Shiver. Cynthia Cooke

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Tony’s dark eyes intensified. “You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

      “Wasn’t it? Michelle was taking this case too personally.”

      “You couldn’t know she’d go undercover and try to flush the night stalker out alone.”

      “I knew some sicko was slicing up prostitutes in the Quarter. I should have watched her better. I should have been more—” inwardly, he cringed as he said the word “—protective.”

      “She would have been insulted, and she would have thought you doubted her abilities as a cop. You know that. You also know if you go in there and confront Miss Morgan, you could blow this investigation.”

      “You’re right. But Tony, Michelle was family.” A lump the size of a crawdad caught in his throat. “I should have done something. If only—”

      “Michelle was a strong-willed cop. She did what she wanted and damn the consequences. You knew that about her, and so did Mac.”

      Riley scraped a thumb across his unshaven jaw. “I’m going to track this guy down. I won’t let him get by with this. And I won’t blow this case.” His gaze drifted over the roses, blooming in a riot of color lining the walk. “I’ll turn on ‘Mr. Charm.’ I’ll be on my best behavior. I just need to see for myself how she responds when I show her the locket.”

      Tony closed the file and slid it between the seats. “All right,” he relented. “Two of us will spook her. I’ve been up all night tracking down Miss Morgan and I’m in desperate need of some caffeine. You’re on your own. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t blow it!”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Riley opened the car door. “I’ll find out exactly what she knows about Michelle’s death. Whatever it takes.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Tony muttered, and pulled away from the curb.

      Although it was only 9:00 a.m., the hot August heat was already intolerable. Riley walked toward the front door, pulling at his shirt collar, lifting the fabric from his skin. He rapped on the door, waited a minute, then rapped again.

      He stood on the front stoop listening to the incessant buzz of bees surrounding a gardenia bush, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing second. As he started to knock again, a shape moved behind the front door’s frosted glass.

      “Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

      The door opened. His wide “Mr. Charm” smile froze on his face and his heart stopped at the sight of the woman in the white terry robe. A mass of golden curls framed her face, falling in reckless abandon around her shoulders. Blue eyes, tired and disoriented, held a dim sparkle deep within their depths.

      Michelle.

      “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, clutching the opening of her robe.

      Her sultry voice held no hint of Michelle’s Southern accent. Otherwise, she looked enough like Michelle to halt the blood in his veins. “Devra Morgan?” he asked and wasn’t at all surprised by the catch in his voice.

      “Yes?”

      He couldn’t help staring. She clutched the robe tighter. “I’m Detective MacIntyre with the NOPD. Is this yours?” He held up the plastic bag containing the golden locket in one hand, and his badge in the other.

      Her eyes widened, turning a deep cobalt blue and becoming even more beautiful than he’d previously thought. “Wh-where did you find it?” she asked.

      “May I come in?”

      “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stood back, allowing him to step into the entryway. He followed her into a darkened living room. The furniture was sparse with no plants, no pictures, not much of anything personal or otherwise.

      “Please, have a seat,” she offered, and gestured toward a small table in front of the window. As he sat, she reached behind him and pulled the cord that lifted thick wooden blinds. Sunshine filtered through the slats, setting fire to the gold in her hair.

      She smelled faintly of vanilla and he caught himself inhaling deeper. He couldn’t stop staring at her hair falling in long lazy curls down the middle of her back. He was sorely tempted to touch it, to run his fingers through the delicate strands.

      She looked down at him, catching his gaze. Her eyes flickered with a myriad of colors and emotions. There was a longing in her expression—something she wanted or needed—but it quickly disappeared and her expression turned wary. She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you excuse me for a minute, please?”

      He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many ways—her walk, her height, the flawless texture of her skin and her lips. Michelle’s lips had been thin and expressive, but this woman’s were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.

      He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking too clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television, TV program guide and a remote control. No bills, coupons, cassette tapes, film canisters—nothing like the clutter in his house.

      The mantel above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and found the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers, but found only bare-essential kitchen items.

      “Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and sultry with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?

      He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best “hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar” excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.

      The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. She’d transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman who’d just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such an ugly facade?

      “I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve let my curiosity overcome my good manners,” he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.

      She raised a skeptical brow.

      “I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama would’ve been remiss if she didn’t pound those Southern manners into me every day of my rebellious life.” He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any lady’s heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasn’t biting any more than a gator in December.

      “What can I do for you, Mr…?”

      “Detective MacIntyre,” he repeated.

      She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.

      “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

      “What СКАЧАТЬ