Dressed in a pretty floral blouse and cotton slacks, Michele appeared in the doorway, looking like a summer garden.
Internally, he groaned. “I was just checking to see if you’re all right.”
“Yes, of course.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes remained guarded. “The military police are patrolling our area and keeping us safe.”
Her tone caused him to bristle. Note to self, Michele doesn’t need you in her life.
“Sounds like you’ve got a full house.”
“The wives wanted to be together. They’re worried and grieving and ready for their husbands to return home.” She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her. “How’s the investigation going?”
“We don’t have much at this point. A few people to question. We’re checking everyone coming on and off post and have enhanced security in all the housing areas.”
“I noticed the military police driving by a number of times last night.”
From the look on her face, Jamison wondered if she had seen his car. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the smoothness of her cheeks and the way her hair gleamed in the morning light. “Any word on the Hughes children?”
“Their dad plans to talk to them tonight on Skype.” Her voice softened and sadness tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Jamison’s heart ached for the children. His own mother had died when he was young, and he knew how hard life could be for kids without a mom.
“I made chocolate chip cookies and took them over early this morning. Yolanda’s sister is scheduled to arrive later today. She and the kids will stay in the VIP guest quarters until Major Hughes arrives home.”
“Any idea about the burial?”
“They have a plot in Missouri. Once everyone is reunited, Major Hughes and the children will fly her body home. Mother and Dad will probably attend the funeral. I’m not sure what I should do.”
Knowing Michele, she would probably run back to Atlanta. Just as she had done ten months ago.
He glanced at his watch, needing to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter. “You have my number. Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Jamison.”
He hurried back to his car. Five minutes with Michele and suddenly his ordered life was anything but. His focus needed to center on the investigation and the supervisor at Prime Maintenance he planned to question, as well as the florist on post.
Pulling away from the Logan quarters, Jamison shook his head, frustrated with the swell of feelings that were bubbling up within him.
A woman murdered.
A killer on the loose.
A very personal complication he hadn’t expected that tangled up his ability to be objective.
“Oh, Michele,” he groaned aloud. “Why’d you have to come back to Fort Rickman now?”
* * *
Traffic was light as Michele drove across post. The gray sky and the weather forecaster’s prediction that another round of turbulence would hit the area added to her unease.
Over the last few hours, Michele’s mood had dropped as low as the barometer. She needed time away from her mother and the women who filled the Logan home. Sweet as they were, their long faces and hushed tones as they spoke of what had happened forced her to confront the terrible tragedy she had stumbled upon last night.
Knowing two children had been left without a mother added to her struggle. Seeing their sweet faces earlier in the day had put an even heavier pall around her shoulders. Michele needed fresh air and time to process her emotions, but no matter how hard she tried to block the crime scene from her memory, the gruesome pictures of
Yolanda’s death continued to haunt her.
The expression on Jamison’s face when he had come crashing into the house, gun in hand, mixed with the other still frames. Ten months ago, she had thought she loved him, but when an investigation almost claimed his life, she realized her mistake. Maybe in time, she’d find Mr. Right. At the moment, she was more concerned about her confrontation last night with Mr. Wrong. Seeing him again this morning had added more confusion to the day.
Despite his good qualities, Jamison wasn’t the man for her. Everything inside her warned that a U.S. Army warrant officer, who was also a CID special agent, was off-limits and could end up being a deadly combination. Plus, her recent history with the military wasn’t good.
In quick flashes, she thought of her brother’s death, her father’s injury soon after he arrived in Afghanistan and the shoot-out on post that could have left Jamison wounded. Or dead.
Dawson had taken the bullet meant for Jamison. In spite of the close call, Jamison continued to handle investigations that put him in danger, which further proved the CID agent wasn’t for her.
So why had she called him yesterday? Jamison, of all people. She’d reacted without thinking. Now she had to pay the price for seeing him again.
Last night, he had been cool, calm and totally in control, dressed in a starched white shirt, a silk tie and a sports coat expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and trim waist.
Instead of a military uniform, CID agents wore civilian clothes to ensure that rank didn’t get in the way of their investigations. Maybe that’s what had attracted her to Jamison the night they’d met at the military club on post. He had looked drop-dead gorgeous in his coat and tie when he extended his hand in greeting, along with a smile that instantly melted her heart.
Slipping her right hand into his and gazing into his deep-set brown eyes had made her world stop for one breathless moment. Something had clicked inside her, and she had been instantly smitten by the very special, special agent.
He’d been equally put together last night, although his eyes had been darker than she remembered. Probably because he had refused to hold her gaze, which bothered her more than she wanted to admit. This morning he’d seemed a bit on edge, although it was no wonder after what had happened.
Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tiny lines around his eyes or the fatigue that played over his features. Committed as he had always been to his job, he had probably slept little last night.
Heaving a sigh, she turned into the main shopping area on post and parked across from the floral shop. A bell tinkled over the door as she entered the air-conditioned interior and stepped toward the counter.
The florist, in his early forties and with a muscular build and military flattop, glanced up. “May I help you?”
“I called in an order last week for a bouquet of cut flowers.”
“Name?”
“Logan. Michele Logan.”
Recognition played over his angled face. “You’re Colonel Logan’s daughter.”
“That’s
