it Creath waiting for her on the other side of the door?
Regan pressed a hand between her breasts to hold in her frantic heart while she fought a short, ferocious battle to pull herself together. Creath’s style wasn’t to announce himself. He would slide into the apartment like smoke, and grab her before she knew he was there.
Closing her laptop, she rose. Because she believed in evening the odds, she moved into the kitchenette and pulled a knife out of a drawer. Her breath shallowed as she neared the door. Fingers clenched on the knife’s hilt, she used her free hand to edge back one side of the sheers.
When she saw Josh McCall, the flood of adrenaline in her veins became a full-blown tsunami. In the dim light, the prominent planes of his stubbled face looked sharp as glass. The cop eyeing her through the door’s pane in some ways presented as great a danger to her as Creath.
She lowered her gaze to the pie carrier in his hand. Since he’d planned to drop by Etta’s after he left the tavern, Regan knew exactly what had happened. It was bad enough that Etta had been on her injured foot long enough to bake pies, but she was ferrying them via cop.
Having no choice, Regan undid the dead bolt, opened the door a few inches. “You moonlighting as Etta’s errand boy?” she asked smoothly.
His smile flashed charmingly. “Making deliveries gets you access into places you might not be otherwise invited to.”
Before she could react, he’d nudged a shoulder against the door, forcing her to take a step back. A slick move, she thought as he stepped past her. She narrowed her eyes. “Uninvited places like my home, you mean.”
“Exactly.” His gaze dropped to her hand. “You’re as pasty as Etta’s biscuit dough and that’s one hell of a grip you’ve got on that knife. Something wrong?”
You. “Yes, you pounded on my door at one o’clock in the morning.” When she reached for the pie, he shifted.
“If you try to juggle the pie and that knife, you might cut yourself,” he said as he headed to the kitchenette. “Wouldn’t want that.”
Teeth clenched, she remained at the open door, struggling for calm. “If anyone gets cut, it won’t be me.”
He set the pie on the counter, then turned, studying her with unconcealed interest. “You’re a tough customer, Ms. Ford.”
She felt her throat tighten. “I didn’t tell you my last name.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. I asked Etta.”
“Why?”
His gaze swept the room before returning to her. “You wouldn’t tell me.”
Sweat pooled on her palm against the knife’s handle. “You didn’t ask.”
“True.” He raised a dark brow. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of pie?”
“Etta never bakes just one of something. I’m sure you’ve already had your fill.”
“You’d make a good detective, Ms. Ford.”
“Like you?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t tell you my profession.”
“Howie mentioned it.”
He angled his chin. “You asked Howie about me?”
“No, he commented you used to be a wild kid who wound up a cop.” Regan knew she had to act with confidence or blow her cover. So, she forced her mouth into a slight upward curve. “He mentioned something about you and Etta’s son raiding a Camp Fire Girls jamboree.”
Josh stroked a finger along his stubbled jaw. “Now there’s a great memory. During the raid I stole a kiss from Mary Beth Powers. That was the first time I’d kissed a girl and it was a moving experience. For my part in the raid, Chief Decker made me pick up trash along Sundown’s roadsides for a week.” He wiggled his dark brows. “After I served my sentence, I went back and kissed Mary Beth again.”
The wicked amusement in his eyes sent the primitive sensation Regan had felt before seeping over her, heating her flesh and making her stomach jitter.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re a man who learns from his mistakes,” she said, hoping the nerves jumping inside her didn’t sound in her voice.
His finger shifted from his jaw to the thin scar on the side of his neck. “If I wasn’t, I’d be long dead.” He wandered to the sofa, glanced down at her laptop, the fading daisies. “I’m worried that Etta doesn’t learn from the past.”
“How so?”
His gaze slowly lifted, locked with hers. “She takes in strays. That kitten she has? Etta probably hasn’t had her checked for rabies.”
Knowing he was talking about more than just the kitten had Regan’s stomach burning like acid. “One look at Anthracite and you can tell she’s okay.”
He moved to her bedroom door, glanced in before looking back at her. “What about you, Regan Ford?”
“I don’t have rabies.”
His gaze traveled down, all the way to her bare feet, then back up again. “You do look good on the surface.”
His intimate scrutiny seared Regan like a blast, an almost palpable force that made her knees weak. God, she had to get away from him.
Clenching her fingers on the knob, she jerked the door open wider. “It’s late, McCall, and I want to go to bed.”
He stepped to her, curled a finger under her chin and nudged it up. “That an invitation?” he murmured.
“For you to leave.” She slapped his hand away while her pulse thrummed. He was all but standing on top of her. Close enough that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the woods to mind one moment and dark, intimate nights the next.
She didn’t want to feel. It was safer that way, easier; if she hadn’t been numb over the past year she couldn’t have survived. Two men were dead because of her. Their murders were an internal wound she didn’t dare touch because it was still bleeding. She wanted to keep the bleak ice inside her frozen.
She took a step back from the man whose hot gaze threatened to crack that ice. “Since you’re apparently Etta’s self-designated watchdog, you might want to stick your nose in an aspect of her life where she is at risk.”
“That would be?”
“Her health. She baked tonight, meaning she spent a lot of time on her feet, which is exactly what she shouldn’t be doing. She broke a bone, she has to keep her weight off her foot as much as possible or complications could set in.”
His eyes were now crimped with concern. “What sort of complications?”
“Are you aware she’s a diabetic?”
“Yeah. Has been since I’ve known her.”
“A
