by Maggie Price
Feeling totally insulted—and unsure why—Jake rose, retrieved the recorder off the desk and clicked it off. “This investigation is ongoing. I might be back for that racquetball game. Or maybe to arrest you for murder.”
“You shouldn’t have come in.”
As he spoke, Mel Hall slid a silver tray holding a teapot and cups onto the table in front of the love seat where Nicole sat. Today, her assistant wore a cream-colored shirt and pleated slacks that complemented his lean build.
“You need time to recover,” he added.
“I’m fine.” She forced a weary smile. “Really, I am.”
“You don’t look fine. You need to let me drive you home and settle you in bed.”
He had repeated that same statement at least ten times since she’d walked through the door that morning. “I appreciate you watching out for me, Mel—”
“You’re white as a sheet. And that bruise…” He shook his head. “I should have been the one to stay with you last night. I would have taken good care of you.”
“You needed to be with your mother. Edna depends on you.”
When he joined her on the love seat, Mel’s blue eyes sharpened on Nicole’s cheek. “There’d be less bruising and swelling today if I’d been there to fix you a compress.”
She gave his knee an absent pat. “You took care of me by making sure Sergeant Ford knew to buy the arnica lotion. And ginger ale.” She ran a hand over the hip of her gray silk slacks. “Other than being a little stiff from the fall off DeSoto’s porch, I’m fine.” She didn’t add that her head ached like a fresh wound.
Mel sighed. “Well, that’s what matters,” he conceded, pouring tea into cups with his usual brisk efficiency.
“No, it’s not. I…” Her voice hitched against a drag of grief. “DeSoto and Phillip are both dead. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and find it’s all been a terrible nightmare.”
“What happened isn’t your fault, you need to remember that.” Mel’s mouth curved as he passed her a cup and saucer. “I brewed your favorite, Moroccan mint.”
“You’re my hero, Mel.” Although she felt content sitting on the love seat, sharing a cup of tea with her young assistant, Nicole knew nothing could ease the heavy burden the murders had settled around her heart.
Watching her, Mel retrieved his own cup. “I don’t like seeing you upset. I understand how you feel, but there’s no way you could have known this would happen.”
“You’re right.” She took a sip of tea, savored its soothing mint taste. “But what if one of the women who went out with both men killed them? If that’s the case, then Phillip and DeSoto are dead because of their association with Meet Your Match. We have a duty to make matchmaking safe. It’s our job to protect our clients.”
“We put Ingrid Nelson and Rhonda Livingston through the same screening as everyone else,” Mel commented, referring to the women who’d dated both murder victims. “Neither have any violent tendencies.”
“That showed up in testing,” Nicole added.
“Which is what we have to depend on.” He sampled his tea. “If Sergeant Ford goes undercover, we’ll just have to hope he figures out fast who the killer is—Nelson or Livingston.”
Nicole stroked a fingertip around the rim of her cup. “If it’s either of them. I still can’t get over the feeling that it was a man who plowed into me last night on DeSoto’s front porch.”
Mel’s forehead furrowed. “What did Sergeant Ford say about that?”
Just talking about Jake had nerves tingling in Nicole’s stomach. She hadn’t forgotten the hot, drugging kisses they’d shared that morning, or the hardness that settled in Jake’s eyes when she’d told him he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted. Nor was she likely to forget the cool silence that had hung between them while he drove her to retrieve her Jaguar from DeSoto’s driveway.
That cool distance was what she wanted, what she’d demanded from Jake, she reminded herself. Whatever her body was telling her, her mind sent a different message. She needed to be smart where Jake was concerned. Sensible. She needed to stay away.
“Nicole?”
Her gaze jerked up to meet Mel’s expectant one. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked you what Ford said about the possibility of it being a man who hit you last night.”
“He—
“—doesn’t discount any possibility.”
Both their gazes whipped to the doorway where Jake stood. He had changed into a pale yellow dress shirt, jeans and a black sport coat. When Nicole saw he hadn’t bothered to shave, her heart did a slow roll as she felt again the phantom stroke of stubble against her jaw.
“Jake…Sergeant.” She sat her cup and saucer on the table then skimmed a hand over the neat coil at the base of her neck. “Come in.”
“Your receptionist sent me back.” He strode in, pausing at the opposite side of the coffee table. His gaze flicked to Mel, then moved back to her. “Is this a good time?”
“Of course.” Her already raw nerves jittered. “I take it you’re here because your boss approved your going undercover?”
“I’ve got clearance all the way up the chain of command.” His gaze shifted back to Mel. “Nicole’s filled you in?”
“Yes. We were just talking about how we’d hate to find out the murderer is one of our clients. But the bottom line is the killing has to stop.” Mel rose, swept a hand toward the silver tray. “Can I get you something? We’re having Moroccan mint—it’s Nicole’s favorite. I expect that doesn’t appeal to you, so I can bring you some plain coffee.”
Jake hooked a thumb in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll have tea.”
Nicole blinked, as did Mel.
“I’ll get an extra cup,” her assistant said, finding his voice before she did.
“Thanks.”
