Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower

“I just got an earful from Yeats in Homicide. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Sam. Back off the Cormier woman.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have to tell me. But you did.”

“Anything going on between you two?”

“I felt she was in danger. So I stepped in.”

“Where is she right now?”

Sam paused. He couldn’t avoid this question; he had to answer it. “She’s here,” he admitted. “My house.”

“Damn.”

“Someone was following us last night. I didn’t think it was prudent to leave her alone. Or unprotected.”

“So you brought her to your house? Where, exactly, did you happen to park your common sense?”

I don’t know, thought Sam. I lost track of it when I looked into Nina Cormier’s big brown eyes.

“Don’t tell me you two are involved. Please don’t tell me that,” said Coopersmith.

“We’re not involved.”

“I hope to God you’re not. Because Yeats wants her in here for questioning.”

“For Robert Bledsoe’s murder? Yeats is fishing. She doesn’t know anything about it.”

“He wants to question her. Bring her in. One hour.”

“She has an airtight alibi—”

“Bring her in, Navarro.” Coopersmith hung up.

There was no way around this. Much as he hated to do it, he’d have to hand Nina over to the boys in Homicide. Their questioning might be brutal, but they had their job to do. As a cop, he could hardly stand in their way.

He went up the hall to the bedroom door and knocked. When she didn’t answer, he cautiously cracked open the door and peeked inside.

She was sound asleep, her hair spread across the pillow in a luxurious fan of black. Just the sight of her, lying so peacefully in his bed, in his house, sent a rush of yearning through him. It was so intense he had to grip the doorknob just to steady himself. Only when it had passed, when he had ruthlessly suppressed it, did he dare enter the room.

She awakened with one gentle shake of the shoulder. Dazed by sleep, she looked at him with an expression of utter vulnerability, and he cleared his throat just to keep his voice steady.

“You’ll have to get up,” he told her. “The detectives in Homicide want to see you downtown.”

“When?”

“One hour. You have time to take a shower. I’ve already got coffee made.”

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him with an expression of bewilderment. And no wonder. Last night they had held each other like lovers.

This morning, he was behaving like a stranger.

This was a mistake, coming into her room. Approaching the bed. At once he put distance between them and went to the door. “I’m sure it’ll just be routine questions,” he said. “But if you feel you need a lawyer—”

“Why should I need a lawyer?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“I don’t need one. I didn’t do anything.” Her gaze was direct and defiant. He’d only been trying to protect her rights, but she had taken his suggestion the wrong way, had interpreted it as an accusation.