the car.”
She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.
He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.
He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.
It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.
“Stuff it, Rhett. I’m uncharmable and you might as well stop trying.” She started the car and pulled out of the parking space in front of his unit.
“Why, Scarlett, I haven’t even begun to attempt to charm you yet,” he replied with his trademark lazy grin.
She frowned. “We have a busy day ahead. We checked all the hospitals last night both here in Kansas City and in Mystic Lake. Cole and Amberly aren’t in any of them. I’ve set up an interview with John Merriweather, Amberly’s ex-husband, after nine. He didn’t want us at his place until after Max had left for school. I’ve also directed a couple of agents to check what cases Amberly was working on, and the same with Cole. There are also some other people we need to interview before the day is done. I have a list in my briefcase.”
“Wow, you’ve been a busy little bee while I was getting my beauty sleep.”
She ignored his comment and continued, “The crime scene unit worked all night at Cole’s house and basically came up with nothing. No fingerprints other than Cole’s and Amberly’s, and no evidence that anyone else had been in the house.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Any chance of breakfast before we get started on this long day you have planned?”
She picked up a white paper bag that was between them on the console and tossed it into his lap. “Two bagels, one blueberry and one cinnamon raisin. I had a feeling you’d ask.”
“Gee, I didn’t know you cared.” He opened up the bag to discover not only the two bagels, but also two small cups of cream cheese and a plastic knife.
“I don’t,” she replied. “But it appears that your creature comforts are very important to you.”
“And your comforts aren’t important to you?” he asked as he spread cream cheese over half of the cinnamon raisin bagel.
“Of course they are, but not so much when I’m working on a hot, active case.”
“This is already at best a lukewarm case,” he replied.
As she had yesterday, she wore a white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and sensible shoes. Her hair was a spill of strawberry silk across her shoulders and she smelled of fresh vanilla and sweet flowers.
She appeared not to be wearing a bit of makeup, but that did nothing to detract from Jackson’s physical attraction to her. Chemistry... It was a whimsical animal that usually made a fool out of somebody.
He ate the bagel in four quick bites and wished for another cup of coffee to chase it down. But there was no way he intended to ask her to drive through the nearest coffee shop. He wasn’t about to push his luck.
“Last night was more about my survival than creature comforts,” he said soberly. “I’d been working nonstop on the case in Louisiana. Yesterday I’d had a plane ride from hell, no food to speak of all day and not enough brain power left to be adequate at my job. This could either be a sprint or a marathon, and I’m betting on a marathon, and so I needed last night to prepare myself for the long haul. Not that I owe you any explanations of my working habits or methods.”
He settled back in his seat and stared out the passenger window. “Now, tell me about this John Merriweather,” he said, deciding he was far better to focus on solving this crime than imagine what his partner might look like without her clothes.
* * *
MARJORIE STOOD JUST INSIDE Amberly’s living room, a homey space decorated with pottery and bright colors and woven rugs celebrating her Native American heritage.
The room smelled of sage and sunshine, and it was obvious that a little boy resided here. The bookcases held not only pottery, but also puzzles and children’s books about horses and dinosaurs. A large plastic dump truck sat next to the coffee table, the bed filled with tiny army men.
Jackson prowled the room like a well-educated burglar, with booties and gloves to leave no evidence that he’d ever been here. As he moved, she tried not to think about that moment when she’d walked into his motel room and he’d leaned out of the bathroom with just the thin white towel hanging low on his slim hips.
His bare chest, sleekly muscled and bronzed, had been more than magnificent. As she’d gotten that glimpse of it, for a long moment she’d forgotten how to breathe, and she hadn’t been able to get the unwanted image out of her head.
He stopped and stared at the large painting above the fireplace. It depicted Amberly as an Indian princess on horseback. Her long dark hair emphasized doe eyes and high cheekbones. She was wild beauty captured on canvas.
Jackson turned to look at Marjorie at the same time she self-consciously shoved a strand of her hair behind an ear. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said, and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But I much prefer blondes with just a hint of strawberry in their hair.”
“Does it just come naturally to you? Kind of like breathing?” she asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, just like breathing,” he replied with a genuine grin that warmed her despite her aggravation with him. He turned back to the painting. “Painted by her ex-husband?”
“Yes, John painted it.” She’d already told him that John Merriweather was a famous painter who was known for Western settings and beautiful Native American portraits. Most of the Native women he painted looked like his ex-wife. She’d read an article in some magazine where John had talked about how Amberly was his muse.
“How did John take their divorce?” Jackson turned back to look at her.
She shrugged. “According to the local gossip, initially he took it rather hard. But I think they had become more like friends than husband and wife. Amberly once mentioned to me that John’s greatest passion was his painting.”
Jackson frowned. “I love my work, but I save my passion for living, breathing people.”
Women. She knew he meant women. Not that it mattered to her what Jackson Revannaugh’s personal passion might be. “Are you married?” The question fell from her lips before it had even formed in her head.
“No, and have no intention of ever getting married. My problem is that I love all women, but I’ve never found one who I haven’t tired of after a week or so.”
“So, you are a player,” she said, having already suspected as much.
His blue eyes held an open honesty she wasn’t sure she could believe. “On the contrary, I only date women who know I’m looking for a passing good time and nothing more serious. I don’t toy with hearts or emotions. And now, shall we get back to the case?” He lifted a dark eyebrow wryly.
Heat warmed Marjorie’s cheeks in an unmistakable blush. Thankfully he didn’t comment on it but rather moved from the living room into the kitchen.
He hadn’t even asked her if she was married or if she had a boyfriend. He probably thought she was too much of a witch to hold a man’s attention for more than a minute.
She was, and that was the way she wanted it. She had enough on her plate with her job and helping