of leather and wealth. Her ancient Volkswagen smelled like pine cleaner, courtesy of a dangling piece of cardboard shaped like an evergreen tree.
She refused to analyze why it was important that he see how easily she was handling his sudden reappearance in her life. She just knew she wanted to get the preliminaries out of the way so they could concentrate on the case.
Cole backed the car out of its parking spot and headed toward the street. “I’ve been fine,” he said as he eased into a break in traffic. “I don’t know if you’d heard that I moved to Denver after—”
“I heard,” she blurted, and then could have bitten off her tongue for her unguarded response. He’d probably think she’d tracked him like a spurned lover who didn’t know when to let go. She couldn’t remember who had told her, but she damn well couldn’t explain that she hadn’t sought out the information, not without looking ridiculous. This was going to be more difficult than she’d realized.
The light turned red, and Cole took the opportunity to really look at her. Nearly hidden by her air of self-confidence and the solid reputation Ryan had described lurked a freshness that was downright amazing. Life had handed her lemons and from them she’d made a blue-ribbon pie. When he recalled how thoroughly he’d misjudged her, he wanted to turn back the clock and rewrite history.
“Look,” he said instead as the light changed and the cars in front of him began to move, “we probably need to clear the air. Can we wait to discuss our history together until we get to your office before I rear-end someone?”
He sensed her sudden tension. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she would like him to think, or maybe it was just resentment that had her hands tightening on her patchwork leather bag. Again he wondered how far she might go to avenge herself. Would she punish an innocent woman? Damage her own reputation as an investigator? He had to admit the possibility was pretty far-fetched—and damn egotistical of him.
“There’s really nothing to discuss,” she said in a voice that had plunged several degrees in temperature despite the heat of the October day. “At least nothing of a personal nature. We have a lot of ground to cover for your mother’s case. I suggest we focus on the present and forget ancient history.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Cole muttered, swerving and hitting his horn when a car in the next lane cut them off. The other driver didn’t appear to notice.
For the next few moments, Cole’s attention was divided between the directions she gave him and speculation about what she must really be feeling. The former was straightforward enough; her expression yielded no clues to the latter. Finally they turned into a small strip mall and he stopped the car beside a faded blue bug with a hot-pink windsock attached to its antenna.
In front of them was a rather plain storefront with simple black lettering on the glass door. Annie Jones, Private Investigator, it read, followed by a local phone number. Her office was flanked by a dry cleaner on one side and a hobby shop on the other. Its grimy window was filled with a stack of faded cardboard boxes, the type plastic model kits come in, and dead flies. Neither business bordering hers looked especially prosperous.
Cole was trying to think of a comment—something neutral—when Annie got out of the car without a word and unlocked the front door of her office.
“Coming?” she demanded when he made no move to follow her.
Flushing, he grabbed his briefcase from behind the seat, locked the rental carefully and went inside. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but not the comfortable clutter that greeted him. With painful clarity, he pictured the tiny, cheerful apartment she’d had before—shabby, eclectic and welcoming. In some ways, Annie hadn’t changed.
“Have a seat,” she told him as she grabbed a stack of manila folders from a chair facing a scarred metal desk, and dumped them on top of a file cabinet. “I’ll just be a minute.” Sitting down behind the desk, she picked up the phone.
While she checked her voice mail, Cole cleared a spot in front of him for his briefcase and took the opportunity to look around. Modern computer equipment shared space with battered file cabinets and crammed bookcases. On the one bare wall were several framed citations. Cole figured he’d better wait to examine them more closely. On another wall was a calendar still turned to the month before. On the counter were two dirty coffee cups and an apothecary jar filled with lemon drops. Annie might be as organized as a surgical team, but neatness wasn’t any more of a priority now than it had ever been.
Cole wondered if he could work in the midst of such clutter. The top of his own desk in Denver was always bare except for his current project. His files and baskets were color-coordinated, his books shelved according to subject and cataloged on his computer.
Now he looked at the self-stick notes dotting the side of the computer monitor and sighed.
The closing of a drawer drew his attention back to the woman seated across from him. She’d taken out a yellow legal pad and uncapped a cheap pen.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” she said, her gaze boring into him as though she were about to interview a suspect. “Tell me everything you know about the case.”
For the first time in a long while, Annie could find no peace, no relaxation in the condominium she’d taken such pleasure in decorating the year before. Even her cat, rescued from a shelter to become Annie’s number one fan, failed to distract her from her thoughts tonight. It had been a long afternoon, going over the facts of Lily Cassidy’s case with Cole and planning her strategy to poke holes in the state’s theory of how and why the crime had been committed. All they needed for an acquittal was reasonable doubt.
“Not now, Sluggo,” Annie murmured distractedly when the cat jumped into her lap and began butting his wide head against her hand. Gently she deposited him back on the carpeted floor, barely aware of his sharp meow of protest. Devoted he might be, but the big orange tabby was also unused to being ignored. Annie knew she’d have to placate him later for the slight she’d dealt his pride.
No matter. There were too many thoughts chasing each other around in her head for her to be able to focus on her cat, the Celine Dion CD she’d put on her stereo, or the glass of Merlot she’d poured herself when she’d first gotten home.
It was obvious that Cole didn’t want her on the case, and just as obvious that both his mother and Ryan did. For the last reason, and because Annie knew what it was like to be wrongly accused, she’d ignored Cole’s lack of enthusiasm toward her over lunch and accepted the assignment. She hoped that neither she nor Lily Cassidy would live to regret it.
With a sigh, Annie opened the denim tote she used in lieu of a briefcase and removed the notes she’d made that afternoon. Once they’d gotten started, she and Cole had covered a lot of ground. His memory for detail was phenomenal. They’d worked well together, their thought processes operating in a similar fashion that eliminated lengthy explanations between them. Indeed, they’d each picked up on what the other had been trying to communicate with a speed that reminded Annie painfully of the way they’d meshed six years ago. Sometimes back then words hadn’t been necessary at all, just touch and taste—
Annie leaped to her feet, scattering papers and scaring the cat, who ran behind the couch. This was getting her nowhere! Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through her mouth, she gathered up her notes and sat back down. Kicking off her shoe, she tucked her foot beneath her, sipped her wine and stared at her own barely legible handwriting.
She would have liked to ask Cole about his life in Denver. She was curious
