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finished cooking and I’ve never mastered the art of cooking for one. I’m inviting you to supper.”
    His pride warred with hunger and the desire to be with her. The hunger and desire triumphed, sending his pride to hide in a corner and lick its nonfatal wounds. Sooner or later it would arise and get its own back. Right now, he was being offered food and Kathleen. His pride could take a hike.
    She left the door open, not waiting for him to follow.
    Jason stepped over the threshold. He’d expected the house to reflect her monied background. The home was rich, but not with expensive trappings. Rich with what had to be Kathleen. Rich with a sense of home and welcome that tried to wrap seductive tentacles around him.
    Textures called out to him, begging to be touched—rough cotton-weave curtains, a leather couch, a silk throw, a sisal carpet over slick wooden floors. Clean, spicy scents filled the living room—cinnamon and something more elusive, mingled with the aroma of baked chicken wafting from the kitchen. Books lined built-in shelves, sharing space with a small television and a smaller stereo.
    No photos. Anywhere. None of her family, friends, vacation memories.
    Hell, even he kept photos of his time in Kuwait.
    “Bathroom is down the hall on the left if you want to wash up.” Kathleen’s voice filtered from the kitchen.
    Photographs lined the hallway—black and white shots of Chandler County landmarks. The courthouse. The ancient Baptist church. An ornate iron fence surrounding a family plot. Her parents’ home.
    A door stood open on the right, revealing a small office area, striking only by its impersonal air.
    When he opened the closed bathroom door, the lingering scent of Ivory enveloped him. Droplets of water glistened on the transparent glass shower and he swallowed, heat curling along his nerves.
    A second door, slightly ajar, revealed her bedroom. More textures—cotton comforter and sheets, satin throw pillows, another silk throw, a fluffy rug by the bed. All in white. He had a sudden vision of her coppery hair and creamy skin against that pure white. The heat fired into full-fledged flames.
    “Come on, Harding, get it together,” he whispered, running cold water over his hands. “Like you’re ever gonna make it into that bed. Give it up, man. You’re just trying to keep her safe.”
    He dried his hands on a damp towel and tried not to think about that same towel smoothing water from her long legs.
    This meal promised to be even longer and more torturous than his day.
    * * *
    What was she thinking?
    Kathleen stabbed a fork into a potato, then repeated the action on its hapless partner. She shoved the pair into the microwave.
    Altee was right. She was crazy.
    Actually, the word her partner had used was obsessed . Obsessed with the past. Obsessed with this case. Obsessed with Jason Harding.
    She and Altee had not parted on good terms at the end of the day.
    So what did Altee’s obsessed Kathleen go and do? Feed the guy.
    Lord, it was just dinner. One meal. And she intended to get answers out of him. It wasn’t like she planned to sleep with him.
    The creak of his leather gun belt told her he was in the living area again. Plates and cutlery in hand, she stepped out of the kitchen. He stood in front of her bookshelves, studying the titles. Kathleen eyed the line of his back and wondered how much of the shoulder bulk was his and how much belonged to the bulletproof vest.
    “I usually eat on the deck.”
    He spun, not smiling. His pale green eyes drew her in, making her forget who he really was. He gestured at the plates she held. “Want me to set the table?”
    “Please.” She handed the plates over, careful not to let their fingers brush. Imagining his touch was bad enough. She didn’t need the real thing to fixate on.
    She returned to the kitchen for the salad bowl and platter of baked chicken breasts. He met her at the French door and took them, a quick grin playing around his mouth. The boyish