Scene of the Crime: Bachelor Moon

“I know.” He dropped his arms from around her and took a step backward. Two words thundered in his brain.

For you.

For you.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he held her gaze. “But I think it’s possible somebody you know did have something to do with it.” He didn’t think it was possible for blue eyes to go so dark, but hers were nearly black as she returned his gaze.

“The phone call,” she whispered, as if afraid to say the words out loud. She reached out and took his hands in hers. “Oh, Sam, what am I going to do?”

She squeezed his hands, and he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he wondered how in the hell he was going to keep himself uninvolved from this crime and from this woman.

THIS WAS HER FAVORITE time of the day, when dinner was finished and the dishes were done and Daniella had a little downtime to enjoy.

As the day had worn on Daniella had almost managed to convince herself that she’d misunderstood the words the anonymous caller had said to her.

The voice had been strange and she’d had to strain to hear what he’d said. It was possible he’d only said something that sounded like for you.

She now sat on the front porch and watched Macy doing cartwheels across the lawn. The sun rode low in the sky, and the heat of the day had eased to a pleasant temperature, but her mind was far away from her daughter’s acrobatic skills and the weather.

She’d called Jim earlier in the day to tell him about the phone call, and as she’d explained it to him she’d thought she’d heard the sound of nails being driven into her coffin.

How could Jim believe that she had anything to do with Samantha’s murder? And how could she possibly believe that anyone close to her was capable of such a thing? It was too awful to even consider.

Most of the afternoon she’d thought about the supportive people in her life, and there was no way she could imagine any of them doing something so heinous. She’d known Frank and Jeff for years, and they’d never shown any hint that they were capable of such violence.

She smelled him before she saw him, that crisp, clean scent that tightened something in the pit of her stomach. She turned her head and smiled as Sam stepped out on the porch.

“How are you doing?” he asked, as he eased down into the wicker chair next to hers.

“Okay. I’ve spent most of the day thinking about everything, about who might be responsible for Samantha’s murder.”

“Did you come up with any answers?”

“No, but I can tell you this—Samantha wasn’t a popular woman in town. She had more money than she knew what to do with and never let anyone forget it. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Samantha was a petty, mean woman. Over the last couple of years I’ve heard rumors about all kinds of businesses she intended to open—a beauty shop, a restaurant and an upscale boutique—but none of them ever materialized. I wouldn’t have worried if I’d heard that she was on a bed-and-breakfast kick. Anyone who knew Samantha knew she was big on talk and never followed through.”

“Then Jim has his hands full with the investigation,” Sam replied. “Hopefully he’s up to the job.”

“Hopefully he is, because I don’t want to go to jail for something I had nothing to do with.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he said gruffly.

His words created a ball of warmth in her stomach, a warmth she hadn’t felt for a very long time. Watch out, she told herself. He’s just a guest and nothing more.

“Mr. Sam!” Macy yelled. “Watch this!” She did a series of cartwheels and then stood proudly, waiting for his response.

“That’s great,” he said, as if surprised that she would want his approval.

Macy ran up to the porch. “I didn’t get to show you my princess walk last night, so I’ll do it now.”

Before he or Daniella could respond, Macy tore into the house where Daniella knew she was fetching her crown.

“She has a lot of energy,” Sam said.

Daniella laughed. “That’s probably the understatement of the century. She’s opinionated and maybe more than a little bit spoiled, but she really is a good kid. She has a tremendous heart and she loves people.”

At that moment the door opened and Macy pranced out, her glittery crown firmly in place on top of her head. “Are you ready, Mr. Sam?”

“I think I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied.

Macy ran to the far end of the porch. “This is my official princess walk.” The walk was less princess and more fairy sprite as she danced her way back to them.

“I do believe that was the finest princess walk I’ve ever seen,” Sam said when she’d finished.

Daniella flashed him a grateful smile and then looked at her daughter. “And now it’s time for the princess to go take a bath. It’s not nice for a princess to smell like a day of grit and grime.”

Macy looked at Sam. “And maybe tomorrow I can have a princess tea party, and you can come and be my guest of honor.”

“No time for tea parties tomorrow,” Daniella said. “I have new guests arriving, and besides, Mr. Sam has other things to do.”

“Okay, then we’ll have a tea party another day,” Macy said agreeably. She disappeared into the house to get ready for her bath and Daniella once again turned to look at Sam.

“I’m sorry, she seems to have taken a liking to you.”

He offered her a small smile and gazed out in the distance. “Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

No, there was no accounting for taste, she mentally agreed. And whatever had bitten her daughter when it came to Sam Connelly had bitten Daniella just a little bit, as well.

“How long have you been an FBI agent?” she asked, as she relaxed against the back of the wicker chair.

He turned back to look at her, and as always she found the blue of his eyes intoxicating. “I joined the agency when I was twenty-two, fresh out of college and eager to catch the bad guys.”

“What exactly is it that you do?” Usually with guests she kept her distance, didn’t try to find out personal details about them except what they liked to eat and how they liked their rooms kept. But, she wanted to know more about this man with his eyes that alternately filled with humor and darkened with demons. Besides, talking about him was far better than thinking about the horror show her life had become over the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m a profiler,” he replied.

“So you profile killers?” she asked with interest.

“Actually, profiling starts with us looking closely at the victims of crimes. We learn everything we can about them and that gives us an idea of the killer. Then we try to get into the head of the person who committed the crime. We try to figure out what drives them, what wants or needs they have and finally what weakness they might possess that would allow us to catch them.”

“Must be fascinating.”

“It is,” he agreed. “It’s also intense and all-consuming and takes me to some very dark places.”

“Your parents must be very proud of you.” She noticed the tension that had begun to radiate from him as he spoke of his work.

“My parents are dead.” His tone was flat, emotion less.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”