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  Looking away, she nodded.

  He pulled her back to face him. “Trust me on this one.”

  A slow shake of her head was his answer. “I don’t do trust.”

  “This isn’t a matter of the heart, this is a matter of life and death.”

  “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”

  Now it was his turn to look away. “That’s a long story.”

  “Right,” she said. “And I’m so busy here that I can’t possibly spare the time to hear it. Come on, Cooper. Tell me.”

  He sighed and sank to the couch next to her. “I was in vice. Saw a lot.”

  Her eyes softened as she turned to face him, sitting on a bent leg, her long, wavy hair around her shoulders. “You burned out?”

  “Pretty much. But I still remember how to protect someone.” He twirled a long strand of her hair around his finger. “I would tell you if I couldn’t.”

  “So you really always tell the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes searched his for a long time. Then she stood up and put her hands out at her sides. “All right, then, tell me this truth. Does this skirt make my butt look big?”

  He laughed.

  She didn’t.

  Ah, he thought. A test. He stood, too, pondering her seriously. Then he lifted a finger, twirled it, gesturing her to turn around.

  After a pause, she did.

  He took a good, long look at her mouthwatering ass, so tightly encased in that black skirt he had no idea how she’d even gotten it on. “Hmmm.”

  She twisted around and tried to see her own behind. “Does it?”

  “Can’t tell. I’ll have to feel out the situation.” Sliding a hand down her back, he cupped her bottom.

  A sound escaped her, one that he was sure did not relate to distress. Her breathing quickened, and so did his, and from behind her, he rubbed his jaw along hers as he let his second hand join the fray.

  “Cooper,” she gasped.

  He pressed against her through the skirt, feeling the heat of her as he set his forehead to her temple. “Christ, Breanne.” Sliding his other hand to her belly, he held her in place while he dipped his fingers in as far as the skirt’s material gave him.

  A little whimper escaped her, and she arched her back, giving him better access.

  “Nope. Not fat,” he managed. “Not even close.”

  Her eyes were closed. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Okay.”

  He turned her to face him. “Okay—you trust me?”

  Her breathing wasn’t quite even, but she seemed to blink the sexual haze away faster than he could. “Maybe partially.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well . . . we are virtual strangers.”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “We’re not supposed to mean anything to each other. We’re passing through each other’s lives for one brief moment in time, that’s all,” she said, trying to convince herself.

  “Which is why we practically implode on the spot whenever we touch,” he answered, sounding ticked, and . . . hurt? “Christ, if we ever get to the big bang, it’ll kill us.”

  “I gave up men,” she whispered.

  “You ever think that you chose the wrong men on purpose?”

  She laughed over the vague unease his words brought forth. “Why would I do that? You think I want to be dumped all the time?”

  “Probably easier than to be the one doing the dumping.”

  She stared up at him. “Let me get this straight. You think I choose men that dump me, on purpose? Because it’s the easy way out?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know what? I don’t care what you think.” He wasn’t right, he couldn’t be right. “And I’m sticking to my plan.”

  “The no-more-men plan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Being careful is good, Breanne. But holding back entirely because you’re scared?” He shook his head. “That’d be a damn waste.”

  “I told you, we’re strangers.”

  “See, that’s the thing.” Again he stepped close, his broad shoulders blocking out everything but him, the azure color of his shirt emphasizing the clarity of his eyes, intent and frustrated as they were. “We’re not strangers. Not anymore.” His eyes captured and held hers, forcing her to face that truth, at least. “You have a passion for life. It’s an attractive trait, and a sexy one. Don’t waste it just because you’re running scared.”

  “I make bad choices,” she whispered, knowing it sounded like an old refrain. “You’re not going to be the next one.”

  “But what if this is right?”

  “How do I know that?”

  “I think you’d just know,” he said, and ran a finger over her jaw. “You’d feel it.”

  She gave a desperate shake of her head.