Nicole rubbed at the ache in her right temple. “Mel, when you come back with the cup, bring a client registration packet. I’ll need to fill out the usual forms on Sergeant Ford. When they’re done, I’ll have you enter his data into the system.”
“Sure thing,” Mel said, then headed out the door.
She met Jake’s gaze. “Do either Rhonda Livingston or Ingrid Nelson have alibis for the time Phillip and DeSoto died?”
“A team of detectives interviewed each woman this morning. Both claim they were home alone when the murders occurred. To a homicide cop’s way of thinking, being anywhere alone when a murder happens isn’t much of an alibi.”
Edgy with his presence, Nicole rose, picked up her cup and saucer, then moved to her desk. “I expected you’d get your approval to go undercover,” she said, settling into her leather chair. “So, when I came in this morning, I went over Phillip and DeSoto’s files. I’ve made a list of their similarities so we can work them into your profile.”
“Good.” She felt the sharp assessment in Jake’s whiskey-colored eyes as he slid a hip onto the front of the desk.
“I’ll be your counselor of record, but all the other counselors will have access to your data. The two women, Rhonda and Ingrid, work with different counselors. We can expect both to pull up your data when they see your name has been added to their client’s match list.”
“I’d like to meet each woman tomorrow night for a drink. At Encounters,” he added, referring to the elegant club off the lobby of a nearby high-rise hotel. “Set up Livingston at seven. Nelson at nine. I can get a feel for each, then take it from there.”
“Take it from there,” Nicole repeated softly as an unexpected jolt of jealousy turned her stomach into a dozen tight fists. Rhonda Livingston was a gorgeous brunette, Ingrid Nelson a luscious redhead. Pair either woman with Jake, and you’d have a stunning couple.
Picking up her teacup, Nicole drew in a slow breath while irritation scraped at the back of her neck. What was wrong with her? Jake was trying to catch a killer and here she was, dealing with a case of schoolgirl envy.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, I—”
“Here we go.” Mel swept back in, carrying a file folder and balancing a china cup and saucer. It barely registered in Nicole’s mind that his easy smile faded when he saw Jake had made himself at home on the front of her desk.
“Thank you, Mel,” she said when he handed her the folder.
Jake wrapped a hand around the cup, leaving the saucer in the assistant’s hand. “Cup’s all I need.”
“Fine.” Mel walked to the table, retrieved the teapot, then retraced his steps to the desk.
“This your uncle’s blend?” Jake asked as Mel filled both cups.
Mel grinned. “As a matter of fact it is. When it comes to tea, Uncle Zebulon’s the best there is.”
Nicole returned her assistant’s smile. “I’ll need you to take Sergeant Ford’s picture for the file before he leaves.”
“Say the word when you’re ready.” After returning the pot to the tray, Mel strode out, closing the door behind him.
Nicole shot Jake a look from under her lashes as he sipped from the delicate cup. “I thought coffee was your drink.”
He met her gaze over the cup’s rim. “Couldn’t pass up a chance to sample your favorite tea.”
“What’s the verdict?”
He set the cup aside. “Moroccan mint lives up to its name.”
The tang of soap, mixed with his warm, musky scent drifted across the desk. Struggling to ignore the fluttering in her heart, she forced her mind to business.
“I need to ask you some standard information.” She opened the file folder and plucked up a pen.
“Shoot.”
“What name will you use?”
“Jake England. That’s my mom’s maiden name.”
“Jake England,” Nicole said as she wrote. “Will you use a fictitious address, too?”
“Yeah, a safe house the department maintains,” he said, then gave her the information. “We’ve got surveillance cameras set up there. They’ll get everything on tape if the killer shows.”
Nicole tightened her grip on the pen. “You know you’re putting yourself on a hook and tossing yourself out as bait, don’t you?”
“That’s my job.” His eyes stayed locked with hers. “Thanks for caring, though. Next question?”
“Place of employment?”
“I’m an investor. Self-employed.”
“What do you invest in, Mr. England?”
“Jewelry. Stocks. Hog futures. Anything that’ll make a profit.”
“Hobbies?”
Jake angled his chin. “Did Ormiston and Villanova list any of the same hobbies?”
“Yes, they both played golf.”
“Golf it is. I’ve watched enough tournaments I can talk about the game.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Only when I’m set on fire.”
Nicole suppressed a smile. “I’ll be sure to note you possess a sense of humor.” She flipped to a fresh page of the form. “What languages does Jake England, self-employed investor, speak?”
“Other than the slight handle I’ve got on English?” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “Put me down for courtroom Latin, gutter Spanish, restaurant French and East Side street jive.”
As she made the notation, Nicole pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, felt the tenderness from his kiss that lingered there. Was it so wrong to want to be the woman destined to sit in the dim, elegant club with this man? Sharing a drink, a laugh? Maybe more… Oh, God, she wanted.
“What else?”
Looking up, she swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Marital status.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you take on people who are already married and looking to have an affair?”
“Of course not. We have clients who have never been married, those who are legally separated, divorced, widowed—”
“Widower. I’m a widower.”
Nicole thought the abrupt answer was part of Jake England’s fictitious cover. Then she looked up and met his gaze. In the space of a heartbeat, his eyes had gone as grim as his voice. “I’m… Jake, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“No way you could have. Next question.”
