me leave the apartment, and I—fell—down the stairs.”
“He pushed you, you mean. That’s aggravated assault.”
“It was an accident. At least…” Her left hand moved unconsciously to cover the wrist on her knee. The gesture made sense now. “The principal advised me it would be better to treat the incident as an accident.”
“Better for who?”
“For Jamal. My student.”
Aleksy was disgusted. “The one who caused the problem in the first place.”
She shook her head. “No. No, Jamal was never a problem. He was an excellent student.”
“Then, why—”
“He was an excellent student,” she repeated. “Talented in math. Brilliant in art. I pulled every string I had to get him accepted as a scholarship student at the Art Institute school.”
“So, what was the trouble?”
“Jamal’s parents—his stepfather—wanted him to go to a regular college and get a degree in business.”
Aleksy shrugged. “Sounds reasonable to me.”
“Yes. It sounded reasonable to everyone,” Faye said bleakly. “And heaven help Jamal if what was reasonable in this case wasn’t right for him.”
“So, what did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
It mattered, he thought. To her, if to no one else. Even if she hadn’t confessed she might ditch her job, he could see for himself the stress that haunted her eyes and compressed her mouth.
“Come on. What did you do?”
She stood, close enough that her skirt brushed his arm. His body reacted to her warmth and the scent that fell from her skirt. He hardly had to move his hand and he’d be touching her smooth calf, her warm thigh. He grinned a little at his own fantasy. He could reach right under all that flowery material and—
“I learned I had no business butting in where I wasn’t welcome,” Faye said.
Aleksy’s grin sharpened. She might feel down, but she definitely wasn’t out. “With that kind of attitude, you’d make a lousy cop.”
Her eyes met his, direct and sad, and his amusement cut off like a spigot.
“I made a very bad teacher,” she said. “Excuse me.”
He watched as she scrambled down the bank and back toward the cottage. Her pale legs flashed along the water’s edge.
He was losing his objectivity, damn it. She was just a convenience. And he was a cop. It was time he started thinking like one.
In his experience, only the very innocent and the very guilty ran from questioning. He wondered if anyone could be as innocent as Faye Harper seemed.
Or what she had to hide.
She was running away. Again. And it was beginning to tick her off.
Faye’s sandals slipped on shale and stone. She didn’t used to be such a loser.
She could have kept her mouth shut. She grabbed at a sapling for balance. Instead she’d let herself be lured by Aleksy’s hot dark eyes and easy grin. She’d allowed herself to be seduced by the promise of his understanding. She’d opened her big fat mouth and fallen in, and it wasn’t even his fault. Her hand came away sticky and smelling of tar.
Sure it was.
He was a detective. He probably knew all kinds of ways to get people—to get women—to talk to him. And she had. All it had taken were a few quick questions and a brief show of indignation, and she was right back where she didn’t want to be, revisiting a topic she’d promised herself was over and done with.
With relief, she saw her aunt’s cottage up ahead. Its weathered gray shingles and shabby trim shone in the sun. Ducks dozed in the shadow of the dock. All quiet. Peaceful. And hers, at least for the next few months.
Only now its peace had been disturbed. By Alex Denko.
She could have excused him for polluting the atmosphere with high level pheromones.
She couldn’t blame him for listening when she’d been willing to talk. Faye frowned. Anxious to talk.
But she could not forgive him for forcing her to see that, deep down, she still cared desperately about her job. About Jamal. And she must not care. Her health and her sanity depended on it.
She climbed the steps to the deck, one hand already digging in her bag for her keys. Sunglasses, sketchbook, wallet… There they were. She pulled them out and froze with the keys clutched in her hand.
The door was already open.
Not all the way, which explained why she hadn’t noticed it before. But there was a two-inch crack between the sliding panel and the aluminum frame, where she was sure—almost sure—she had pulled the door shut and locked it behind her.
Which meant… Which meant… Oh, dear. Her stomach hollowed.
Heart pounding, she took a deep breath, as if she could force oxygen to her brain to get it working. This wasn’t Chicago, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to be assaulted in her aunt Eileen’s living room by some twitchy kid or strung out junkie desperate enough to follow her home.
But her door was undeniably open.
She peered through the dark glass at the shadowed interior. And there was no way she was going inside alone.
Slowly, she backed down the steps. When she felt the soft ground under her feet, she turned and started to run.
She didn’t have far to go.
The noise of her panicked passage must have traveled ahead of her. Faye was barely under the cover of trees when she saw Aleksy Denko prowling through the brush like a K-9 dog on high alert, head high, face grim. Despite the pole he still carried, no one in their right mind would mistake him for a casual middle-of-the-week fisherman.
She almost sank with relief. She waved instead.
He strode toward her and caught her elbows in both hands, steadying and supporting her. “You all right?”
“Yes. I’m—” spooked “—fine.”
His expression didn’t change. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I got back to the cottage and—” She swallowed. Was she overreacting? “Well, the door was open.”
“Did you lock it? When you left?”
“I think so.”
“Did you go inside?”
She felt like an idiot. “No.”
