to see that her weapon was steady. Because she wasn’t steady at all. From the first moment she’d spotted him kneeling next to the body, she’d recognized him. And she’d experienced the same intense, impulsive urge to go to him that she’d felt earlier. Instead, she’d halted in her tracks and taken a moment to gather herself before she’d moved toward him.
The 911 caller had identified himself as being in the military police and had promised to stay on the scene. The gun on the ground next to him and the way he was scribbling in that notebook suggested he was a cop. Still, she’d have to make sure. That was when he’d glanced up and met her eyes. She’d very nearly stopped dead in her tracks again.
Who the hell was he? And how could he have this kind of effect on her?
“Mind if I use my cane?”
“Just give the gun a wide berth.”
“I called this in. The victim here is a woman. She’s taken a blow to the back of the head and she may have hit her forehead on the edge of the sculpture when she fell. She’s unconscious. Her breathing and pulse are steady.”
As he spoke, he rose in a smooth series of movements that told Fiona he’d practiced it often. She noticed more details than she had in their earlier encounter. He was larger than she remembered, well over six feet with broad shoulders and a swimmer’s body that went well with his lean face. But it was his eyes that grabbed her attention.
Again.
They were the darkest gray she’d ever seen. His gaze was direct and very intense. Not much slipped by those eyes, she could tell. And staring into them was a mistake. The pull he seemed to effortlessly exert on her tightened, and she barely kept herself from walking into his arms.
Impatience bubbled up. She had a job to do, and she would think of how he affected her…later. Better still, she wouldn’t think of him at all. “You want to tell me the rest of what you know, Sergeant?”
“It’s Captain D. C. Campbell.” He moved a hand toward his pocket, then paused. “I have ID.”
Which she should have asked for already. “Go ahead.”
As she inspected it, he continued, “I’m currently stationed at Fort McNair running the military police unit. It’s my day off, and I’m here on an outing with my mother and sister. They’re skating.”
Fiona thought of the two women she’d seen with him in the exhibition and recalled her impression that they’d been related.
Narrowing her eyes, she slipped her revolver into her evening bag. “You want to get to the good part?”
“Sure thing.” Humor flashed in his eyes.
Even as she knelt beside the body to verify the pulse, the sirens stopped. D. C. Campbell kept his report on the altercation between the two people he’d observed detailed, yet concise. One person had mugged another person on the National Mall.
“Did her attacker get away with anything?”
“No. He took one shot at me, then seemed to lose his nerve.”
The woman was lying half on her side, her face in profile, and something tugged at the edge of Fiona’s mind. She located a wallet and was about to check the victim’s ID when he said, “I know her.”
She glanced up at him. “Who is she?”
“She’s my general’s administrative assistant—Private Amanda Hemmings.”
A memory clicked into place in Fiona’s mind. She remembered the young blonde woman in uniform who’d stepped into her office, bubbling with enthusiasm, so eager to help with the toy drive. Fiona frowned down, first at the ID and then at the woman. She still looked young and very defenseless. Something tightened around her heart. “I know her, too. I only met her once. She’s one of the volunteers helping with the D.C. Police Department’s toy drive. That’s the reason she’s wearing the Santa hat. The hats were her idea. All my volunteers are wearing them.”
“The man who attacked her was wearing one, too.”
Spotting two uniforms hurrying toward them, Fiona frowned, then rose, pulled out her ID and held it out to them. But she never took her eyes off of D.C. “He was wearing a hat, too? That’s odd. I wonder what was behind the attack.”
“I have a clue.”
When he pulled the necklace out of his pocket, she stared. Even in the dim light, the large blue diamond in the pendant glowed. Without thinking, she cupped her hands and held them out. “It’s the Rubinov, isn’t it?”
“That would be my guess.”
As he placed it in her hands, his fingers brushed against her palm. It was a momentary contact—accidental, casual. But Fiona felt the impact—a stirring mix of heat, pleasure and promise—right down to her toes. Closing her fingers over the necklace, twin impulses grabbed her. One to step forward, the other to turn and run.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw two medics hurrying toward them with a stretcher. But before she turned to deal with them, she met D. C. Campbell’s eyes again. There was a heat in them that nearly matched the fiery glow in the center of the diamond. There was no physical contact between them anymore, but her skin still burned where his fingers had brushed against it. Neither of them moved.
“Interesting,” he said, letting his gaze drop briefly to the stone, which she still held in her outstretched palm. “You’re aware of the legend.”
“I am.” She had to push the words through a very dry throat, and the effort had her lifting her chin. “I believe in legends about as much as I believe in Santa Claus.”
“It will be interesting to see where this leads.”
Nowhere, Fiona thought as she fought a pump of panic. But she didn’t say the word aloud. Instead she turned her attention to the medics. She’d handle D. C. Campbell later.
OH, IT WOULD DEFINITELY lead somewhere, D.C. thought. Two people didn’t experience the kind of connection they’d just felt and walk away from it.
D.C. stepped away from Amanda Hemmings, giving the medics room to check her over. The older of the two, a plump woman in glasses, glanced at him. “You find her?”
“I saw it happen,” D.C. said. “She was struck on the head from behind with a gun and fell down hard. Looks like she hit her head on the edge of the sculpture. She’s been out ever since.”
“Good to know.” The woman went back to her job.
D.C. glanced over at the ice rink. From his position, he could see that some of the skaters had lined up along the edge, their curiosity aroused by the sirens and the flashing lights. One of the uniforms was taping off the scene while two others were keeping those still strolling along the Mall from entering at the other side of the garden. He couldn’t see either his mother or his sister, although he would soon, he suspected. Once they spotted him in the middle of this, they’d be right over.
Taking out his cell, he punched in the number of his general, Myra Eddinger. While he filled her in on what he knew so far, he kept his gaze on the mystery woman who’d taken charge of the crime scene. She radiated competence
