The Cop

J.C. WASN’T SURE how much longer she could stay hidden in the depths of the closet. Even as a child, she’d hated to wait for anything. Plus, she was absolutely starving. She always got ravenously hungry whenever she was nervous or scared. Surely the police should have arrived by now.

She thought she’d heard a siren, but that had been a while ago. And it could have been wishful thinking. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been hiding. She’d tried to say a rosary—something she hadn’t done in years. How long had that taken? Five minutes? Ten? She wanted to check on Father Mike but she wouldn’t do him much good if Snake Eyes was still out there.

It was too dark to check her watch. If she could just hear something…Whatever the priest’s vestments were made of, they certainly blocked out sound. The police could be out there right now, and she wouldn’t know it.

What J.C. did know was that her fear of the snake-eyed man was gradually being replaced by her fear of being confined in a small space. And Father Mike’s closet gave new meaning to the word confined. She felt as if she were buried in robes and the incense lingering on them had grown cloying. Keep calm, she told herself. But she could feel her heart beating faster and faster.

As the urge to bolt began to grow, J.C. imagined Snake Eyes looking for her—searching the rectory, then returning to the sacristy. At any moment he could fling open the cupboard and start plowing through the garments. She was nothing more than a sitting duck.

Well, there was no sense in making it easy for him.

Slowly, she burrowed her way toward the front of the cupboard, holding her breath each time one vestment rubbed against another. When she reached the door, she discovered that in her rush to hide herself, she hadn’t closed it completely. Pressing her face to the narrow opening, she peered through it and fear bubbled through her again.

A man stood over the body of the dead man. He had his back to her, but she knew he wasn’t Snake Eyes. This man was taller, broader. Snake Eyes’s hair had been slicked back close to his head because of the ski mask. This man’s dark hair was dark, curly and unruly. But she could sense just as much danger emanating from him as she had from the killer.

He was wearing a tank top that fit snugly over nearly bronze-colored skin. As he began to move slowly around the dead man, she caught her first glimpse of his face and for a moment she stared, fascinated. He reminded her of the Greek gods she’d had to study in a required mythology class. Unlike most of her peers who’d complained noisily about the class, she’d been fascinated with the stories. This man reminded her of Adonis. Of course, Adonis hadn’t been a god—just the human lover of two very powerful goddesses, Persephone and Aphrodite, who’d fought over him constantly. She’d found the story intriguing, but personally, she’d yet to meet a man worth fighting another woman for.

J.C. gave herself a mental shake. This man might not be Snake Eyes, but he might very well be the man who’d fired those other shots she’d heard. He was certainly tough enough looking. His nose wasn’t quite straight, and taking in the sharp slash of cheekbone and the strong line of his jaw, she thought of a warrior—the kind of man who would lead armies into war…and win. This didn’t at all explain why she had the oddest urge to touch his face—to feel the planes and angles beneath her hands.

What was up with that, she thought with a frown. Warriors had never been her type.

But then when it came to men, she really hadn’t had much experience determining her type. The kind of men her dad and stepmom wanted her to date might as well be clones of each other, successful young metro males with the right kind of family backgrounds. She found them almost as boring as the temperamental prima donnas she’d met when she’d trained at the American Culinary Institute.

The man in front of her had circled the body so that he was standing with his back to her again, and she caught herself noticing the way his threadbare jeans molded his butt. Good Lord, she wanted to touch that, too.

Whoa! J.C. reined in her thoughts again. A vivid imagination had always plagued her as a child, but she’d never reacted in quite this physical a way to a man before. Just looking at him made her palms itch.

For the first time, she noticed the gun and her throat went dry. It was tucked into the waistband of his jeans, right above his exceptional-looking—

Stop it, she scolded herself. She could very well be looking at a killer. A ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

In that very instant, he whirled on her and she found herself looking down the barrel of a very big gun.

“Open the door slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t make me shoot you.”

3

“WHO IN THE HELL are you?” Nik asked as the tiny redhead stepped out of the cupboard.

“Who are you?” she countered.

“I’m a cop, so I get to ask the questions.” She was such a little pip-squeak that he couldn’t imagine that she’d played a part in the carnage in the church, but his thumbs had prickled again the moment he’d stepped back into the sacristy. And it didn’t sit well with him that it had taken him so long to sense her presence in that cupboard.

“Who are you?” he demanded a second time.

“I’m the caterer. Now it’s your turn.”

Nik narrowed his eyes. For a little bit of a thing she had guts. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed it, but the church was getting crowded. The EMTs were dealing with Father Mike and Roman. He’d arranged for both of them to be transported to the new St. Jude’s Trauma Center, and he’d sent the first crime-scene team to the choir loft because he’d wanted a few minutes alone with this body. He’d called his captain, and D.C. Parker would want a full report as soon as he disentangled himself from some big charity ball he was attending.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“You know, you don’t look like a cop. Those clothes are a bit casual even for a dress-down Friday. Do policemen even have casual-dress days?” She lowered one of her hands and held it out to him, palm up. “Show me some ID.”

Nik swept his gaze over her. “If you’re not going to tell me your name, maybe I’ll just call you Pipsqueak.”

It gave him some satisfaction when she narrowed her eyes and her foot began to tap. She couldn’t be more than five foot two, but her stance radiated enough attitude for a woman twice her size. She had her hair twisted up on her head, but a few red curls had escaped. Her ruffled front white shirt was tucked into black pants that showcased surprisingly long legs. His gaze lingered on them a moment before he shifted his attention back to her face. That was when he noticed the eyes. They were green and direct, and for a moment he saw nothing else.

“Well? How about it? You do carry ID, don’t you?”

Annoyance and something else moved through Nik as he forced himself to blink and break eye contact. Then he gave her his cop smile, the one his partner Dinah said looked like a sneer. “Dream on, Pipsqueak. Let me make this as clear as possible. I not only ask the questions, I give the orders. Turn around, put your hands flat against the door of the cupboard, and spread your legs.”

There was a beat before she did what he asked, and he couldn’t prevent the ripple of admiration that moved through him. He’d always been a bit of a sucker for a woman with guts. Nik was halfway through patting her down when he realized that he’d made a huge mistake. He had actually begun to enjoy the feel of those tight little muscles and soft curves beneath his palms. Dammit, he was a professional. This was a crime scene that needed his full attention.

The moment he straightened, she whirled to face him. In that second when their bodies brushed against each other, a blast of heat shot through him. What in hell—?

He took a quick step back, but he could tell by the way her green eyes darkened that she’d felt it, too.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, half to himself.

She lifted her chin. “I told you. I’m the caterer.”

“Detective Angelis?”

Nik recognized the voice of the young officer he’d left with Father Mike, but he kept his gaze on the redhead.

“Now, you know my name. What’s yours?”

“I’m J.C. Riley. I made the 911 call, and I want—”

He held up a hand to cut her off. “What is it, officer?”

“Sir, they’re about to take the priest away.”

Nik tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans, then grasped the redhead around the waist, lifted and plunked her on the counter. “Stay put.”

Following the officer out to the altar, he saw that the EMTs had loaded the priest onto a stretcher and that two officers were taping the area where the body had been. Another two crime-scene investigators stood on the altar steps. So much for his desire to quietly walk through the crime scene and think before his captain arrived.

Nik addressed his question to the medics. “How is he?”

“Unconscious, but stable. The bleeding has stopped.”

That was good news. “And the man in the vestibule?”

“Still unconscious. They won’t know how seriously he’s injured until they run tests.”

“I saw who shot Father Mike.”

Nik whirled and nearly brushed right up against the redhead again. He scowled at her. “I told you to stay put.”