Questioning the Heiress. Delores Fossen

earned her a hmmph. “Speeding tickets don’t make you a wild child.”

      She didn’t like that he dismissed it with that hmmph and raised eyebrow. Those tickets had really upset her parents and had caused her insurance to skyrocket. “Remember, I do have an ex-fiancé thief.”

      Egan shook his head. “That doesn’t make you a wild child, either.”

      “My parents would disagree with you,” she mumbled. And Caroline instantly regretted it. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about how she felt she owed it to her parents to be a dutiful daughter.

      “Your father had a pretty serious heart attack about the time your fiancé stole that money from him.” Egan said it so nonchalantly that it took her a moment to realize the comment meant he’d had her investigated.

      “Yes,” Caroline admitted. “He nearly died. And please, spare me any psychoanalytical remarks about a guilty conscience.”

      “No comments.” Egan tipped his head to the notebook still tucked beneath her arm. “That’s your reconstructed dream journal?”

      Oh, mercy. Another can of worms that she didn’t want opened. “Yes. I’ll give it to the psychiatrist tomorrow when I meet with her.”

      “We’ll give it to her,” Egan corrected, walking closer. He stopped just inches away.

      “You’re going to the appointment with me?” she asked.

      “Actually, the appointment will be here at your house.” He paused, studying her expression. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that someone tried to kill you last night. I don’t want you going out anywhere alone.” He held out his hand. “Now, let me take a look at the journal.”

      Caroline had made up her mind to refuse, but she rethought that. Because Egan would want to know why. She’d stall him, of course. Then he’d demand to know why she was stalling and refusing.

      He’d see right through her.

      Because he could.

      And in the end, Egan would be suspicious, very suspicious, which would only make him examine every word of gibberish she’d written.

      Since she had already lost the hypothetical argument she’d had with him, Caroline handed him the journal as calmly as she could and then went to take a closer look at one of the holes in her garage wall. She waited. While he read the single page.

      “Killer clocks, huh?” he commented.

      “It was a dream,” she snapped. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

      She heard his footsteps, turned around, and he was there. Practically looming over her. He smelled…manly, with his woodsy, musky aftershave. Looked manly, too, with just the hint of bad-boy stubble on his strong chin.

      “You think time’s running out?” he asked, handing her back the journal.

      “For what?” She sounded cautious. And was.

      “For catching a killer,” he answered as if that were the only possible answer.

      “Yes. That’s it.” Good. No mention of phallic symbols or blond, blue-shirt-wearing Rangers, which meant Taylor had obviously been wrong.

      “Holy moly,” Egan mumbled.

      Caroline was startled and then realized he wasn’t looking at her or the journal, but rather he was looking past her. She followed his gaze to the open door of the workshop. From his angle he could no doubt see her old secret.

      And he made a beeline for it.

      Mercy! She tried to step in front of him. For all the good it did. He merely stepped around her. Caroline maneuvered again. Not very well. She finally gave up the maneuvering and latched onto Egan with both hands.

      It wasn’t a good idea.

      The journal dropped to the floor, and her hands were suddenly filled with his left arm and right shoulder. But her attempts were useless, anyway. He saw her old secret.

      “That’s a mint condition vintage 1952 Harley-Davidson Panhead Chopper,” he announced, studying the motorcycle. His mouth opened slightly, and she thought she saw the pulse in his neck rev up a little.

      “So?” she challenged. “I bought it, as an investment. And it’s a 1951, not a ‘52.”

      He didn’t react to the correction. “Not a dent, not one rust spot, not even a paint chip. So, you’ve obviously taken good care of it. You actually ride it?”

      Caroline clutched her heart necklace. “Sometimes.” But only at night. When her parents were out of town. They considered anything with two wheels to be dangerous.

      “When’s the last time you took it out?” he asked, still mesmerized by the motorcycle.

      She cleared her throat. “A week ago.”

      Egan shifted those scorching blue eyes in her direction, and the corner of his mouth hitched into a smile. “Now, owning that beauty makes you a wild child.”

      For some reason, a stupid one, that sounded, well, hot coming from him. That smile helped. Heck, who was she kidding? That smile alone had no doubt seduced countless women because that smile created a too-familiar tug in her belly.

      Something stirred between them.

      It was followed by a long smoldering look. Oh, the things those eyes were conveying. The Chopper had obviously revved up more than just his pulse and his admiration for her wild-child label.

      Thankfully, he must have remembered their too-close situation because the smile faded until all that was left was the surliness.

      He stepped back.

      She let go of him and stepped back, too.

      “This is not going to be a problem between us,” Egan said like a general issuing an order to one of his lieutenants.

      Caroline bypassed a clarification of this mainly because she didn’t want it spelled out. “It won’t be a problem. Because I’ll stay with my friend, Taylor, until you have this killer behind bars. We won’t have to be around each other, if at all.”