by firmly tucking her tongue between her teeth managed to refrain. She began shelving the magazines, annoyed that he’d followed her right between the high shelves. It was dark and dim and he seemed to suck all the air right out of the area.
Okay, it wasn’t dark. It wasn’t dim, she silently acknowledged as she crouched down to reach the bottom shelf. But he still made the area seem that way. Too close. Way too close.
She shot to her feet and pushed the cart rapidly down the row. The front wheel—the one that shimmied a little—squealed loudly. “You know where Harriet’s office is, Deputy,” she said, speaking over the noise. “There’s no point following me back here. Harriet didn’t shelve materials herself. I doubt she hid any secrets of her life back here.”
She clipped the corner of the next shelf with the wheel of her book cart.
“Think maybe you need a license to drive this thing.”
He was standing right behind her, his hands nudging hers away from the push bar of the cart.
She jumped away, then flushed like the ninny she obviously was. “I—” don’t know what to say.
His dark eyes watched her. Waited.
She pressed her lips together and slid between the book cart and the shelving, moving ahead of it, and grabbed up a handful of magazines. It was fortunate that she could nearly do this particular task in her sleep.
He followed along, the book cart moving slowly behind her. Of course the wheel behaved for him.
They went up one row. Down another. From periodicals to nonfiction. From there to fiction.
If she thought waiting for his arrival had been nerve-racking, it was nearly torturous having him close on her heels, his thoughts kept close to himself, well hidden by those unreadable brown eyes.
She wondered for a moment if she’d lose her job if word got out at the way she ran, screaming madly, from the library one hot summer day. Shaking off the absurdity, she turned to the cart only to stop short in surprise.
“You’re finished.”
She looked from the empty book cart that separated them to his face. “Well, this particular task is completed, at least.”
“Molly.”
She jerked, whirling around to see one of the volunteers standing behind her with a frankly curious gaze that took in both Molly and the deputy. She needed to get a grip. “Yes, Mrs. English?”
“It’s five,” the elderly woman said gently. “I wanted to let you know I was leaving.”
Five? Molly managed a smile and thanked the woman as she left. Then she looked over her shoulder at Holt. Just as quickly she looked away. The man was too disturbing by far. “I’ve got to close up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.” She began rolling the book cart to its proper place.
“What’s the rush? You’re often here after five.”
She shoved the cart into its spot beneath a counter. “How did you know that? Spying on me?”
“This place is across from the sheriff’s department.” His voice was mild. “My desk is next to the window in the front. Simple observation makes you paranoid?”
Rob had kept track of every single thing she’d done, every single person with whom she’d had contact. She’d had no privacy, and he’d made darned sure that she knew it.
“I have plans this evening.” She had to step around him to go to her office.
He followed. “You haven’t moved your stuff into Harriet’s office.”
She leaned over to retrieve her purse from the bottom drawer in the desk. “Is there some law against that?”
“What’s with the defensiveness?”
Courtesy of her foot, the drawer shut a little harder than necessary. She straightened, hugging her purse to her. “Nothing.” Just because she’d been told more than once by the trustees that she needed to switch offices in order to make room for a new assistant librarian really was no reason to take it out on the deputy. Even if she did consider him quite responsible for making her a nervous wreck. “I’d think you’d be glad, considering everything, that Harriet’s office is still just the way she left it. Ought to ease your search for clues into her private life.”
“Her office isn’t the connection I need. It’s you. Thought we’d established that.”
“Well,” she grabbed her keys and walked past him, snapping off lights as she made her way to the entrance, “you’re just going to have to wait now. Because I’ll be busy all evening.”
He caught hold of the entrance door before she could open it. “Doing what?”
She looked above her head at his hand, the large square palm, the long, blunt-edged fingers, and swallowed down a jolt. It was just a hand. A man’s hand.
A cop’s hand.
“I have, a, uh, a reading group I meet with on Monday evenings.” It was more or less the truth and was certainly all she intended to divulge to this particular man.
“Are there a lot of reading groups?”
“A few.” She tugged at the door and relaxed some when he moved his hand, allowing her to open it. “I think it was kind of a new concept here in Rumor, but they’re getting more popular.” She waited for him to move out of the way before locking it up.
“Did Harriet meet with any groups?” He easily kept up with her as she hurried to her car.
“Not really. And none of the groups include any men yet, so if that’s where your thoughts are heading, don’t bother.” She tossed her purse across the seat and sat down, wincing a little at the hot, vinyl interior. She cranked down her window, trying not to look at the deputy.
He was standing beside the car, his expression as serious as it always was. She really didn’t want to notice the way his finely woven trousers tightened across his hips because of the hand he’d shoved in one pocket, or the way his silly tie lay against a chest that looked hard even through the severely white shirt he wore. So, of course, that was exactly what she noticed. That, and the way his eyes didn’t look quite so densely brown because the sunlight—still bright and hot even at that hour—was shining almost directly in his face.
His thick, spiky lashes were narrowed around that gleam of coffee-brown that seemed focused directly on her.
“Are you always so intense?” Her face flamed and she cursed her wayward tongue.
He closed his hands over the door, seeming oblivious to the hot metal, and leaned down a little so he could look into the car. “When I’m after something I want.”
His hair truly was black, she thought faintly. There wasn’t the least bit of gold, nor red, nor brown in the thick shock of it that looked in danger of tumbling over his forehead if not for the way it was brushed severely back from his hard face.
She needed therapy. That’s all there was to it. She absolutely,
