He gave his head a shake. This wasn’t about admiring her figure or considering how her firm curves would feel under his hands.
By the time she got to the top of the stairs she was digging in her purse. Ryker heard keys jangle. He grimaced. He’d have thought every woman everywhere knew to have keys out and ready. It could be dangerous to be fumbling for keys outside in the dark.
Nicole felt Ryker’s disapproving gaze on her as she unlocked her apartment door.
“I usually have my keys out before I get up here.” She winced at her tone. She sounded like a wimp. She had no need to make explanations to him. In any case, it was his fault she hadn’t pulled out her keys earlier. When he’d stepped up beside her out of the shadows he’d given her a scare.
“Maybe you could look at my locks while you’re here,” she said as she walked through the door ahead of him.
He paused for a second and glanced around the landing, then stepped inside and gave the locks a brief inspection before closing the door. “They look good,” he said. “Nice apartment.”
“Not as nice as the one I gave up in Chef Voleur,” she said, an accusatory note in her voice as she stepped behind the butcher-block island into the kitchen area.
She swallowed nervously. Ryker Delancey made her small apartment feel tiny. He wasn’t a real big man. He was six feet tall, but lean. He probably only weighed about one-ninety, but he filled up her living room—and her senses.
He sat on one of the bar stools at the island. “You didn’t grow up in Chef Voleur.” He made it a statement, not a question.
“No. I moved there when I got the job at the restaurant.”
“Where did you grow up?”
Nicole winced internally. In an apartment half this size with a mother who wasn’t there even when she was there.
“Baton Rouge,” she said noncommittally. “Do you really want coffee, or would you rather have something else?” She opened the refrigerator. “I have—water. There might be some bourbon—”
Ryker laughed. “Coffee’s fine with me.”
“Do you mind if I make it decaf?”
He shook his head.
She grabbed the decaffeinated beans from the cabinet and put them in the grinder. By the time they were ground, she realized he was standing beside her. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
His voice rumbled near her ear, disturbing and enticing. She took a fraction of a step away from his imposing presence.
“Just appear, like you did on the sidewalk. You don’t make any noise.”
“Nobody moves without making any noise. You’re not paying attention. Being unaware of your surroundings could get you killed.”
“Do you think you could lay off the scare tactics for a minute or two?”
“You have a real espresso machine. That’s impressive.”
Nicole laughed. “Okay. Nice segue. Yes. I do have a real espresso machine. I like coffee, probably a little too much.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve always wanted one. Show me how to use it.”
Together, they made two mugs of decaf cappuccino, and Nicole put sugar in hers. She leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped her coffee. Ryker leaned next to her.
Nicole felt the subtle brush of his sleeve against her bare arm, and realized that this was the first time a man had been in her apartment—other than the moving crew and the locksmith. Thinking of that, it occurred to her that she hadn’t been out on a single date in the year since the break-in.
Why was she even thinking about dating? Her gaze lit on Ryker’s hands holding her jazz festival mug. They were large and square, with long fingers. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his tanned forearms were dusted with golden hair, lighter than the light brown hair on his head.
He was attractive. Very attractive.
And strong, in the way that basketball players and soccer players were. Lean and wiry. She liked lean and wiry. Maybe that was why she was suddenly thinking about dating.
Okay, stop. He was in her apartment because she’d been the victim of a home invasion, and he, the investigator on the case, thought her life was in danger. That was a far cry from dating.
She shivered.
He glanced at her sidelong. “You okay?” he asked.
“Not really. Do you think that boy last night was following me? “
Ryker put his mug down and turned toward her. “No. I think he was high as a kite and lost, like he said he was. But it ought to illustrate to you what could happen. Someone could easily follow you. In the few minutes it takes you to walk from the restaurant to here, you could be grabbed.”
“There you go again with the scare tactics. You can’t manipulate me by scaring me. I will not quit this job. I already had to give up one job because of this person. I will not lose this one, too.”
“I hope you won’t. He hasn’t come after you, and it’s been almost a year. Maybe he won’t. Maybe I’m wrong, and your attack had nothing to do with the others.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have eaten at L’Orage every night for almost a year.”
Nicole looked up into his blue eyes, searching for a denial of what she’d just said. But as surely as he was standing there in front of her, she knew he was right.
“You believe before this week is out, he’s coming to get me, don’t you?”
Nicole’s green eyes filled with tears, then wavered and dropped to the cup she held.
Ryker took the cup and set it aside, then took her hands in his. “Listen to me, okay? Just listen to me. I’m going to make sure that nothing—nothing—happens to you.”
Her fingers squeezed his. “Okay,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “I believe you.” Then she blinked, and a fat tear spilled over onto her lower lashes and hung there, sparkling in the light.
That tear almost undid Ryker. He was a sucker for tears. So much so that he’d had to teach himself to remain detached when he questioned victims or interrogated suspects. He couldn’t afford to get his emotions entangled in his job. He’d seen the devastating effects of emotion up close, and he wasn’t about to become a slave to his feelings like his father had.
Before he’d even finished his internal lecture, he’d defied it by reaching out and catching the teardrop with his thumb. When he did, her eyes closed. He laid his palm against her cheek.
He’d kept an eye on her for a year, ever since the break-in. She was his only living connection to his serial killer. He’d seen her leave her job and move. Watched over her as she searched for a new job in Mandeville and finally took the executive chef position at L’Orage.
He was intimately familiar with her honey-colored hair and skin, her sharp, beautiful green eyes, her graceful yet determined walk and the sweet smile she shared with everyone around her. When had he become so fascinated with her?
As soon as the question arose in his mind, he dismissed it. He wasn’t. Well, except as a victim of the killer he was trying to catch. She was his connection to his killer. That was all.
At that moment, Nicole’s eyes opened. Tears had matted her lashes until they looked like dark starbursts around her green eyes. Before he could work up the willpower to stop himself, he bent his head, urged her chin up with his fingers and kissed her.
She