by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"Not much. Lunch was substantial."
"It will have to be soup and sandwiches, then. I'm not much of a cook."
"Can I help?"
"No, I'll get it." He rummaged through the few cans she could see on a shelf in one of the upper cabinets, his back to her. "Tomato or chowder?"
"Tomato. I hate clams."
His actions stretched his shirt smoothly across his broad shoulders, emphasizing their width. Nina hitched one hip onto a stool and propped her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand.
No question, the man was very easy to look at. Incredible buns, she thought, idly tracing her smile with one finger.
Every move he made was a study in graceful economy. Amazing how much he accomplished and how quickly he did it without seeming to hurry.
"When I do the interviews, I guess you'll want to sit in," he said.
"You bet." She continued to watch as he bent over, retrieving sandwich things from the small, European-size refrigerator. "Do you realize that almost every conversation we've ever had has centered on the case?" she asked.
He straightened and turned around, frowning. "So?"
Nina shrugged. "So, I thought maybe we could take a break from it. Talk about something else for a change. Sort of rest and regroup." Ryan yanked open a drawer and fished out the silver ware. "I don't break until the case is closed." He met her eyes directly. "To me, that means solved."
She flared her hands in surrender. "Okay, fine. It was just a thought. How is your solve rate, McDonough?"
"Pretty damn good. I mean to keep it that way."
"A fanatic, huh?" she guessed. "Pitbull tenacity?"
"Somethin' like that," he admitted, methodically slicing a thick loaf of crusty bread.
Nina reached across and grabbed one of the knives, the mayo and the plate of bread. "I'll do that. You do the soup."
He placed a slice of bread on the plate just as she took it and their fingers touched. For a second, neither of them moved. With a short embarrassed laugh, Nina pulled the plate toward her and Ryan turned away.
She began spreading the condiment, slowly to make the task last since it was all she had to do. "You know, you had me fooled in the beginning. The way you move. The way you talk. I admit I worried you might have an idle streak."
He gave a self-deprecating grunt, plopped the tomato soup into a pan and ran a canful of water to add to it. He stirred while she watched the subtle play of shoulder muscles beneath his shirt.
Nina continued. "But you don't have. I guess you're the proverbial duck. Serene and smooth on the surface, and paddling like hell underneath."
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "That's how you see me? A duck?'
She grinned back at him, loving his Southern drawl, now knowing how deceptive it was. The guy was no duck. If he only knew how she saw him. What would he do?
"How do you see me?" she asked.
He drew his mouth to one side and frowned in thought. Then he held up one finger. "Cat," he said with a firm nod and a reluctant smile. "Yeah. Sly. Independent. Unpredictable and untamable."
"Lots of 'uns,'" she remarked, not totally displeased with his comparison. He couldn't seem to hold on to that determined resentment of his for long. Nina decided doing that just went against his nature.
"And you're a little bit wild and scary when riled," he added.
She also purred when she was stroked, but he hadn't found that out yet. Probably never would. But she figured it was smart to drag him out of that mood of his if she ever planned to get on his good side.
"See there?" she said. "I've tricked you into a break after all."
He had put down the spoon he'd used to stir and was now propped against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. "You always get your way, don't you? Smiling like the kitty that ate the canary."
His intense gaze lingered on her mouth, then roamed every inch of her visible above the bar. Nina had the distinct impression that he was filling in the rest from memory, since he had undressed her after the fire.
His voice was a near growl when he spoke again. "Yeah. Definitely a cat."
Nina pursed her lips and raised her brows, not certain whether she should read more into this sudden rapt attention than simple teasing.
Then she looked past him. "You might want to paddle around to that soup, Ducky. It's about to boil over."
They laughed together as he rescued their dinner and began dishing it up. She loved his laugh, the spontaneity of it. He always sounded a little surprised by it, as if he'd never expected it to happen again.
"Tell me, Chef Duck, what brought you here to Montebello?" she asked, satisfied that she was making real progress, establishing camaraderie.
Suddenly he ceased what he was doing and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. His were as cold and desolate as midnight in the desert. Though he refused to offer even one word in answer to her question, Nina understood the break was now over. She had encroached on forbidden territory.