She dropped her gaze back to the form. “Do you have children? If so, how many?”
“None.” He looked away, fisting his hand as it rested on his thigh. “Not anymore.”
She reached out, cupped her hand over his fist. “You lost your wife and child?”
He looked back. His face was unreadable now. His cop’s face. “My wife and twin daughters.” Tugging his hand from beneath hers, he rose, stepped away from the desk. “Hell, I don’t know why I told you any of that.”
“Jake—”
“I don’t talk about it.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Put down that I’m single, never been married. No children…ever.” He closed his eyes. “I should have said that in the first place.”
A little piece of Nicole’s heart weakened and was lost to him. She rose, came around the desk, stopping inches from him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he said, his eyes intense, focused on her. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“Cooling things between us before they got started.” He cupped a hand against her uninjured cheek. “I don’t ever want to fall in love again. Hell, I don’t think I ever even want to hear the word.”
Raising her hand, she curled her fingers around his wrist. She couldn’t help reaching out to this man. He’d been hurt, devastated, and try as he might to conceal his feelings, the pain of his loss showed in his eyes.
“Jake, I’ve been telling myself all day that it was smart to cool things. Sensible.” The warm, liquefying pleasure of his touch seeped into her. She decided if she were made of stone, she’d maybe have a shot at sensible. “Now that you’re here, it seems that cooling things was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
“It was smart.” His fingers moved against her cheek. “I’ve sworn off women. You’ve sworn off relationships with men you figure aren’t your type. Like me.”
“You’re not what I want,” she said weakly. She knew if he kissed her she would forget all the sensible decisions she’d made. Forget why she’d made them. “It would be a stupid move on both our parts to get involved.”
His hand slid to the back of her neck. His eyes had gone as dark as midnight, full of reckless needs. “Then I guess we’re both going to be stupid.”
“I guess.”
His mouth came down on hers, sending a mix of lust and confusion roaring through her. Even as she told herself this was a mistake, a low, greedy moan rose in her throat. Shoving her hands up into his hair, she kissed him with all the need and bafflement that pumped inside her.
“You’ve got company!”
Mel’s bright voice had Nicole and Jake jerking apart, turning in unison toward the door.
Whitney and Bill, tanned and dressed in casual clothes, stood just behind Mel. Nicole noted the grin on her new sister-in-law’s face…and the glower on her big brother’s. Mel just looked stunned.
Beside her, Jake muttered, “Oh, hell.”
Chapter 9
“Well, well,” Whitney said half an hour later as she slid into the cruiser’s passenger seat. “I go away on my honeymoon, and look at what my partner gets into.” She smiled like a cat with a bowl of cream. “With my new sister-in-law. Who’d have thought it?”
“Put a lid on it, Whit.”
Jake crammed on his sunglasses, shoved the cruiser into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. Relief coursed through him as they left the sleek building behind. The past thirty minutes in Nicole’s office had been absurdly uncomfortable with his partner fighting a grin, Bill Taylor scowling and Mel Hall fumbling teacups and saucers.
All that because they’d walked in on two consenting adults sharing a kiss.
One kiss, Jake thought. One damn kiss and you’d have thought the sky had fallen. Okay, so he and Nicole had been plastered together so tight not even air could pass between the
m while they kissed each other brainless. Big deal.
Setting his jaw, Jake swerved through the late-afternoon traffic while the voice of a disembodied dispatcher crackled on the police radio. Hell, yes, it was a big deal. He had felt the softening, the heating, the wanting inside Nicole while she’d pressed intimately against him. She wasn’t the only one who’d felt desire. Even now, Jake wanted her with such intensity that his pulse thudded.
He bit down on a curse. He needed to take a step back and figure out what the hell she was doing to him. If that was possible.
“Don’t you think it’s time you filled me in?”
He slid Whitney a dark look. “On the investigation?”
She gave him a bright smile, her tan glowing. “That, too.”
“We’re on the way to Phillip Ormiston’s house.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, Jake nudged a file from beneath the pile of folders on the seat between them. “He got offed in his foyer Tuesday afternoon or evening.”
Jake passed the file to Whitney, noting the crease that had settled between her brows at his firm shift of subject. “Like I said on the phone last night, the killer injected Ormiston in the neck with something that brought on respiratory paralysis. The M.E. confirmed this morning that Villanova died the same way. The puncture wounds on both men’s necks are in the same approximate location and about the same depth. Both victims suffocated to death. A tough way to go.”
“Yes,” Whitney agreed soberly. “It makes it even tougher knowing one victim was my husband’s friend.”
Jake concentrated on driving while Whitney skimmed the reports and crime scene photos in the file.
“Any idea what the killer injected the victims with?” she asked finally.
“Not yet. The M.E.’s moved the tox tests up in priority now that we’ve got a second death.”
“Was there any sign of forced entry at either victim’s house?”
“None, so you’ve got to figure it one of two ways. Either Ormiston and Villanova knew the person well enough to let him or her get close, or the killer used a ruse—delivery, repair or service con—to get inside.”