A watchful wariness filled her gaze. “I was alone. You attacked me. What was I supposed to think? That you wanted to dance?”
A spurt of amusement kicked up the corner of Brody’s mouth.
She picked up his nameplate and toyed with it between her slender hands. Her manicured nails clicked against the brass. “Where do we go from here?”
“I need to verify your story, check out your ID—”
“And then?” She lifted an auburn brow.
“Then you’ll tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”
For a brief second her gem-colored gaze locked with his before darting away. “The only trouble I have is you, Sheriff.”
Brody smiled grimly, tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Here we go again.
She was lying.
On the mean streets of Boston, Brody had learned how to read people, learned to watch for the signs, and she definitely showed signs. And this time he wasn’t going to ignore the obvious. She was holding back and not for one second did he believe she’d thought him a random intruder.
The scratches left by her nails itched, reminding him of her blind terror. He dabbed at his face with a tissue. Tiny spots of red soaked into the material. “So, what has you so spooked?”
“Are you going to book me, Sheriff McClain?” Her knuckles turned white around the nameplate. “I’m cold and tired. And I don’t want to sit here while you play amateur psychologist.”
He would have been amused if he hadn’t noticed the fleeting look of disdain in her eyes. She didn’t know the extent of how much psychobabble he could recite or the reasons why. He told himself to forget it, not to offer his help or advice. “You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”
“This is unbelievable.” Her voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.” Her eyes flared with anger, deepening in color to a dark forest green.
“How did your husband die?”
She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward and her fingers flexed around his nameplate.
“He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.
Her distress affected him. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored.
“By whom? Do you think Pete Kinsey killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound harsh.
Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, her chin lifted and she sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.
“So what happens now?” she questioned.
Brody tore his gaze from the slight cleft dimpling the middle of her chin. “You’re my guest until I can verify your story, because as far as I know, Pete Kinsey owns that house.” He stood and motioned her toward the cell. The small, barred cubicle was barren except for a cot, a pillow and a blanket.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“It’s not the presidential suite, but it’s better than most, and it’s clean.” And safe.
Those bright green eyes glared at him with haughty indignation that rivaled his younger sister Meghan’s. He smothered a smile.
Kate moved into the cell and turned her back on him. An unsettling protest nagged at Brody. He didn’t like seeing the petite redhead behind bars. She seemed harmless and innocent, hardly a hardened criminal.
He took a step and pain shot down his leg, reminding him sharply that appearances could be deceiving. He’d learned his lesson and he’d sworn never again to let a pretty face distract him from his job. He shifted his weight and eased the pain.
“Here.” Kate slipped the jacket from around her shoulders and shoved it at him. He took it, then closed the cell door, along with the door to his bleeding heart.
Exhaustion overtook Kate and seeped into her bones, making her limbs heavy with lassitude. She grabbed the blanket from the cot and fluffed the pillow with her fist.
Sleeping in a jail cell wasn’t exactly how she’d planned on spending her first night on the east coast, especially not on charges of breaking and entering.
She’d probably said more than she should. Her lawyer had sternly told her not to say anything, ever, without his presence. A self-deprecating grimace pulled at her mouth. Of course, if she’d heeded Gordon’s advice and not left town, she wouldn’t be incarcerated right now.
Sitting down on the narrow, makeshift bed, she muttered, “Better a jail cell than a coffin.”
Her hands twisted the rough blanket. The material grew warm beneath her palms. Her lips formed a wry smile. Thank You, Lord, for giving me such a safe place to sleep tonight.
She looked at the sheriff. From a distance, his big, male body wasn’t nearly as intimidating while hunched in front of his computer screen, his large fingers stabbing at the keys.
The set of his square jaw revealed his concentration and she doubted he realized his dark, wavy hair still glistened with rainwater. His soaked brown uniform emphasized his wide shoulders and broad chest. She could appreciate his masculine appeal with him across the room, but with him up close she’d found herself struggling to breathe evenly.
Abruptly, she shook off the notion of attraction and attributed the thudding of her heart to fear. A tight knot formed in her stomach. Soon, he would learn the complete story of Paul’s death and the police’s interest in her.
The sheriff had been too perceptive by half, his dark, intense eyes assessing her like an oddity. His questions and offer of help spoken in that much-too-pleasing accent had nearly unhinged her, making her want to open up, to tell him what haunted her nightmares. But Paul’s final words echoed inside her head.
Trust…no one.
During the last several weeks, Kate’s natural inclination to look for the good had dimmed until she was afraid even to allow herself to trust a man who should be trustworthy. But the police in Los Angeles had made her very aware that trust had to be earned.
The only person she remotely trusted now was Gordon Thomas, her lawyer. The kindly older gentleman had entered her life when her mother had hired him to deal with her divorce. Over the years he’d stayed a part of their lives, becoming a surrogate uncle for Kate, always willing to listen when she couldn’t deal with her mother. Kate was grateful he’d taken an interest. Gordon had guided Kate in her college and career choices. She hated to think what path she’d have followed without his tutorship.
But this situation demanded she act on her own. She couldn’t ever have the peace