The familiarity he'd allowed a few moments ago no longer existed. There would be no more banter about ducks or cats or long, sensuous looks or accidental touches that generated sparks. It was as if he'd thrown up an impenetrable fire wall between them.
Nina knew her question had caused the sudden turnaround, but told herself she should be glad it had happened. While a brief fling with a man like Ryan might be an experience worth remembering, Nina was all too afraid it would be impossible to forget when the time came to do that. She never had brief flings anyway, so it was for the best if nothing happened. If he could pretend no electricity passed between them, she could, too.
The man obviously had baggage. Big-time baggage she had no business exploring. He was an admitted workaholic, a man who lived for his work. She could see it clearly now.
He would never give up. He'd keep doggedly at it until he got all his answers. Then he would dive directly into another case without a pause, she would bet.
Had he always been that way, or was it connected to his leaving his job with the police force in Savannah and coming here to live? Beautiful as it was, she doubted he'd come here for the scenery. Savannah was a beautiful place, too, or so she had heard.
Something life altering must have happened, given his reaction to her question, but she wouldn't ask him again what it was. She knew what curiosity did to cats.
Despite her decision to leave well enough alone, Nina had to admit that she enjoyed—and, at the same time, was annoyed by—the sudden, unfamiliar, and almost overwhelming thrill of anticipation that surged through herwhenever they had what she liked to think of as a moment.
Well, that needed to stop. No more of those moments. She would focus only on helping discover who'd killed Desmond. That was why she was here, she reminded herself.
Someone ought to teach Ryan how to pause and celebrate the small successes the way she had learned to do, but Nina didn't figure that someone would be her.
Chapter 7
Ryan didn't trust himself to sit too close to Nina, so he had put the dining-room table between them. He could still smell her perfume. It teased him across the distance, barely perceptible but certainly there. She wore a subtle scent he didn't recognize. But then, why should he? He hadn't paid much attention to things like that even when he'd been married. Another oversight to castigate himself for, he thought as he shuffled the papers within the file and then tried to look engrossed in them.
They'd been at this for a while now, and she continued to wreck his concentration with every breath he took.
"About this Princess Samira Kamal who was involved with Desmond," Nina said suddenly, looking up from her reading of the statements taken in Tamir. "What's she like?"
Ryan took his time answering as he recalled the one time he had met the princess. "Sweet, trusting. Very open. Maybe a little naive. She's led a sheltered life."
Nina scoffed. "Not sheltered enough, apparently. She managed to have an affair with my brother."
"Yeah, so
he said." The fact that he had said it in front of so many people in a public restaurant sure didn't elevate Caruso in Ryan's estimation.
Ryan looked over at the typed copy of Samira's statement. "I didn't do that interview with her. I was brought into the case later. From what's in there, she thought she was in love with Desmond and believed he loved her. When she went to the guesthouse one night and saw him through the window getting cozy with someone else, she realized her mistake and decided it was over."
"She would have been furious, I bet. She could have done it," Nina said, a frown marring her perfect forehead. "Maybe Samira and this Farid guy are in it together, providing each other with an alibi." She tapped her fingers on the report. "I mean, she's a princess and he is her bodyguard."
"Actually, he's her husband," Ryan informed her. "They're married."
She looked dumbfounded, first at him, then down at the report. Ryan knew the information was not included in what she'd just read because the couple had not yet informed her family when their statements were taken.
"I hear they sort of eloped. Difference in their stations and all that, I imagine. Word's out now, though."
"There you are! Jealousy!" Nina exclaimed. "What if he killed Desmond?"
Ryan propped his elbows on the table. "Farid was the best bet at first. He threatened Desmond publicly. But, no, Farid and Samira were both in Tamir at the time of death. We've established that without a doubt."
Nina pursed her lips and sighed, still looking doubtful.
Ryan wished to hell she wouldn't do that with her mouth. He forced himself to look away, to stare at the ho-hum picture some unimaginative decorator had hung on his wall. But the abstract flower petals slowly took on suggestive forms. He blinked them away.
She continued, totally unaware of his efforts to refocus. "Couldn't they have falsified flight records or something? Surely her family would—"
"Not possible. The police flew over and took these statements soon after the body was discovered. Samira's innocent and so is Farid. But I do plan to speak with her again in more detail about the woman she saw with Desmond in the guesthouse. Remember, Pete mentioned a woman, too? Could be the same one."
