In Harm's Way. Lyn Stone
almost perfect features.
They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.
That made him wonder if she really had enhanced herself with surgery anywhere. Her breasts looked smallish and were probably real. She said she had modeled and small was necessary with braless fashions, he guessed. She might not be absolutely perfect but came a little too close to it for Mitch to believe it was all real. Oh well, models had to use what they had and improve it if they could, he reckoned. It was a business, and he couldn’t fault her for it if she’d resorted to that.
“Nice nose,” he commented. “Mind if I ask what it cost? Mine’s been broken twice and I’d sure like the name of a good doctor, one who wouldn’t do a Michael Jackson on me and make me look like Janet.”
She laughed, sounding surprised. “You think I’ve had my nose done?”
Mitch shot her a smile. “Looks great.”
“Thank you. I was born with this nose,” she informed him.
“Don’t be insulted,” he said. “I just wondered.”
“Are you able to breathe well?” she asked.
“Sure, no problem.” Other than when she looked at him a certain way and stole his breath.
“Then leave your nose alone. It fits your face.” Then she added grudgingly, “Not because you broke it. It’s a nice nose…and face.”
She liked his face. Mitch mumbled his thanks and focused on his driving, not enjoying the little thrill that ran through him when she gave him that compliment. He had to get over this growing obsession with the woman, his need to know everything there was to know about her. Jeez, what did it matter whether she’d had her nose done? What was it to him? Nothing, that’s what.
What did that say about him, that he was getting so wrapped up in her this quickly? His objectivity was shot to pieces, had been since the minute she turned those baby blues on him in that bedroom at the crime scene. He needed to get a grip. Problem was, he wanted to get a grip on her.
That ol’ bugaboo, sexual attraction, of course. It had never hit him quite this square in the gut, however, and he was having trouble straightening up. The blow to the ribs he’d taken in the diner didn’t even compare. He pressed on the injury just to make it hurt, just to feel something that would counteract what she was making him feel.
Her hand covered his. “Broken?” she asked with a look of tender concern. The touch of her hand on his set his nerve endings jangling.
“Nah. Just bruised. You should see the other guy,” he quipped.
Her breath huffed out and she removed her hand. “I hope I never do! Do you really think they’ll try again? If it is the disk they were after?”
Mitch shrugged, relieved that they were on less intimate ground. “Could be. You don’t have to worry about that right now. No one knows where we’re going except the chief, and we aren’t being followed.”
She swiveled and glanced out the back window. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
A few moments later she had leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was all he could do not to pull the car over just so he could sit there and watch her sleep for a while.
Mitch sat up straighter behind the wheel and clutched it tighter than necessary, reminding himself that Robin Andrews was still the primary suspect in a murder case. Not only should he avoid getting involved with her on any level other than making sure she didn’t skip town, he should not let her bravery back there at the diner impress him so much.
So she had a healthy sense of self-preservation. So what?
He drove on, deliberately listing all the reasons Robin might have had to shoot that man she had married.
Had Andrews cheated on her? For whatever reason, he’d left her there in New York to fend for herself. And he might have gotten her mixed up in something shady by asking her to bring him that disk. The murderer had been looking for something in that apartment, something not found yet. And those guys who attacked them in Dylan’s were definitely after whatever Robin had. Maybe she knew more about that than she admitted.
Surely she wasn’t capable of murder. But she sure hadn’t hesitated to plant that fork in the perp’s hand tonight. Maybe she hadn’t hesitated to plant a bullet in James Andrews’s brain a little earlier in the evening.
The best he could do was keep an eye on her, get to know her as well as he could and try to determine the extent of her guilt. Or, best case, prove she was innocent.
“Well, this is it,” the detective told her as Robin became aware of their surroundings.
Streetlights cast their glow over shadowy houses with gingerbread trim. They stood like a double row of old-fashioned sisters, each unique yet bearing a family resemblance. Some were spruced up beautifully, but a few carried the marks of age and neglect. Ancient oaks spread their branches over small, neat yards as well as most of the street. “Peaceful,” she muttered.
“Quiet, anyway,” he agreed, opening his door and getting out. He came around and opened hers.
A gentleman to the bone, she thought, wondering what kind of cop that made him. Other than the intensity of those eyes, he seemed almost too deferential to be true. He frightened her with all of this courtesy.
Robin tried to shake off the fear, chalking it up to watching too much television and its stereotyping of lawmen from the South. Good ol’boys who had laws of their own. God, she hoped that had no basis in fact.
She took the hand he offered to help her out of the Bronco. It was warm and strong, his touch too casual to signify anything other than a gesture of assistance. But Robin felt the power of it, nonetheless, the tingling awareness that this man could destroy her if he wished.
He had given her fair warning. She would never make the mistake of underestimating Detective Mitch Winton.
There was no concrete reason to believe his attitude was a deception. If he was trying to lure her into trusting him enough to confess she’d killed James, he’d have a long damned wait for either her trust or an admission of guilt.
She knew she should have gone to a hotel. He’d said he lived near here, hadn’t he? What had she been thinking? Her brain was so foggy from stress and lack of sleep, she hadn’t been thinking at all. First thing in the morning she would find another place to stay. She would call a taxi and have it take her downtown.
Depending on the very person who had nearly arrested her for murder—and still might do so—was worse than absurd. Yet she couldn’t afford to alienate him completely. Making him angry was the last thing she should do.
He led her up the walkway and the brick steps of the house. The wide front porch with its draping ferns and off-white wicker rocking chairs seemed to welcome her.
Fishing his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the door and entered before her. When he had switched on the lights, Robin stepped inside, taking in the gaudy floral wallpaper and large, gold-leaf mirror hanging over a marble-topped rose-wood hall table. He immediately ushered her toward a sturdy, curved staircase. “Second floor.”
She made a note to examine the small paintings hanging in the stairwell later when she could focus properly. They appeared to be very old pastoral scenes. Everything looked old. Ancient.
Again he unlocked a door and turned on the lights.
“Make yourself at home. There’s the bedroom through there. Since she took practically everything but the kitchen sink with her, Sandra’s things shouldn’t get in your way. I expect