Incriminating Passion. Ann Peterson Voss

rugs made so much money he didn’t need his last paycheck. Unless he’d come into a lot of money from another source.

      A source that paid him to haul away a blood-soaked rug.

      John glanced at Andrea. She watched Ryman, her gaze steady, open, as if she had nothing to hide.

      Or was that just what he wanted to see?

      Ryman popped his head up from the computer. “I do have a picture of him.”

      “A picture?” John glanced at Andrea again. A picture might be helpful for jogging her memory. “Can I see it?”

      The manager reached for a stack of glossy advertising flyers balanced on the edge of the desk. Grabbing a flyer, he gave it to John. “Here he is, carrying the rug.”

      The flyer was an ad for free rug delivery and pickup with cleaning or purchase. In the center of the photo, a beefy blond Adonis grinned at the camera, his trunk-like arms wrapped around a rolled rug. He handed the advertisement to Andrea. “Recognize him?”

      A crease dug into her forehead. Releasing a breath, her face fell. “I’m sorry.”

      John fought the need to trace a finger over the lines of frustration tooled in her forehead and around her mouth. As if he could erase them. As if he could make things better for her with the touch of his hand.

      He forced himself to turn back to Ryman. If the man had sold the rug to Andrea, he would have recognized her when she walked in the door. But some one must have bought the rug. “Do your records show who bought the rug?”