Double-Edged Detective

Even so, there was no way he was going to leave Nicole unprotected. It was October 21. Within the next few days, he fully expected the killer to strike again. There was no way he could stop him. But he’d be damned if the victim was Nicole.

THAT NIGHT AS NICOLE EXITED the restaurant, Ryker fell into step beside her.

She jumped and pressed her hand to her chest.

“I see you paid no attention to me,” he remarked. “I told you to drive.”

“I see you’re still following me.”

“Somebody has to look out for you if you aren’t going to take care of yourself.”

She sped up. He was surprised her heels didn’t strike sparks off the sidewalk. “I do not intend to act like a victim,” she threw back over her shoulder.

Ryker easily caught up to her. “Taking reasonable precautions is not acting like a victim.”

“I take reasonable precautions.”

“Walking alone at midnight is not a reasonable precaution.”

Nicole stopped at the stairwell that led up to the second-floor landing of her apartment building. “Look, Detective. After the break-in, I was so spooked that I gave up my job and my apartment. I will never feel that way again.”

He saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I understand. Is that offer for a cup of coffee still open? I’d like to tell you about this killer.”

Her eyes widened and shimmered. “Why? To terrify me?”

He shook his head. “No. To prepare you, in case he comes back to finish what he started.”

She shuddered. “In other words, to terrify me.”

He knew his words were harsh, but at this point, with only a few days’ window for the next attack, he’d do anything to get her attention. “If you insist on looking at it that way. But the more you know, the better prepared you’ll be.”

She swallowed and pressed her lips together as she studied his face. “Fine. Please,” she said wryly. “By all means, come in and have a cup of coffee and tell me about the killer who’s after me.”

She turned and climbed the stairs. Ryker followed her, taking the opportunity to admire her backside in the jeans she wore. She was trim, but with curves in the right places. He liked that. He didn’t like stick-thin women who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

He gave his head a shake. This wasn’t about admiring her figure or considering how her firm curves would feel under his hands.

By the time she got to the top of the stairs she was digging in her purse. Ryker heard keys jangle. He grimaced. He’d have thought every woman everywhere knew to have keys out and ready. It could be dangerous to be fumbling for keys outside in the dark.

Nicole felt Ryker’s disapproving gaze on her as she unlocked her apartment door.

“I usually have my keys out before I get up here.” She winced at her tone. She sounded like a wimp. She had no need to make explanations to him. In any case, it was his fault she hadn’t pulled out her keys earlier. When he’d stepped up beside her out of the shadows he’d given her a scare.

“Maybe you could look at my locks while you’re here,” she said as she walked through the door ahead of him.

He paused for a second and glanced around the landing, then stepped inside and gave the locks a brief inspection before closing the door. “They look good,” he said. “Nice apartment.”

“Not as nice as the one I gave up in Chef Voleur,” she said, an accusatory note in her voice as she stepped behind the butcher-block island into the kitchen area.

She swallowed nervously. Ryker Delancey made her small apartment feel tiny. He wasn’t a real big man. He was six feet tall, but lean. He probably only weighed about one-ninety, but he filled up her living room—and her senses.

He sat on one of the bar stools at the island. “You didn’t grow up in Chef Voleur.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“No. I moved there when I got the job at the restaurant.”

“Where did you grow up?”

Nicole winced internally. In an apartment half this size with a mother who wasn’t there even when she was there.

“Baton Rouge,” she said noncommittally. “Do you really want coffee, or would you rather have something else?” She opened the refrigerator. “I have—water. There might be some bourbon—”

Ryker laughed. “Coffee’s fine with me.”

“Do you mind if I make it decaf?”

He shook his head.

She grabbed the decaffeinated beans from the cabinet and put them in the grinder. By the time they were ground, she realized he was standing beside her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

His voice rumbled near her ear, disturbing and enticing. She took a fraction of a step away from his imposing presence.

“Just appear, like you did on the sidewalk. You don’t make any noise.”

“Nobody moves without making any noise. You’re not paying attention. Being unaware of your surroundings could get you killed.”

“Do you think you could lay off the scare tactics for a minute or two?”

“You have a real espresso machine. That’s impressive.”

Nicole laughed. “Okay. Nice segue. Yes. I do have a real espresso machine. I like coffee, probably a little too much.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve always wanted one. Show me how to use it.”

Together, they made two mugs of decaf cappuccino, and Nicole put sugar in hers. She leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped her coffee. Ryker leaned next to her.

Nicole felt the subtle brush of his sleeve against her bare arm, and realized that this was the first time a man had been in her apartment—other than the moving crew and the locksmith. Thinking of that, it occurred to her that she hadn’t been out on a single date in the year since the break-in.

Why was she even thinking about dating? Her gaze lit on Ryker’s hands holding her jazz festival mug. They were large and square, with long fingers. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his tanned forearms were dusted with golden hair, lighter than the light brown hair on his head.

He was attractive. Very attractive.

And strong, in the way that basketball players and soccer players were. Lean and wiry. She liked lean and wiry. Maybe that was why she was suddenly thinking about dating.

Okay, stop. He was in her apartment because she’d been the victim of a home invasion, and he, the investigator on the case, thought her life was in danger. That was a far cry from dating.

She shivered.