “I assume the eggs were okay?”

“I floated them in water. They sank.” He leaned forward and kissed her, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

“What?” she asked as her heart gave a little leap. He was even more handsome this morning. His hair, damp from his shower, looked darker, which somehow made his eyes look bluer.

“Just following instructions,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her nose, then looking down at the front of her T-shirt. He gently traced the letters.

“Oh, that.” She shivered and her cheeks flamed as his fingertips slid across her breasts. She set a mug down near his plate, then sat. “I never really thought about what it says. What kind of eggs are these?”

“My special scrambled eggs. The only bread I found was green, and I didn’t think green toast and eggs sounded good, so eggs is all you get.”

“That’s fine.” She picked up a fork and tasted the dish. The eggs were fluffy and creamy, with a hint of something savory. “They’re amazing,” she remarked.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he said with a laugh. “Although I have to admit, this is pretty much the extent of my cooking skills. Well, this and sausage gumbo.”

“You can make gumbo? That’s quite a talent.”

“My mother taught me how to make a perfect roux, and as anyone in Louisiana knows—”

“You can’t have a good gumbo without a good roux,” Nicole finished, smiling. “What’s in here that makes them so creamy? I know there’s no cream in the refrigerator.”

Ryker shook his head as he shoveled forkfuls of eggs down and chased them with coffee. “Mayonnaise.”

“Mayonnaise.” She’d never thought about mixing mayonnaise and eggs, although they obviously complemented each other perfectly. “And the savory flavor?”

“Onions. I had to use dried minced onions. You really don’t keep much food around, for a chef.”

Nicole’s mouth was full, so she had to swallow and drink some coffee before she could answer. “I told you. It’s a lot of trouble to cook for one person,” she said, wiping her mouth on a sheet of paper towel Ryker had folded for a napkin.

“Tell me about it.”

“But I am totally stealing your scrambled egg recipe,” she teased.

“No, you’re not. That’s my copyrighted recipe. Not unless you call it Eggs Delancey.”

“How about Ryker’s Amazing Morning-After Breakfast?” she teased.

“That’s a mouthful.”

She picked up her plate and stood at the very instant he did the same thing. They nearly collided.

Ryker slid his plate under hers and took them both. “I’ve got the dishes.” He leaned over and kissed her again. As before, it started as a tease, a little peck on the lips, but she leaned forward, too, and the simple little kiss turned into much more.

Ryker put his hand holding the mug around her and pulled her closer, until the plates in his other hand were pressing into her breastbone. Coffee and salt mingled with bits of egg as their kiss deepened.

Nicole felt the fire starting deep inside her. She made a little involuntary sound in her throat.

Ryker pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Think the dishes could wait?” he whispered.

“I definitely think they could—” A harsh jangle interrupted her.

“Damn,” he said. “That’s my phone.” He retrieved his jacket from the floor beside the front door.

It was William Crenshaw, a friend and fellow detective. “What’s up, Bill?”

“We got another one.”

“Another what?” Ryker glanced at Nicole. She was rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He turned his back to her.

Bill sucked in a deep breath. “Another girl. Dead in her apartment.”

Ryker’s whole body went on alert. Everybody on the force knew about his certainty that St. Tammany Parish had a serial killer. Three young women had been killed in three years, all inside their homes, and all with weapons of convenience.

“When?” he barked.

“The Courtyard Apartments on Main Street in Chef Voleur. Neighbors saw her lying on her patio this morning. Looks like she collapsed while trying to escape.”

“Damn it. Today’s the—” he held the phone away from his ear and glanced at the date “—twenty-second. Okay. I’ll be right there.” Ryker hung up and turned to find Nicole looking at him. The running water was off. How much had she heard? He didn’t want her to know that another woman had been killed.

“You have to go?” she asked.

He nodded. “Got a situation.” He ran a hand across his damp hair.

“Is it bad?”

“It might be.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know how you do what you do. Chasing the bad guys. Putting yourself in danger, day after day.”

He shrugged, suddenly wanting to be out of there, and not just because he had a new murder to investigate.

Nicole was going to keep on asking questions, and eventually, she’d get around to questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions she really didn’t want to know the answers to.

He tucked in his shirt, donned his shoulder holster and fastened it, and shook out his jacket. “I’ll see you later,” he said, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t left anything.

Nicole started toward him, but he grabbed the front doorknob.

“I’ll call you,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he headed out, closing the door behind him. As he vaulted down the stairs, he winced at his words. He’d meant them, but the offhand phrase had become a cliché for one-night stands. All he could do was hope that Nicole had sense enough to know that when he was called, he had to go.

He got in his car and took off, his mind already turning to the crime scene he was speeding toward.

October 22. The killer was right on time.

NICOLE TWISTED THE KITCHEN TOWEL in her hands as she stared at her front door. The best night of her life had suddenly turned sour.

Of course she understood that Ryker was a detective. Emergency phone calls and life-or-death situations were part of his job description. The fact that he’d rushed out so quickly wasn’t the problem.

His hastily thrown out I’ll call you wasn’t the problem, either. Although it did occur to her that he hadn’t asked for her phone number. A small pang of regret stabbed her in the chest. I would be a shame if he didn’t call.