couldn’t quite get her breath. Her head filled with his scent, something sharp yet smooth. It stroked her nerve endings and made things gather alertly all through her body. She fought the urge to squirm and concentrated on the badge he held in front of her nose.
Robbery-Homicide. That was the first thing she saw. He was one of those people who used initials—that was the second. His name was C. Fox Whittington. Tara took another quick, shallow breath. “What’s the C for?”
“What difference does it make?” He nearly snarled it.
“I’m curious. I like to be on a first name basis with anyone who arrests me.”
“Maybe you ought to put your mind to the trouble you’re in instead.”
Oh, she was in so very much trouble! Tara looked at his eyes in the thin moonlight. They were sharp, watchful eyes, totally at odds with that Southern drawl he had. Her teeth started chattering with a chill she wasn’t aware of feeling.
“M-my lawyer is Calvin Mazzeone. Take me to a telephone and I’ll c-call him.” Mentioning an attorney had stalled him once.
“Shut up and let me think about this.” Suddenly, she was shaking like a leaf, Fox realized. The hint of vulnerability—a shadow of how she had looked coming out of the house—touched him all over again. “We’re going to your house,” he decided. “We’ll talk there.”
“Isn’t that a little unconventional?”
“You want conventional? I’ve got cuffs in my car.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble.”
She was right back on her game, he thought, his temper spiking again. Fox finished steering her around the house, maneuvering her toward the Shelby. He unlocked the passenger door and nudged her inside. “Here’s the way I see it. You must have left prints all over that house.”
“Stephen’s my stepbrother. I visit him all the time.”
He closed the door and went around to the other side of the car. “Stephen’s dead.” He slipped behind the wheel.
“He is?”
“Please try to control yourself. I can’t deal with all this grief while I’m driving.”
“Are you always this sarcastic?”
“No. You bring out the worst in me.” Somewhere in Savannah, Fox heard his whole family tree rolling over in their graves at his behavior.
“Then just drop me here at the curb,” she said. “I’ll find my own way home.”
Fox took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. “You came out of his house, damn it.” His gaze snapped forward again. “What’s your address, Ms. Cole?”
Of course, he’d guess who she was. Tara felt herself beginning to rattle apart again. “1222 Poplar Drive.”
“For real?”
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you just killed your brother?”
“Stepbrother.” She hissed it, the first real emotion he’d heard in her tone so far.
“So why did you kill him?”
“I refuse to answer—”
“Where’s the ruby?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Where’d you put it?”
“The—” Tara snapped her mouth shut again. He was hurling questions at her too quickly. She’d almost answered him and mentioned the dog.
She still didn’t know what that animal had been doing there in the first place and admitting that she knew it was there was as good as admitting that she’d been snooping around Stephen’s library tonight. It was probably not the best place to concede that she’d been until she managed to talk to her lawyer, Tara thought. Besides, he had the Rose, this…this cop with his gentle Southern drawl. His questions to the contrary were purely a smoke screen, intended to throw her off. The cops had to have found it. The ruby had landed right there on the library floor.
Whittington drove into the underground garage of her building. He showed his badge to the security guard and cruised on, looking for a place to park.
“Just pull over and let me out.” Tara crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re not staying.”
“Put coffee on. This could be a long one.”
“I don’t have to let you in.”
“Then I’d have something solid to charge you with. Obstruction of justice should keep you in a cell overnight.”
“That’s ridiculous. Cal could have me out on my own recognizance.”
“Do you want to take the chance?”
She didn’t. Tara got out of the car when he parked it and slammed the door hard.
He followed her into the garage elevator and they rode it silently to the seventh floor. Tara kept her lips pressed together as she strode down the hall with him at her heels. She unlocked the door and tried to shut it again before he got inside. He blocked it with his foot and pushed into the apartment behind her.
Fox looked around. There was magnificent view of the Schuylkill River from a long line of windows at the back of the living room. The boathouses there were trimmed with lights, looking like something out of a fairy tale. He liked that. Then his gaze came back to his immediate surroundings.
There was glass. There was cold white leather. The carpet was black. The prints on the walls were painfully, jarringly modern. The apartment was as sharp as her tongue and her cunning little mind.
He was damned if she was going to slip through his fingers, Fox thought. Even if she hadn’t actually killed anyone—and that was a big if, with nothing but his gut to hitch it on—something was going on here. She’d been inside that house.
He moved to the sofa and sat. “Where were we?”
“You were just leaving.”
“Let’s go over what I do know first.” He began ticking items off on his fingers as she stood in the center of the room, watching him. “Stephen Carmen is dead. And lo and behold, an hour or so after the dust settles, you come tiptoeing out his back door.”
She said nothing.
“It’ll take the lab a few hours to match your prints, but by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have you on that, too.”
“I told you—”
“Ah. I forgot that part. You and the victim are related. You visited his library regularly. Your prints would logically be…well, everywhere.”
“Yes,” she conceded
