before a slow smile curled her lips, lighting her expression with a mix of pride and sadness. “I was so happy by the end of the show, my nervousness gone. My first genuine presentation was a raging success, more so than I could ever have dreamed, even as amazingly talented as I am, and every painting sold.”
Yeah, there was no way this woman could have aided a murderer. He knew criminals, had dealt with them on a daily basis for years, and yeah, some of them were good actors, well able to mask the monster within, but that smile … that sadness … combined with her physical reactions, there was just no way this was an act.
If he was wrong, he’d shoot himself in the face.
He was going to find out the truth. He was going to help her.
“What next? You remember?”
He watched as a tremor rocked the curve of Harper’s spine, spiraling into her limbs. Nearly knocked her off her feet. “I … I …” She wrapped her arms around her middle, skin turning a light shade of green.
“You do not do this now,” the redhead rushed to add. “We come back later.”
“No,” Levi said, stepping from the shadows, “you won’t. You do this now, Harper.” As sick as she currently appeared, she might not work up the nerve to return.
In unison, both women spun to face him. Harper reacted first. With a face bathed in panic and a mouth hanging open to unleash a scream, she jacked up her knee—and nailed him in the balls.
4
Deserved this, Levi thought. He never should have snuck up on Harper. He’d known better. Women were more unstable than C-4.
What? They were.
Silence permeated the tension-filled space between Levi and Harper as he struggled to find his breath and forget the fact that his testicles would probably need to be surgically removed from his throat. Even the crickets were too uncomfortable to laugh about what had just happened.
Harper’s eyes were wide, her hand now over her mouth, and the friend was—doubled over laughing, he realized as the haze of pain gradually faded. Okay, so she wasn’t too uncomfortable. Suddenly he was glad he hadn’t gotten around to asking her out. So not my type.
Harper, on the other hand … His fairy with the broken wing and secrets in her ocean eyes had a nasty flight-or-fight response. It wasn’t such a wonderful thing when he was on the wrong end of her knee, sure, but it’d be white-hot sexy when he wasn’t, he was certain.
Still. Lesson learned. Never again would he underestimate her. But next time—and considering the amount of time they would have to spend together, working this case, there would be a next time—if given a choice, he would much rather chase her. Then, at least, he’d get to tackle like the good ole days when he’d played for OU.
Finally oxygen passed through his nostrils, filled his lungs. He smelled car exhaust and sunshine and … cinnamon. Her. He liked the smell of her.
Her hand fell away from her mouth. “I’m not going to apologize,” she said, chin lifting. With the morning sun stroking her exposed skin, flushing her cheeks to a deep rose, she practically sparkled with vitality. “You scared me, and I reacted. Deal with it.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I do.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grunted out a quick “Sorry” and left it at that. It was more than he’d given anyone in years, and you know, it hadn’t left the bleeding, gaping wound that he’d expected.
The stiffness drained from her, and she worked up a beautiful grin that lit her entire face. It was genuine, with no hint of sadness, and she looked as if she’d swallowed the sun. Her hand fluttered just over her heart as she said, “Wow. Never has a more poetic apology been spoken. I’m all warm and tingly inside.”
His body reacted to her words—warm and tingly—heating, tensing. He really had to get this attraction thing under control. He didn’t mind wanting her, liked it, in fact, but he did mind the growing intensity of that wanting. “So you disappeared from this place?”
“I think.” The grin was the next to drain away, followed by that gorgeous light. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I just remember bits and pieces.”
He heard the frustration and anger in her tone and sympathized. Levi knew he’d attacked the serial killer, but didn’t know what he’d done or what had provoked him. He had flashes of flying fists, could even hear grunts of pain, but that was it. And for a man who prized his memory, having never forgotten a locker combination or even a file number, that irked.
“Ever talked to the owner of the gallery, asked questions? Ever talked to anyone who was there the night you’re speaking of and might know?”
“No, but—”
“I have,” the redhead said.
He arched a brow at her, a silent demand for her to continue.
Harper waved a hand between them. “Levi, meet Lana. Lana, meet Levi.”
“You are so pleased to meet me, I know. Now, no one knew or saw anything,” Lana said, the accent vanishing with an obvious, concentrated effort. Her hand had fluttered to her neck, where her fingers tapped against her pulse, seeming to mimic the cadence of her voice.
“I need the names of the people you talked to, and anyone else you remember being there.”
As she rattled off the names, he read the hours of operation listed on the gallery’s window. It was eight in the morning, and the place wouldn’t open for another hour. He checked the door. Locked. He knocked, just in case someone was in back doing inventory or something. No one answered.
“Shouldn’t you be writing down these names and numbers?” Lana asked.
“No,” he said without looking at her.
“Apparently, he remembers things,” Harper said drily.
He rattled off every name, every number, and both women gaped at him. With two fingers, he helped Harper close her mouth. “Anything else either of you want to share before I start looking into this?”
Harper gave a little gasp, as though surprised by his agreement to help—or by his touch—and shook her head, but Lana shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Suddenly suspicious, he homed his gaze in on her. She licked her lips, narrowed her eyes, shifted from one foot to the other. He remained silent, waiting for her to crack. They always cracked.
Determination filled those green eyes. “Nope, nothing,” she said.
Oh, she knew something, and he would find out what it was. But not here, and not now. He’d dig up some details about her, Harper, the art gallery, the owner, the people who had attended Harper’s gala, and go from there. The more armed he was with information, the better chance he’d have of intimidating Lana and forcing her to talk.
He only hoped Harper was safe with her.
Has been so far, he told himself. “I’ll swing by this
