LITMIR.BIZ

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heavily, he pulled out his badge and held it up.

      “Put your hands behind your back and face the fence,” he ordered, taking out his handcuffs.

      “What?”

      “You heard me.” He wasn’t taking the chance that she’d run again.

      “You have no right—”

      “You ran from the police. You assaulted an officer. I don’t need another reason than that. Now turn around—unless you’d rather I haul you in.”

      Her gaze flicked to his shield again. Even in the dim light trickling from a nearby row house, he could see her jaw go tight. But she turned and held out her hands.

      Wary of another trick, he slapped on the handcuffs, the delicate feel of her wrist bones causing a startling burst of heat in his blood. Forget that she’s a woman, he reminded himself as she whirled around. She was a possible suspect in his brother’s death, the last one to see him alive, not a potential date.

      He picked up the backpack she’d dropped and searched it, unearthing the small, semiautomatic pistol she’d hidden inside. Still keeping one eye on her, he removed the magazine. “You have a permit for this?”

      Her gaze skidded away.

      “Right.” Stupid question. He stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket and shouldered the bag.

      Her eyes returned to his. “So what do you want?”

      “Information.”

      “You always tackle people you want to question?”

      “You always climb out the window when someone knocks on your door?”

      Her mouth pressed into a line.

      “I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he added.

      “Never heard of him.”

      He ignored that blatant lie. “I suggest you remember fast, or I’ll haul you in for questioning.”

      “On what grounds?”

      “On the grounds that you have information about his death.”

      “I told you. I don’t—”

      “Your choice.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number, calling her bluff.

      She held his gaze. Several tense seconds ticked past. “Fine,” she bit out at last. “You want to waste your time on useless questions, ask away.”

      He pocketed the phone with a nod. “Let’s take this inside.”

      Her jaw dropped. “You expect me to let you into my house?”

      “You expect me to believe you won’t run if we stay out here?”

      “How can I? You’ve got me in cuffs.”

      “I’ll take them off inside.”

      Her lips tightened again, distrust flickering in her shadowed eyes. Then she huffed out an angry breath. “All right, but I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

      Her staccato steps rapping the pavement, she led the way up the alley and back through her garden gate. Parker hugged her heels, unwilling to give her an inch of space. He wouldn’t put it past her to try to escape again, even wearing the cuffs. They crossed a tidy, fenced-in patio and entered her house through a mudroom door. Once inside, he snapped on the overhead light.

      He continued trailing her into the kitchen, his gaze still glued on her rigid spine. They came to a stop, and he spared a glance around, noting the empty soup can on the granite counter, the time flashing on the microwave. A wrought iron table occupied one corner, one of its chairs overturned. A stack of newspapers covered the glass.

      The top one showed the photo of her.

      “All right,” she said. “Undo my hands.”

      “You promise to answer my questions?”

      “I said I would.”

      He tossed her backpack onto the pile of papers and pulled out the handcuff key. He reached for her wrists and unlocked the cuffs, trying to ignore the alluring fragrance of her skin and hair. Then he stepped back, his impatience mounting as he waited for her to do her part.

      But she took her time, righting the chair, taking off her peacoat and draping it over her bag. At last she turned to face him, and for the first time, he got a close look at her in the light. She was even more attractive than he’d expected with her wary green eyes and delicately winged brows, that long tumble of auburn hair. Her mouth was evocative and full, her high, sculpted cheekbones tinged with pink. A smattering of freckles dusted her small nose.

      He raked his gaze down the rest of her—over her small, high breasts and slender waist, slim hips clad in low-slung jeans—and his heart began to thud. She looked amazingly like the computerized image, but softer, far sexier. More vulnerable.

      Vulnerable? He stifled a snort. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

      He returned his gaze to hers. And without warning, a sense of awareness arrowed between them, a deep tug of sexual attraction that caught him unprepared. His belly went taut, a rush of adrenaline accelerating his pulse.

      He bit back hard on a curse. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely the wrong woman, considering she was a potential suspect in his brother’s death. And her reaction didn’t help—her eyes going wide and dark, her breath catching on a quiet gasp, impacting him even more.

      “I need a drink,” she muttered, spinning around.

      That made two of them.

      “You want one?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “Whiskey?”

      “Sure.”

      Disgusted by his reaction, he looked away, but the sudden memory of her silky skin prompted another swarm of heat in his blood. So she appealed to him. So she attracted him in a gut-deep, visceral way. He had to nip his reaction fast.

      Needing some mental distance, he took stock of her kitchen, the pile of junk mail spilling out of her trash can evidence of a recent trip. Then he shifted his gaze to her front room. This room was messier, more lived-in with magazines scattered about and a red sweater tossed over a chair.

      But what really snagged his interest were the photographs arranged in groups on the walls. He eyed the nearest group—half a dozen shots of abandoned buildings in various stages of ruin—and couldn’t help but be impressed. She used shadow and light to bring out subtle details—peeling paint, ripples in the weathered wood—to stunning effect. The photos pulled at something inside him, managing to churn up his emotions somehow. The buildings seemed alive, forlorn, haunting in their decay.

      Even more intrigued now, he slid another glance her way, watching as she fixed their drinks. Then he edged farther into the room, lured to a series of photos of street kids this time. The mix of innocence and betrayal in their faces slammed through him like a kick to the solar plexus, impossible to ignore. She’d captured the shocked dullness in their eyes, the weary cynicism made more poignant by their startling youth.

      This woman didn’t hold back. She didn’t soften the brutal truth. She depicted these traumatized children with an intimacy born of experience, demanding a response.

      Making him wonder who had betrayed her.

      That rogue thought stopped him cold. He didn’t care about her past. He didn’t care why she’d run away from home. Somehow, this woman held the key to Tommy’s death—and he couldn’t forget that fact.

      Turning back to the counter, he picked up the tumbler she slid toward him and took a sip, savoring the smoky taste as the whiskey glided down his throat. He arched a brow, impressed. “Great whiskey.”

      Her gaze tangled with his, another wild flurry of attraction tripping his pulse. This close, he realized her eyes weren’t the green he’d originally thought,

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