smug self-interest most reporters tended to exude.
“Oh, you think I’m a reporter,” she said knowingly. The smile widened, and then her full red lips parted to release a melodic laugh. “Sorry to disappoint. And I apologize for not pressing that little intercom button at the gate. It was open, so I figured it was okay to drive in.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was too mesmerized by her eyes, which he now noticed were a dark shade of violet. She was beautiful, but in an unconventional way. Her eyes were tilted up at the corners, making her seem exotic, but her straight, aristocratic nose and perfectly shaped mouth brought elegance to her features. The sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks made her seem wholesome. Exotic, elegant and wholesome. Definitely a peculiar trio. Add to that the long, smoking hot body and this woman, whoever she was, made for a stunning and interesting package.
“Who are you?” he asked, finally finding his voice.
She flashed another smile. “Jamie Crawford.” Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out a small leather ID case and flipped it open. “FBI.”
Well, he didn’t look like a killer, Jamie thought ruefully as she forced herself not to drool over the incredible man standing in front of her. Man? Movie star was more like it. He had olive-toned skin, dark, almost black, eyes, and chocolate-brown hair that curled slightly under his ears. And the blue T-shirt and faded jeans that hung low on his trim hips revealed a lean, muscular body that didn’t seem to suit a powerful real estate mogul.
She’d expected Donald Trump and got Johnny Depp instead.
Along with a spark of unwanted awareness, which she quickly tamped down.
This wasn’t a blind date, for Pete’s sake. She was here to interview a suspect. A murder suspect, to boot.
The reminder only strengthened when the eyes of the man in front of her darkened to an angry charcoal. “FBI,” he echoed. “Wonderful. So the sheriff is siccing the Feds on me.”
Jamie ignored the rude retort and said, “I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions, if you have some time.”
“I already gave my statement to Finnegan,” Cole said, his perfectly formed jaw tightening. “I have nothing more to add.”
She didn’t feel insulted by the rejection. Finn had warned her that Cole might not be cooperative. Nevertheless, Jamie was determined to win the guy’s trust. When Finn had called her last night and asked if she would be willing to come to Serenade to help him out on a case, she hadn’t hesitated. She had some vacation time coming up anyway—mandatory, since her supervisor believed in what he called “rejuvenating one’s mind.” She’d been dreading the time off, unsure of what she’d do with herself for three whole weeks, so Finn’s phone call had been a godsend.
And even if she had been looking forward to the vacation, she wouldn’t have been able to say no to Finn. They’d been friends for four years, ever since he’d attended a law enforcement conference in Raleigh where Jamie was giving a lecture about the art of profiling. Finn had pulled her aside after she’d left the podium, impressed by her talk and surprised by how young she’d looked. She’d shocked him even more when she’d revealed her age—twenty-eight at the time, and already with the FBI for six years. They’d ended up sharing a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant, which sparked a friendship that had lasted all this time.
There was nothing romantic between her and Finn, never had been. They were like brother and sister, and she considered him her best friend, which was why she’d offered to help him out. Besides, she couldn’t deny that this case was extremely intriguing. Heck, any case that warranted the headline Real Estate Mogul Implicated in Death of Ex-Wife! in the Raleigh Tribune was bound to be juicy. It had an exclamation mark and everything.
“I wish you’d reconsider, Mr. Donovan.” She gave him a wry look. “I have a feeling you’ll find me a lot easier to talk to than Sheriff Finnegan.”
She could swear the corner of his mouth lifted in a brief half smile. “You’ve got that right.”
“Please,” Jamie added, an imploring note to her voice. “Just give me a half hour. Unlike many of my colleagues, I’m able to keep an open mind. I’m not here to railroad you. I just want to hear your side of the story.”
He shifted, looking hesitant, but she knew she’d reeled him in. And she hadn’t been lying, either. She did have an open mind, unlike Finn, who was pretty much convinced of Donovan’s guilt. But Jamie wasn’t so sure. What she knew of Cole Donovan didn’t point to him being a murderer. He was only thirty-four, and already a multimillionaire. Although he’d been an heir to his father’s very successful software empire, Cole had apparently chosen to donate his entire inheritance to charity and build his own empire from the ground up. Admirable, some might say.
And sure, wealthy and important men committed crimes all the time, but Jamie wasn’t getting the killer vibe from Cole Donovan.
She hid a smile as he finally capitulated. Opening the door wider, he gestured for her to come inside. She took a moment to admire the interior of the house, which was made up of exposed wood and limestone, with natural wood beams and high ceilings that made her feel tiny in comparison. She sneaked a peek into a doorway to the left and saw a massive living area with a huge bay window overlooking the front yard. Oh yeah, this man was definitely wealthy. On Jamie’s salary, it would take several lifetimes to afford a place like this.
“I wasn’t aware the police department is working with the Feds,” Cole said as he led her down a wide, wood-paneled hallway.
Jamie was momentarily startled when they entered a large, country-style kitchen. She took in the cedar counters, mahogany cupboards and sunny yellow walls, then found herself smiling at the green-and-yellow checkered curtains hanging at the window that faced the backyard. Somehow she’d expected a more … sterile environment, seeing as this man was richer than King Midas.
“This is really cozy,” she remarked, not bothering to hide her surprise. “And the appliances actually look like they’ve been used.”
“I like to cook,” he said gruffly. He nodded toward the oval cedar table across the room. “Sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” she said as she made herself comfortable on one of the tall-backed chairs.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black.” She paused. “And to answer your question, I’m not here in an official capacity.”
She neglected to mention that she wasn’t technically a field agent, either. Her main purpose here was to come up with a profile of the person who’d killed Teresa Donovan, but she got the feeling Cole wouldn’t appreciate having his psyche poked at by a trained psychologist.
As a profiler with the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, she spent most of her days examining case files and thinking like a killer. Offender profiling was a lot more difficult than television shows let on. It was slow, methodical work, focusing on the analysis of the offense, mainly the choices a certain perpetrator made before, during and after said offense.
Jamie looked at all aspects of the crime, from what may have triggered it, to the method in which it was carried out, to the disposal of the body. In this case she didn’t have much to go on, save for the bare details Finn had provided her.
She watched as Cole moved around the kitchen, getting two ceramic mugs from the cupboard then starting the coffeemaker. Turning around, he met her eyes warily. “Then why are you here?”
“Finn asked me to come. Unofficially,” she added. “He’s not making much headway in the case, I’m afraid.”
The coffeemaker clicked, and Cole lifted the pot and poured the scalding coffee into both mugs. Heading to the table, he handed her a mug, then sat down across from her. “Maybe if he stopped looking at me as his number-one suspect, he’d get somewhere,” Cole said in irritation.
Jamie