Annie stepped down from the second-floor landing. Her sleeveless pink satin gown fell past her knees, outlining every graceful curve of her long lean body. Her sleek blond hair splayed out on her shoulders. In her left hand she held a black police-issue nightstick. In her right hand—in spite of the splint—she aimed a can of pepper spray.
The incongruous combination of sexy, slithering satin and dangerous weapons was appropriate for her. She was half “Come hither,” half “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Turn off the light.”
He flipped the switch, and shadows consumed the foyer.
In her white running shoes, she darted across the glassstrewn floor and crouched beside him. “There’s nobody upstairs, and Grandpa is still snoring. His nighttime medication is heavy-duty stuff.”
He gave a brief nod.
“I guess we should assume this isn’t an act of random vandalism. It was Bateman. But why?”
“He wanted to get inside,” Michael said. “After he broke the window, he could reach inside and open the door.”
“But there are a lot more subtle ways to break into this house. We’re not exactly Fort Knox.” She looked up at the shattered window and frowned. “I don’t understand this. He didn’t have to ruin Grandma’s roses.”
“Maybe he did it to lure us to the front of the house,” Michael said.
“For what purpose?”
“A sniper. That’s why I’m crawling around on the floor. I don’t want to stand up and be a target.”
“Or a distraction,” she said. “He might have broken the front window as a distraction so he could come in through the back. Or through the root cellar.”
“Or he might have just wanted to scare you.”
“Well, that didn’t work. I’m a whole lot more fired up than frightened. What a creep! I’ll never find another window to match the one that’s broken.”
“We should secure the downstairs,” he said.
“Right.” She glanced at his Smith and Wesson. “Is that standard equipment for captains on fishing vessels?”
“It’s handier than a harpoon.”
Her gaze lifted. In the faint reflection of moonlight through the windows, she stared straight into his eyes, and he knew she was looking for answers, trying to penetrate secrets he had no intention of revealing to her. He’d never been completely honest with her. Not eleven years ago. And not now. There were some things she didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know.
He returned her scrutiny. Though Michael was trained to notice signs of tension and deception, he was distracted by the sweet shush of her breathing and the clean fragrance of her fresh-washed hair. If he tangled his fingers in that straight blond mane, he knew the texture would be as fine as silk.
In her eyes, he glimpsed a brief reflection of his own desire. He was suddenly aware of her maturity and the adult passions that burned within her. But there was also a warning. She didn’t trust him.
“Michael,” she said, “how well did you know Bateman? Were you friends?”
“Briefly. He was older than me. I thought he was cool. But that was a long time ago.”
“Eleven years ago. I haven’t forgotten.”
Nor had he. Every detail of what had happened was tattooed indelibly in his brain. It was a grotesque picture, his private hell, colored in rage, regret and shame. Bateman had destroyed everything that was good in his life.
“Michael, tell me.”
This wasn’t a peppy little bedtime story with a happy ending. He didn’t want to share the details with Annie. Eleven years ago he’d been unable to face her, and it wasn’t any easier tonight.
Michael looked away, but he could still feel her gaze weighing on him. If he told her everything, her curiosity might turn to disgust. Brusquely he repeated, “We need to secure the downstairs.”
“I’ll go first,” she said. “You back me up.”
“I should be in the lead. You don’t even have your gun.”
“My injured wrist isn’t strong enough to hold it, much less aim with any accuracy. But don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”
That hadn’t been the case in the parking lot outside her apartment. She’d been surprised and easily incapacitated by the assailant with the baseball bat.
Michael knew he hadn’t reacted fast enough to protect her in that situation. Every time he saw the adjustable cast on her arm, he felt guilty. Her injury was his fault. “Listen to me, Annie. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“You just don’t want me to be in control,” she said. “Just like when we were kids. But things are different now. I’m in charge.”
When she headed toward the front parlor, his only option was to follow. Muttering to himself about headstrong women, Michael took the backup position.
She moved cautiously, never stepping directly into the light, protecting her back, allowing her eyes to scan her surroundings before she proceeded. Though her nightstick and pepper spray were absurd weapons, she brandished them with confidence. It was obvious she’d done this kind of search before. She was a cop—cool under pressure, efficient, one hundred percent professional.
“I’m impressed,” he said.
“By what?”
“You really know how to do this—when to stay low and when to move fast. You’re good.”
“I’m not a rookie, Michael. This is my job.” They’d reached the guest bedroom. “Um, why don’t you button up that shirt. It’s chilly.”
His gaze focused on the V-neckline of her satin gown, which showed a hint of cleavage. Her nipples peaked against the satin fabric. “Are you cold?”
“Just—button up and let’s get this over with.”
Annie turned away from him. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and was glad for the semidarkness that hid her embarrassed blush. Her body temperature had begun to elevate when she’d crouched beside him in the foyer and he’d stared into her eyes with such intensity. Now she was flaming hot, and she wished he’d button that shirt. The quick glimpses of his crisp black chest hair and darkly tanned flesh were driving her crazy.
She faced the uncomfortable fact that he aroused her. Oh my, this was so different from when she’d known him before and had been too inexperienced to understand her own sexuality. Eleven years ago, her attraction to him had been like a dreamy fantasy, a girl’s imaginings of what it would be like to make love. When she looked at him now, her dreams were x-rated.
It was wrong for her to want him. Why had he come back after eleven years? There was more to Michael’s presence than the mere intrusion of an unwanted houseguest. He might also be a threat. He had been at her apartment the night she was attacked. Now, she discovered, he was in possession of a handgun. She felt sure that his presence in her grandpa’s house had far more significance than a simple urge to help out in a crisis.
She left him in the bedroom and went into the kitchen, where she took two flashlights from a drawer near the back laundry room. She checked them both. Only one was working. “I’ll take this and go into the cellar alone. I know my way around well enough that I won’t have to turn on the lights.”
“Wrong,”