Detective Daddy

Ash’s lips thinned. “This wasn’t work-related,” he said shortly.

Chapter Five

It was nearly midnight before they made it back to Ash’s house. The crime scene guys had cut Rachel a break and allowed her to pack a small bag.

A very small bag, she thought, looking at the change of underwear and the work outfit she’d grabbed. The pants and sweater were a dark chocolate brown. She hadn’t remembered to get shoes, so she’d wear the black pumps she had on with the brown outfit.

Not only would she have the St. Louis police hovering over her, she’d have the fashion police on her tail. She giggled and then winced as the throbbing in her head increased.

She’d seen Ash’s guest bedroom before. It was small and furnished with period pieces that she knew came from his aunt Angela’s attic. As had the comforter—a flowered print with ruffled pillow shams.

Smiling, she turned back the comforter, expecting to find that the bed was bare, but no, it was made—with pink sheets. This had to be the work of his aunt.

A rap on the open door behind her made her jump.

“What’s so funny?” Ash asked. He’d changed from his dress pants and shirt to jeans and a white T-shirt that gave her more than a hint of his rock-hard abs and left his biceps bare. He was holding two folded white towels that made his tanned skin shimmer in contrast.

Her fingers tingled with the remembered feel of his skin, and so did her body. “Funny?” she asked.

“I heard you laughing.”

“Oh. The pink sheets and the floral comforter. I’m guessing you didn’t pick them out yourself.”

“Hmph,” he muttered, and handed her the towels. “I don’t think I have any pink towels.”

“I actually prefer white. They look and feel so clean.”

“Right.” Ash was obviously not enjoying this conversation about linens. “Need anything else?”

She shook her head.

He turned to leave, but she stopped him. “Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for letting me stay here. I’m really sorry about—everything.”

He shook his head, waving away her apology. “It’ll only be for a few days. I can handle it if you can.”

“Handle it?” she repeated. “Please don’t let me put you out.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, backing out of the door. She slammed it behind him, blinking. For some silly reason, his offhand comment had hurt her feelings.

I can handle it if you can. Like he was dreading having her here. No, not even that. It was more like he couldn’t care less whether she was here or ten thousand miles away.

But she remembered the catch in his voice and the concern in his eyes as he’d asked her if the baby was all right. Had she imagined that he was terrified that the baby was hurt?

She rubbed her damp eyes. She was reacting to everything that had happened. That was all. That and her changing body. The doctor had warned her that the hormones that were surging through would make her not only tired, drowsy and queasy, but also highly emotional.

As she ran her palm across her gently rounded stomach, her eyes stung again. She set her jaw in determination. She had to get a grip. She was a scientist, and her job required analysis, not feelings. She couldn’t afford to spend the next seven months fighting back tears.

Piling underwear and a camisole pajama set on top of the towels, she headed for the hall bath. Checking behind the mirror and behind the shower curtain, she discovered there were no toiletries. No soap. No shampoo. Not even toothpaste. She went into the kitchen and found Ash staring at the back of a frozen entrée.

“Do you have shampoo? Soap? Toothbrush and toothpaste?” she asked.

He looked up and frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t bring shampoo or anything with me. Can I borrow yours?”

“You’re not supposed to wash your hair.”

“Soap and toothbrush then.”

He seemed to be studying her, the frown still furrowing his brow. What was wrong with him? “Ash? Soap? Toothbrush?”

“Yeah.” He looked back down at the frozen dinner in his hand. “In my bathroom,” he said.

“Do you want me to cook that for you when I get out of the shower?”

“No.” He opened the freezer and tossed the bag inside. Then he opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got stuff for sandwiches. You hungry?”

“Not really. Just exhausted.” She cocked her head. “Are you all right?”

He let go of the refrigerator door. It drifted shut. “Sure. I’m fine. What about you? Is your head still hurting?”