  Disappointment flickered across his face, but he didn’t press her. He wouldn’t, she realized, and that was . . . oddly freeing and exhilarating all in itself. In her life she’d been pushed in one direction or another by a sibling, a parent, a boyfriend. Making her own decisions had been the best gift she’d ever given to herself.

  Now she just had to stay on track and make the right ones. A powerful thing, really. “If I could just get out of here.”

  They both looked out the window, to the heavily falling snow.

  “I guess wanting and getting are two different things,” she said.

  “I’d agree with you there.” He was no longer looking outside, but at her profile.

  She turned to him and felt her heart squeeze at the look on his face. “This is crazy,” she whispered. “There’s a dead guy downstairs. Dead.”

  “Yeah,” he said on a sigh that spoke volumes about his experiences. To her this was a new nightmare, but he’d seen it all before, and had even walked away from it. She couldn’t begin to understand how it must feel for him to go on vacation to clear his head and still face death. “Well, at least one thing’s clear,” she said very softly. “I have an alibi for last night and this morning.” Her gaze dropped involuntarily to his mouth, her body even now remembering how good it tasted. “I was kissing the hell out of the detective working the case.”

  Sixteen

  There are only two kinds of men: dead . . . and deadly.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  By afternoon, Breanne needed a distraction. She figured food would do it. Moving toward the kitchen, she stopped short in the hallway and stared at a new painting. Or at least she thought it was new because this she would have remembered.

  It was an antique, two-person saw blade, at least six feet long, maybe more, painted with the most beautiful landscape of a raging river surrounded by a thick forest, with a storm brewing on the left. Gorgeous.

  But where had it come from?

  She was distracted from that by the sound of Shelly talking in the kitchen. The cook had made herself scarce all day, and Breanne had been worried about her. Relieved now, she knocked on the closed door.

  “Just a sec!” Shelly called out. Then, a minute later, she opened the door, looking rosy and rushed, but neat as ever. “Hey!”

  “Want some company?”

  “Uh . . .” Shelly took a quick glance over her shoulder, then flashed Breanne a smile. “Sure. Come on in.”

  Breanne looked around. “Who were you talking to?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard you talking.”

  “Oh.” Shelly laughed breathlessly as she moved behind the island countertop. “Myself. I talk to myself. A lot. Have a seat. Are you hungry? I have hot water—I boiled it in the fireplace. Start with some tea while I fix something for you.”

  Breanne sat at a bar stool on the other side of the island counter, feeling the cool wood beneath her thighs thanks to the short, short skirt. She began flipping through a basket of teas to choose from.

  Shelly unloaded an armful of things from the refrigerator, then began chopping carrots at the speed of light, defying
gravity and all laws of relativity as her knife flew through the stack. When the carrots were gone, she moved on to celery. And then fresh broccoli.

  Neither of them spoke. Breanne wanted to ask about Edward, but Shelly seemed like brittle glass, so instead she sat there shoving the chopped veggies into her mouth with the same velocity that Shelly wielded her knife.

  When Breanne caught up with her, eating everything in front of her, she took her tea bag out of her mug and sipped Earl Grey.

  “You know,” Shelly said, breaking their silence, “women are a lot like that tea bag.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You don’t know how strong they are until you put them in hot water.”

  Breanne laughed and it felt good. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “If men had to be half as strong as we are, our race would have died out.” A sad smile crossed Shelly’s face. “My mom said that a lot.”

  Jumping at the chance to think of anything other than Edward, she managed a smile also. “I have four brothers, so that statement would have started World War III in my house. Are you close to your family?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Shelly’s smile softened. “It’s just me and my sister now. More veggies?” She shoved the rest of the chopped broccoli toward Breanne. “I’d have made dip if the sour cream wasn’t questionable. Damn the lack of power.” She turned on a small lantern on the counter. It didn’t light much. “Damn Patrick for the lack of a generator.”

  “A generator would be nice,” Breanne agreed, glancing out at the fading daylight. Another night in the place. Another dark night, this time with a dead body in the cellar.

  No one knew the exact time of Edward’s death, which meant something even more disturbing. None of them had an alibi, not even her.

