“My sentiments exactly.” He pushed the man ahead so he could clear and close the door. “I found him prowling around your cut power line.”
A baffled Gunther appealed to Jasmine. “My mother sent me over to check on you. All your lights went out at the same time, and then she saw someone near your side wall. I went where she said and found your line had been cut.”
“You wouldn’t think I’d be surprised at this point.” Giving her neighbor’s shoulder an encouraging pat, Jasmine straightened. “Rogan, Gunther planted my front garden for me. He shovels my sidewalk and driveway every time it snows, and he took care of Boris while I was in San Diego six weeks ago. He didn’t cut the power.”
Rogan studied the man by emergency light. “Can you describe the person your mother saw?”
Gunther moved a thick shoulder. “She said he walked like a man.” He slanted his interrogator a doubtful look. “He was wearing black.”
“Do you have beer?” Rogan asked Jasmine.
“Heineken.” She offered him a bland smile. “It’s Gunther’s favorite. In the fridge, second shelf. You can have one, too.”
He said nothing, but didn’t take his eyes off Gunther as he opened the refrigerator door.
Boris’s thumping tail seemed like a positive sign, so while Rogan tossed Gunther a beer and undertook the required question-and-answer session, she located a pair of battery lamps. Less than five minutes later, Gunther and his beer were gone, a headache was brewing in her temples and her mind was swinging like an overwound pendulum.
She didn’t hear him approach, but knew as she had earlier when Rogan came to stand behind her.
She relaxed her muscles and didn’t respond to the hand he ran along her arm. “You look good, love.”
There was no way to read his tone or his mood. But his eyes—now, those occasionally told a tale.
Blanking her expression, she turned. And immediately wanted to sigh. He had such a devastating half grin. No wonder she’d fallen into the clichéd trap and had sex with him after Ballard’s funeral.
Hot, crazed sex, she amended, fingering the thin silver chain around her neck.
“Pretty sure I look the same as I did at the memorial service.”
“You looked sad then.” His gaze lowered and rose in a single seductive sweep. “You don’t now.”
“Good to know I still wear terror well.”
The touch of his fingers and thumb on her chin cautioned her to put some distance between them—as she should have done six weeks ago. Instead, she trapped his wrist. “Daniel called me tonight. We were cut off, but he’s in trouble.”
“I know.”
Did he now? Her elevated brows posed the obvious question.
The half smile lingered. “Your ex-husband’s not the only one who sees and hears. People are dying. Wainwright’s the common denominator.”
“Wainwright’s dead. Ballard was convinced of it.”
“So was I, until…” He slid his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Dead or alive’s not the point. Finding the person responsible for the homicides is. And to answer your next question, yes, everyone who’s died was murdered.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You want lies?”
“What I want seems to be something I can’t have.”
“And what would that be?”
Was his mouth moving closer? As it tended to around him, curiosity chased away good sense. She ran her own finger down the side of his throat to the shadowy hollow at the base. “Pulse rate’s up a little, Rogan.”
“I’d be surprised if not. What do you want?”
“Peace. Stability. Maybe a hit of amnesia so I can stop seeing dead people whenever my sleeping mind decides a nightmare’s in order.”
“Was it so bad that you can’t let it go?”
“Two police officers were killed, and a third is presumed dead, all because they were watching out for me.”
“It was their job to watch out for you.”
Theirs, his and that of at least four other officers. Jasmine supposed she should be grateful the death toll hadn’t been higher.
“Wainwright saw you as a way to stop Daniel from testifying against him. You were a victim of circumstance. Fortunately, when the trial dust settled, he wound up behind bars.”
“And you don’t think there might have been a phoenix within the ashes of his organization ready to rise up and take over?”
“There’s always a phoenix, but Wainwright’s South American drug connection’s been severed, so all’s as well as it can be for the moment.”
A sudden urge to laugh tickled her throat. Had to be hysteria, she decided, and, tipping her head, regarded him through her lashes.
Rogan had eyes that could weave a spell with a look, great hands and an even better mouth. She’d let herself fall under his spell at the safe house and again after the funeral. So why, with two mistakes to her credit, couldn’t she walk away and be done with him?
“I can hear your mind working, Jasmine. You’re thinking a trip to Antarctica would be a good idea about now.”
Since a similar thought actually had drifted through the back of her mind, she smiled. “Any chance of that happening?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” She stared past him to the streaming window. “I can’t help feeling responsible for the officers who died. I should have gone to the safe house when Captain Ballard suggested it. Instead, a team of cops trailed after me day and night.”
“No one died tailing you.”
“Could have, though.”
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
Warning eyes shot to his. “This isn’t about me, and you know it. The men who were killed had families. Call it what you like, I feel the weight of their deaths every day.”
“So if a lunatic came into Witch House and shot you, you’d expect your boss to bear the burden?”
“The only burden he’d bear is if the shooter missed me and hit one of the artifacts.”
“Sounds like you need a new employer.”
“It’s crossed my mind.” She would have moved out of range then if he hadn’t trapped her arm.
“We’re not done yet.”
