infection?” Paul asked as he walked up to them.
“The vet gave him drops.” It was evident the used-carsalesman’s smile Paul was practicing on her wasn’t working. She beelined to the front door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“What about?” She rammed her key into the lock of the Mediterranean-style villa. “I’ve already given the police a statement. Now I have to plan a funeral. Erin doesn’t have anyone else to do it.”
“If you’ll give me a minute—”
She spun around to face him with a look that could have frozen lava. She was exhausted, grief stricken, and probably wanted to curl up somewhere to cry. Her shoulders unexpectedly sagged and he could almost feel the fight go out of her. His entire body tensed with the urge to reach out and put his arm around her, but he resisted.
He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home and heard Madison’s five-alarm scream followed by anguished, keening cries like those of an animal caught in a trap. He’d seen several pictures of her in the file his father had given him. Nothing had prepared him for the woman he’d found when he’d rushed through the back door. She’d been on the verge of debilitating hysteria—who could blame her?—but she’d fought him with more courage than most guys he’d taken down.
He hadn’t gotten a good look at her until they were outside. Then a mind-numbing attack of…of what? Aw, hell. He might as well be honest with himself. A jolt of sexual awareness had shot through him, despite the inappropriate time and place. There was something undeniably appealing about that storm of blond hair and those baby blues. He’d instantly wanted to help her. This from a man who was about as sentimental as Attila the Hun. Okay, so a lot more than help had crossed his mind. But he’d tamped those thoughts down and reminded himself that this was business.
He had no illusions about his profession. Homicide—his usual line of work when he wasn’t temporarily sidelined and helping out his father—occurred at all hours, night and day. A detective couldn’t hope for much in terms of a private life—a lesson he’d already learned. You took women where you found them and walked away. Romancing a woman like Madison Connelly wasn’t in the cards.
“Sorry,” she said now in a tight, pinched voice. “You were great this morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to thank you. I appreciate the way you helped me.”
He nodded, noticing she hadn’t yet asked him why he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home. Undoubtedly she was too shaken by finding her friend dead to make the connection. “Glad I was there. No wonder you weren’t thinking clearly. You had a great shock.” He reached around her and shoved the door open. “Let’s go inside and talk for a minute.”
The air conditioner was on and ceiling fans with paddles shaped like palm fronds circulated the cool air in the semicircular living room with walls entirely of glass. The house faced the ocean and the faint tang of salt air drifted through the room even though he didn’t spot any open doors or windows. The area he could see was bigger than his entire apartment.
She bent over and unhooked Aspen’s leash. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
He hesitated, reluctant to hit her with this immediately and trying to decide the best way to break the news. Hell, he’d had plenty of time to think while he’d been waiting for Madison. He’d prepared enough bullshit to bury Fisher Island, but being face-to-face with her was different.
Something cold gripped his gut. Why me? he asked himself. He should have convinced his father to send someone else. He would have if he’d known he was going to find himself at the scene of a brutal murder beside a knockout blonde who didn’t deserve to be clobbered with another problem right now.
“The police think I have something to do with Erin’s murder,
“The vet gave him drops.” It was evident the used-carsalesman’s smile Paul was practicing on her wasn’t working. She beelined to the front door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“What about?” She rammed her key into the lock of the Mediterranean-style villa. “I’ve already given the police a statement. Now I have to plan a funeral. Erin doesn’t have anyone else to do it.”
“If you’ll give me a minute—”
She spun around to face him with a look that could have frozen lava. She was exhausted, grief stricken, and probably wanted to curl up somewhere to cry. Her shoulders unexpectedly sagged and he could almost feel the fight go out of her. His entire body tensed with the urge to reach out and put his arm around her, but he resisted.
He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home and heard Madison’s five-alarm scream followed by anguished, keening cries like those of an animal caught in a trap. He’d seen several pictures of her in the file his father had given him. Nothing had prepared him for the woman he’d found when he’d rushed through the back door. She’d been on the verge of debilitating hysteria—who could blame her?—but she’d fought him with more courage than most guys he’d taken down.
He hadn’t gotten a good look at her until they were outside. Then a mind-numbing attack of…of what? Aw, hell. He might as well be honest with himself. A jolt of sexual awareness had shot through him, despite the inappropriate time and place. There was something undeniably appealing about that storm of blond hair and those baby blues. He’d instantly wanted to help her. This from a man who was about as sentimental as Attila the Hun. Okay, so a lot more than help had crossed his mind. But he’d tamped those thoughts down and reminded himself that this was business.
He had no illusions about his profession. Homicide—his usual line of work when he wasn’t temporarily sidelined and helping out his father—occurred at all hours, night and day. A detective couldn’t hope for much in terms of a private life—a lesson he’d already learned. You took women where you found them and walked away. Romancing a woman like Madison Connelly wasn’t in the cards.
“Sorry,” she said now in a tight, pinched voice. “You were great this morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to thank you. I appreciate the way you helped me.”
He nodded, noticing she hadn’t yet asked him why he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home. Undoubtedly she was too shaken by finding her friend dead to make the connection. “Glad I was there. No wonder you weren’t thinking clearly. You had a great shock.” He reached around her and shoved the door open. “Let’s go inside and talk for a minute.”
The air conditioner was on and ceiling fans with paddles shaped like palm fronds circulated the cool air in the semicircular living room with walls entirely of glass. The house faced the ocean and the faint tang of salt air drifted through the room even though he didn’t spot any open doors or windows. The area he could see was bigger than his entire apartment.
She bent over and unhooked Aspen’s leash. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
He hesitated, reluctant to hit her with this immediately and trying to decide the best way to break the news. Hell, he’d had plenty of time to think while he’d been waiting for Madison. He’d prepared enough bullshit to bury Fisher Island, but being face-to-face with her was different.
Something cold gripped his gut. Why me? he asked himself. He should have convinced his father to send someone else. He would have if he’d known he was going to find himself at the scene of a brutal murder beside a knockout blonde who didn’t deserve to be clobbered with another problem right now.
“The police think I have something to do with Erin’s murder,
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