  Did Cooper count her as a suspect?

  Did she count him a suspect?

  After all, what did they really know about each other, except that their bodies seemed to be predestined to yearn and burn when they were within sight of each other.

  “He thinks it’s one of us,” Shelly said quietly. “The cop thinks one of us killed Edward.”

  It was still odd to think of Cooper as a cop. She’d not thought of him as one yesterday when he’d stripped her out of her wet clothes. Or last night when he’d held her close. Or this morning when he’d had his hands in her panties. She hadn’t thought of him as a cop until he’d been standing in the cellar holding his gun, ready to take on the world for her.

  Yeah, then he’d been a cop, through and through. And actually, given his world-weary eyes and ready awareness, she should have known.

  Probably she would have at least guessed if she’d been thinking with her brain cells instead of with every fiber of her feminine being.

  “He’s walking around, you know,” Shelly said. “Looking for answers.” Chop, chop, chop.

  Breanne marveled that the chef hadn’t lost any fingers. “Maybe he’s trying to clear everyone.”

  Shelly set down the knife and looked close to tears again. “I don’t have an alibi or anything.”

  Join the club. “I saw you last night. I saw you this morning.”

  “But you didn’t see me in between, or before you got here.”

  “No one saw me yesterday afternoon, either. It could be any one of us.” An extremely disturbing thought.

  Veggies done, Shelly moved to the refrigerator and searched the dark depths for something else to chop. “Dante told me he’d cover for me,” she said into the crisper drawer. “Can you believe it? No questions asked.”

  “Maybe he cares about you and wants to prove it.” Illegally .

  Shelly shut the fridge and turned to Breanne, her cheeks two high spots of bright red. “He kissed me today,” she whispered as if departing with a state secret. “I mean really, really kissed me.”

  “So I’m taking it that he noticed you were a woman,” Breanne said dryly.

  Shelly flashed a small smile.

  “Was it good?”

  She let out a shaky breath. “It was the best thing I’ve ever experienced, but he wouldn’t make love with me because we were in the pantry at the time—”

  “The pantry?” Breanne couldn’t have imagined feeling like laughing, but she choked one out now.

  Shelly looked uncomfortable. “So that’s . . . weird?”

  “Well—”

  “Where’s the oddest place you’ve kissed?”

  Every time Breanne thought about that morning in the library, and what she’d let Cooper do to her there, her face burned hot as a fire poker. And other places burned, too. “For this conversation, I need something more fattening than vegetables.”

  Shelly went to a cupboard and pulled out a bag of BBQ chips. She opened the bag. “Tell me.”

  “Can’t.”

  “That’s too bad.” Shelly dug into the chips with a heartfelt moan. “Yum.”

  Breanne could smell the salt, could practically taste it. “Damn it. In the library. Happy?”

  “Wow. A public one?”

  “No.” Breanne snatched the bag of chips. “Here. In this house.”

  Shelly blinked. “You’ve been here before?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . .” Understanding dawned. “Oh, my God. With the cop!”

  “Cooper.” Breanne shoved another handful of chips down her throat. “And honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was just dumped. Again. I swore off men. Also again. Can’t believe I let him—Well.”

  They munched in companionable, stressful silence for a moment before a loud thud shook them.

  “What was that?” Breanne whispered.

  Shelly sidled closer. “Hopefully, Patrick fixing the generator.”

  “Or Dante digging us out of here?”

  “He’d have to dig us to China to get us out of here.”

  Another thud.

  Breanne and Shelly stared at each other.

  “I’d feel a lot better if I knew what that was,” Breanne said.

  “Yeah.” Looking around her uneasily, Shelly kept eating. “Up until this morning, I thought this house the most soothing, amazing place I’d ever seen. Now it’s just . . . creepy.”

  “Agreed.”

  “It’ll be different when the electricity is back.” Shelly hugged herself. “Probably.”

  Another odd thump.

  “That’s it,” Breanne said. She hopped off the stool and opened