name scrawled in the same bold lettering. That had been almost two months ago. The second had also been delivered to her office, about three weeks later. But it was this last letter, delivered to her home, that increased her feelings of trepidation. Somehow she knew this wasn’t a prank, an empty threat. The letters were a warning of something to come. But she didn’t know what or why.
“You’re sure you have no idea who might have sent these letters?”
She shook her head. “If I did, I’d tell you.”
“This one—” Creighton pointed to the first letter “—suggests that you’re acquainted with your pen pal.”
Arden wrapped her arms tighter around herself and pushed away the painful memories that nudged from the back of her mind. More than twenty years had passed since Aunt Tess had brought her to Fairweather; there was no reason for Gavin to look for her now. Mentioning her stepfather’s name, reliving the humiliation and the pain, would only hurt her again. She refused to give him that kind of power. “If I thought I knew who was doing this, I’d tell you.”
“An ex-boyfriend?” Creighton prompted.
Arden’s thoughts drifted from Gavin to Brad. But the way their relationship had ended was unlikely to suggest that he was obsessed about her. “No.”
“A beautiful woman like yourself must have admirers.”
She frowned.
He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean any offense,” he said. “It’s just an objective observation.”
“I’m sure it’s not an ex-boyfriend.”
“A rejected suitor, perhaps?”
Arden rolled her eyes; Creighton shrugged.
“You know as well as I do that almost one-third of all violent crimes against women are perpetrated by their partners or former partners.”
“I know,” Arden agreed. “And I know this isn’t a boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend or a wanna-be boyfriend.” That was all she was going to say without admitting outright that she hadn’t had a date in the past two years.
“Okay,” Creighton relented. “Then we’re back to considering that the threats must be related to one of your cases.”
“That seems like the most reasonable explanation,” she admitted. “But I’ve gone through all of my files, concentrating on new clients in the few weeks preceding the arrival of the first letter, and nothing strikes me as out of the ordinary.”
“I’d like a list of those clients,” Creighton said.
Arden hesitated. “I can’t breach confidentiality.”
“I don’t need any details,” Creighton said. “Just names.”
She hesitated, hating that her fear outweighed her sense of professional obligation. “All right.”
When Arden returned home after her meeting with Lieutenant Creighton, Shaun was seated on a bench in front of her building, his long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him. Her heart gave a little sigh. No man should look so good.
One of his wide-palmed hands idly stroked Rocky’s back as he chatted with Greta Dempsey. The dog’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his eyes closed. Arden couldn’t blame him. It was all too easy to remember the feel of those hands on her back, stroking, seducing, and she’d been pretty close to drooling herself.
She shook off the memory and stepped closer, heard the musical tinkle of Greta’s laughter. The older woman’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed, confirming to Arden that her own reaction wasn’t unique. Women—young and old and in between—adored him.
Shaun’s lips curved in response to something Greta said, and all Arden could think about was how it felt to have those lips on hers. How much she wanted to feel them again.
Greta spotted her first and waved her over. “Arden, I was hoping to catch up with you. I have a plate of warm oatmeal-raisin cookies with your name on them.”
Arden stepped toward them. “I’m going to have to buy a new wardrobe if you keep baking me cookies.”
Greta dismissed the comment with a careless wave of her hand. “A few extra pounds won’t do you any harm. A man wants a woman with soft curves he can cuddle up to.” She turned to Shaun and winked. “Isn’t that right?”
Shaun grinned. “I won’t argue with that.”
Greta nodded, satisfied. “Well, then. Come on upstairs to get the cookies. You can take them to Arden’s apartment to have with your tea.”
“I haven’t invited Mr. McIver up for tea and cookies,” Arden said dryly.
“If you’re a smart woman, you will,” Greta said then gave a gentle tug to Rocky’s leash. “Come along, sweetie. We don’t want to miss Jeopardy.”
“I’m sorry,” Arden apologized to Shaun after Greta and Rocky had disappeared inside the building. “She’s a wonderful lady who just can’t seem to mind her own business.”
“She cares about you,” Shaun said simply.
“She’s obsessed with finding a nice young man for me to settle down with.”
“I got that impression.”
Arden cringed. “What did she say to you?”
“It wasn’t what she said so much as how she said it. Greta Dempsey could teach the members of the Fairweather P.D. a thing or two about interrogation,” he said.
“I am so sorry. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not looking to settle down.”
“You don’t want a husband and two-point-two kids and a house with a white picket fence?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Is it my turn to be interrogated?”
He flashed her that quick, sexy smile. “I’m curious about you, Doherty.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But when I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
He held up a tape measure. “To take measurements. For your shelves.”
“Oh.”
“You forgot?”
“Actually, I thought you’d forget.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t think you really wanted to build shelves for me.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to,” he told her.
“Then I guess I’ll have to invite you in to take measurements.”
