know is there’s a card with Nicole Taylor’s name on it tied to the muffin basket.”
Jake felt his spine stiffen. “What does the card say?”
“‘Phillip, we’ve only just begun. Yours, Nicole.”’ Gianos shook his head. “The patrol cop mentioned that when she questioned Taylor, she claimed her association with Ormiston was purely business.”
“Yeah, that’s what Jones told me.”
“Maybe that’s true,” Gianos observed. “All I know is if a woman sent me a basket of goodies with a note like that, I’d get the idea her interest in me went beyond business. If the woman looked as good as Nicole Taylor, I’d welcome that interest.”
“Holy hell,” Jake muttered.
Gianos and Smith headed out the door just as Upchurch returned with a sheet. The M.E.’s assistant and one of the lab techs rolled Ormiston’s body onto the sheet.
The toothpick in the side of Upchurch’s mouth seesawed as he inspected the front of the dead man. “No sign of trauma on his neck, no blood visible.” Upchurch raised a shoulder. “Too early to tell, Sarge, but this death might be a natural.”
“And it might not be,” Jake countered.
“Might not.”
Jake knew that Gianos had been on target to turn a suspicious eye toward the muffins. At a death scene, you looked at everything that way.
Staring down at Ormiston’s body, Jake expelled a slow breath while his mind worked. Muffins were mostly carbohydrates, which the body digested faster than fats and proteins.
“Upchurch, I need a quick autopsy,” he began. “The M.E. needs to pay close attention to the stomach contents, the degree of digestion. Make sure he knows I want a tox screen on body fluids for poisons, both for time of death and cause of death.”
Upchurch cocked an eyebrow. “Poison, huh?”
“It’s possible,” Jake said, then headed for the kitchen.
She’d had to keep busy, or go crazy.
Gnawing her bottom lip, Nicole stared down at the folded sacks, empty foam containers and cups she’d aligned beside her on the back seat of Jake’s car. Now that she’d finished the task and had nothing to occupy her mind, she was again conscious of the clutching nervousness in the pit of her stomach.
At least she felt a little more calm in the back of Jake’s car with its windows rolled down than she had in the police car with its cagelike effect.
In an unconscious gesture, she flipped her thick blond braid behind her shoulder, then twisted her fingers together while she gazed out the open window at the massive brick house. She had found Phillip’s body nearly two hours ago, and her hands had yet to stop trembling. Except for attendance at an occasional funeral, she had never gotten close to a dead body. Certainly had never discovered one. Or touched one.
She’d done all three tonight.
Closing her eyes, she fought back a wave of unsteadiness. She concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths, tried to remember the breathing exercises Sebastian had taught her to battle stress. The only thing closing her eyes did was bring a clear picture of Jake into her awareness.
He had looked grim, rugged and all-business when he’d climbed out of his car, this car, and headed across the lawn toward Phillip’s house.
She had thought constantly about him since her brother’s wedding. Crazy thoughts, she acknowledged. Thoughts she should have easily discarded because she knew the type of man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and she was certain Jake Ford wasn’t even close. Still, she hadn’t managed to rid her mind of him. Not since they’d danced…
The next instant the door beside her swung open, snapping her eyes open.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
In the wash of light from the street lamps, Jake’s eyes looked almost black as he leaned through the open door. “Uh…waiting for you. The female officer told me to stay—”
“The trash, Nicole,” he stated through his teeth. “What the hell did you do to my trash?”
“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the sacks and empty containers sitting in rows beside her. “When I get nervous, I have to have something to keep me busy. To keep my mind focused.”
His gaze stayed on her face, frank and assessing, as he propped a forearm along the top of the car’s open door. “Sorting trash gets your mind focused?”
“It helps.” No way was she going to admit that all she’d gotten from sitting in his car and organizing fast-food sacks were thoughts that had focused on him.
He swung the door open wider. “I need to talk to you. It’d be easier if we both sit in the front seat.”
“Okay.” She had answered what seemed like a million of the uniformed officer’s questions, and she doubted she could give Jake any more information. On a sigh, she slid out of the car into the warm night air. When she turned to face him, she discovered that, without the strappy heels she’d worn while they danced, she was a full head shorter than he.
His eyes were cool, very cool, as they inched down her body, taking in her white, oversize dress shirt, navy leggings, thick socks and workout shoes. His slow, measured assessment filled her with unease. She wasn’t sure if it was the man or the cop—or both—who made her feel as if she were not being looked at, but into.
The sound of muted conversation pulled her attention toward the sprawling brick house. The wheels of a stretcher holding a black body bag clattered as two men rolled it over the doorstep and onto the porch.
Her throat tightened. “He must have had a heart attack.”
Jake closed the car’s back door with a quiet snap, then turned. His handsome face held no expression. “What makes you think that?”
“Phillip confided in me that he’d had a heart attack a few years ago. It was a mild one, but enough to have him start working out and eating right.”
“Phillip,” Jake echoed. A muscle in his cheek jerked, but his eyes stayed level on hers. “Right now his death is unexplained. That’s how I’m investigating it.”
He leaned around her and pulled open the front passenger door. The movement brought him close enough for her to catch his warm, musky scent. For a mindless moment, they were back on that dance floor, their bodies swaying in slow, seductive unison. As if feeling again the heady sensation of his thumb against her wrist, she curled her fingers over her palms.
He pointed toward the front seat. “Climb in.”
He said the words with such quiet authority that she instantly complied. She watched as he skirted the hood, pulled open the door, then settled behind the wheel.
“Tell me about Ormiston.” As he spoke, Jake propped his wide shoulders against the car door and dangled one hand over the steering wheel.
Dressed in a rumpled chambray shirt and worn jeans, black hair on
