Jackson's Woman. Maggie Price

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СКАЧАТЬ apartment that was the only real home Claire had ever known.

      Over the past two years, she had morphed Home Treasures to reflect her own personal stamp and was making a tidy profit. She’d met a man for whom she cared deeply, a man who loved her, who wanted a future with her. Brice Harrison had been ready—was ready—to give her the type of life craved by a woman who’d survived a rootless childhood that hovered one frightening step from physical abuse. Claire had nearly convinced herself to grab onto that life. To write off her growing uncertainties and her frustrating inability to totally forget the past.

      And the man who’d played such a large role in it.

      Dammit, why was he here?

      Claire reached the fireplace—filled for summer with lavender hydrangea blooms—reversed and headed back the way she’d come. It was a wonder her sandals hadn’t worn a trail across the Multan rug that spread its muted colors over the hardwood floor.

      She could understand Jackson’s being in Oklahoma City—they’d first met while he was on loan to a multi-agency anti-terrorism task force working out of the National Memorial Institute. So it was possible a similar assignment had brought him back.

      But that didn’t explain why he’d shown up tonight. Especially since they’d agreed to sever all ties. So, why was he here?

      And why did it have to be now, when she’d spent the past months feeling so unsettled? So unsure. So off-balance.

      Slowing her pace, she shifted her gaze back to Jackson and for the first time allowed herself to study him. He seemed leaner and a little more rugged now. The dark stubble that covered his firm, square jaw enhanced the look, as did the black T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and the black jeans that clung to his narrow hips and long legs. Though worn in the same sleek style, his dark hair was shaggier, the thick ends lapping just above his collar.

      His incendiary blue eyes had undergone the greatest change. They stared out from a face baked copper by the sun of who-knew-what countries, their unfamiliar hardness lending their owner a rougher and even more dangerous look than Claire remembered. A paper-thin gash, still in the process of healing, sliced through his left eyebrow.

      She pictured him as he’d looked earlier, searching the shop with measured care, moving like a ghost up the stairs, his gun unwavering in his grip, his gaze skimming, shifting. Even though the shop was brimming with stock, she would wager he could describe everything he had seen as skillfully as he would faces in a lineup. Even minor details didn’t get past him.

      As if sensing her thoughts, Jackson shifted his stance, met her gaze. His eyes held hers for a long moment, then dropped to the hand she held pressed against her ribs. A frown line formed between his dark brows.

      A tightness settled in Claire’s chest. Was he measuring her the way she had him? Searching for physical changes in the woman who’d called it quits and left him after a passionate affair that had lasted only a handful of months?

      “Claire?”

      Halting beside the pedestal table, she shifted her gaze to her friend. “Yes?”

      “We’re wrapping things up downstairs,” Liz said as she stepped farther into the apartment. Tall and leggy, she wore black slacks and a turquoise blazer that nipped her thin waist. As usual, her ginger-gold hair was plaited in a tight French braid.

      Claire was aware of Jackson moving to stand a few feet away in front of the fireplace. Propping a shoulder against the mantel, he crossed his arms over his chest.

      A whiff of the familiar spicy tang of his aftershave reached her. Claire set her jaw against the quick clutching in her belly. Her body was simply reacting to a known stimulus, she told herself. Nothing more.

      Still, his scent had her mind scrolling backward in time. It had been summer when he’d first walked into Home Treasures. She’d just been a sales clerk when she looked up and saw a tall, intense man stride through the doorway. While he explained he needed a wedding gift for a co-worker, she had felt the sexual attraction sparking between them, running like a sizzling conduit beneath the surface of every word they exchanged. The way Jackson’s eyes had deepened, darkened, verified he felt it, too. They went out to dinner that night. And the next. Days later, Claire linked her fingers with his while they climbed the stairs to this very apartment. They’d cranked the air conditioning to arctic, lit a fire and made love for hours while flames danced on the logs.

      And when the task force had disbanded and he’d asked her to go with him, she’d said yes. Because she’d been so crazy in love she couldn’t bear to think about living her life without Jackson Castle in it.

      It had taken six months to learn that making life-altering decisions based on one’s hormones was for the young and foolish. She was older now. Wiser. More practical. Never again would she put aside her own needs so rashly.

      Her throat dry, she switched her mental focus to what Liz was saying.

      “…and we dusted for prints only on the displays where things weren’t in the same place you said they’d been yesterday evening when you closed the shop. I asked the lab guys to be careful with the fingerprint powder, but you still have a mess to clean up.”

      Claire pictured the blood that had pooled from beneath poor Silas Smith’s head. She had more than just fingerprint powder to deal with. “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight so cleaning the shop will give me something to do.”

      Her gaze concerned, Liz squeezed Claire’s arm. “My partner and I will be back in the morning to interview the square’s other business owners. Maybe one of them caught a glimpse of someone hanging around outside your shop. In the meantime, call me if you think of anything else that might be important. Or if you discover anything missing from the building.”

      “All right.” In reflex, Claire shifted her hand from the ache in her ribs to her throat. “Liz, do you have any idea at all who killed Silas?”

      “Not yet. The alarm company says your system was deactivated using your code, so it’s possible the suspect entered the shop after Mr. Smith turned off the alarm when he came in to do the repairs you wanted done. That’s the most likely scenario.”

      “Do you have an unlikely one?”

      “It’s possible the suspect somehow obtained your code fraudulently, or had electronic equipment capable of cloning the code and disabling the system. Later, the victim walked in on him.” Liz checked her notepad. “You’re sure the only person other than yourself and Mr. Smith who has your alarm code is Charles?”

      “Positive.” Charles McDougal was much more to Claire than just Home Treasures’ previous owner. When she was ten, she had come here to live with her aunt, and Charles and his late wife—who’d lived in the apartment across the hall—had opened their hearts to her.

      Over the years, he had taught Claire all he knew about antiques. He’d helped send her to college, kept the apartment vacant for her when she’d run off with Jackson, and he’d welcomed her home when she’d returned with her heart broken.

      Claire swallowed hard against that painful memory. “I always call Charles and let him know when I change my alarm code in case he drives through town when I’m not here.”

      When Liz frowned, Claire added, “You know how concerned Charles is about my safety. There’s no СКАЧАТЬ