Corvette prior to Gary’s—Brody McQuade still resented her.
He peeled the tape off her neck. “Okay. You can let your hair down.”
She let go of her hair and massaged her cramped shoulder.
“Label those if you would,” Brody said to Officer Martin. “Left side, right side. You know the drill. And take them upstairs to Sergeant Caldwell.”
Victoria turned around and her kimono slipped down one arm. She grabbed it and pulled it back up, but not before Brody’s dark, intense eyes zeroed in on her bare shoulder and nearly exposed breast.
She stared at him, daring him to look her in the eye.
He did.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
His brows lowered and his gaze flickered briefly downward. “Do what?” he said harshly.
“Fingerprint my neck. Why didn’t you have Officer Martin do it?” As antsy as she still was, she couldn’t completely hide a smile at his reaction. Had he really thought she would ask why he’d looked at her nearly naked breast?
She did like the idea that he was enough of a guy to look.
“Oh…”
Well, what do you know? He was cute when he was flustered. She’d seen him angry, cold, devastated by grief and disgusted. And she’d seen him calm, efficient and stiffly official. But although she’d noticed his even features, the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw, the word cute had never occurred to her in relation to him. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate the description.
“I didn’t want to depend on secondhand information. I wanted to see for myself.”
Apprehension pooled at the base of her spine. “See what?”
He studied her for a moment, a small frown wrinkling his brow. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.
Then he took a couple of steps backward, away from her, and looked at the floor. She was a good attorney, a good judge of people and an excellent reader of body language. He’d distanced himself from her because he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.
“There have been seven break-ins in the past eight months. Four occurred while the people weren’t home.” He walked over to the windows.
“Right. Everyone here has talked about how lucky they were.”
“Were they?”
Brody was looking out over the Cantara Hills Golf Course. But she knew his eyes weren’t on the spectacular view. He was turned inward, struggling with something.
“What are you saying?”
He didn’t answer, nor did he move. He stood outlined by the darkness beyond the windows, his arms crossed and his feet planted shoulder-distance apart, his back at once strong-and vulnerable-looking in his white dress shirt.
She walked over and put herself between him and the window. “What are you saying?” she repeated.
He looked down at her. “Why do you think Zelke and Briggs and you were the only ones attacked?”
She shook her head. “That’s what I asked you.”
“Do you know what was stolen from each apartment?”
Victoria was having trouble following his logic. “Not much.”
“That’s right. Not much. The guy barely took enough to call it a burglary. And not one thing that can be traced. No custom jewelry, nothing large. Insignificant stuff.”
“But he took an antique humidor from Byron Dalloway and about five thousand in cash from Mrs. Winger and a diamond-and-emerald bracelet from Jane Majorsky—”
“Insignificant.”
She frowned. “But if burglary wasn’t the motive, then…”
His intense gaze taunted her, dared her to say what she was thinking.
“You do think the break-ins were a cover. You think…”
“You three were the real targets. And if I’m right, he’ll be back for you.”
Chapter Two
Two hours later, back in the conference suite, their temporary headquarters at the Cantara Hills Country Club, Brody looked up from his laptop at the sound of plastic sliding against metal, and then the soft whirr of a computer-driven lock release. The hall door swung open. Egan came in, wiping a hand down his face.
“Where’s the evidence?” Brody asked.
“It’s in the car,” Egan said on a yawn. “Could you give me time to get my tail in the door before you chew on it?”
Brody didn’t bother to answer him. He finished typing in his impressions of the crime scene and Victoria Kirkland’s condition.
Caucasian female, thirty years old, five foot nine inches—He stopped, picturing her standing in front of him with one shoulder of that black-and-red kimono sliding down her delicately muscled arm. She was slender but not skinny. He went back to typing—130 pounds, blond hair, green eyes.
“Hot and cool at the same time.” Egan’s voice came from behind him. “Like a hot fudge sundae.”
Brody kicked his chair back and whirled in one motion.
“Whoa!” Egan backpedaled. Water flew in an arc across the tile floor as he fumbled with the plastic bottle he held.
“This is not a joke.”
“Hey, I know that. But you’ve got to lighten up. I don’t think you’ve slept a night through since…”
Since Kimberly’s death. The unspoken words hung between them, echoing in Brody’s head. His old life had ended and this new obsessed one had begun the night his sister died.
“I’m fine,” he growled.
Egan took a step back. “No, you’re not. Look, Brody. I respect what you’re doing. God knows I’ve admired your abilities all my life, but you shouldn’t be on this case. You’re burning yourself out.”
Brody sent him a glare and sat back down at the mahogany conference table. He stared at the laptop screen, but the words were a blur.
He heard the plastic water bottle hit the trash. “Do us both a favor and get your butt to bed. That report’ll be there in the morning.”
Brody wiped a hand across his face. When he did, the faint scent of roses drifted across his nostrils. He’d washed his hands. How did they still carry her scent? “Yeah, the report’ll be here, but the perp will be back in his spider-hole. What have you got for evidence?”
“Damn