Excitement lit Nina's dark eyes as she leaned forward, her hands gesturing as if to grab his full attention and hold it. "We have to find her, Ryan. Surely someone else saw them together. She must have done it!"
"See? There you go jumping to conclusions again," Ryan warned her. "This is precisely why it's not a good idea to have an investigator involved in a case where there's a personal interest."
"Sorry." She sat back, immediately assuming a more businesslike expression. "I'm perfectly willing to consider all the possibilities. I was only throwing out ideas. Isn't that how you narrow it down to the nitty-gritty?"
"Nitty-gritty?" he questioned, chuckling at the phrase she used. "Nobody says nitty-gritty. It's archaic."
"Shut up," she muttered. "So, when are we going to Tamir?"
"We're not. I called to make the appointment to speak with Princess Samira and Farid, but they preferred to come here for the interview on the way back from a brief honeymoon." She looked disappointed. "All right." And she looked tired, he noticed.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" Ryan asked. "You've been at this too long."
Big mistake on his part. She raised her arms, locked her fingers and stretched. Her small breasts pressed against the soft silk of her blouse. "Wine sounds great."
Ryan shoved back from the table, tearing his gaze off of her before he suffered a full-blown erection. Damn, the girl was driving him nuts. He got up, quickly turning into the kitchen area where he spent longer than necessary looking for a corkscrew. "White or red?" he asked
"Whatever you're having will be fine."
"Say which. I'm not having any."
"Why not? Planning to drug me again?" she asked, but it sounded more like she was teasing him than accusing.
"Not tonight," he said, going along with it.
"I noticed you didn't have a beer with Pete."
Nosy woman. "White or red?" he demanded.
"White."
He didn't owe her any explanations of his drinking habits. But in reality he knew she was only making conversation, not prying. "I don't drink," he stated as he drew the cork on the Liebfraumilch. He kept a couple of bottles of wine in the fridge, this and a chianti. Franz and Joe often dropped by with information and would stick around for a pizza or Chinese.
He poured her a glass and ran water in a tumbler for himself. "Here you go," he said as he rejoined her at the table and sat down.
"Thanks," she said, taking a sip.
Ryan followed the motion of her throat as she swallowed, noted the drops clinging to her upper lip, watched in a daze as her small pink tongue gathered them in. God, he was going to lose it.
"So, why don't you drink?" she asked. "Problem with it?"
Prying now for sure, Ryan thought. He shook off his daze and drank half his glass of tepid water without stopping. He set it down and took a deep breath. "Something like that."
Her eyes were soft, sympathetic. "Then I admire you for not doing it. My first boss was a recovering alcoholic, so I know—"
"No, you don't know," he argued, carefully keeping his voice moderate. "I lived in a bottle for an entire year. Once I realized what I was doing and crawled out, it was no hardship to give it up. I don't crave it."
"Good sign," she said, seeming perfectly at ease discussing the thing that had nearly destroyed him. However, he noticed she had put down her glass and wasn't touching it.
Ryan smiled at her, recognizing her frankness and misplaced compassion. "Go ahead and drink up, Nina. Even if I do have the disease, I don't think it's contagious."
To her credit, she laughed and took another swallow. "I like you, Ryan McDonough."
And he liked her, too, in spite of himself. And, God, how he wanted her. This wasn't the same thing he felt when the urge struck him periodically to take the edge off sexual hunger. That, he'd learned to deal with pragmatically, insuring no strings were attached and both parties were comfortable with it. No, this was something else, something more intense. More involved.
He didn't like to think about it, but if he didn't, he might actually do something about it.
* * *
While Ryan worked silently on his stack of files, Nina fitted another piece of the McDonough puzzle into place. There was still too much of it missing to see the whole picture, but she had most of the edges filled in. She wasn't exactly sure why she felt compelled to complete it, but she did.
Bad things had happened to this man. He'd quit ajob, left his country, drowned himself in drink for a whole year and now submersed himself in work. To all appearances, he had no other life. What on earth would cause a man to uproot himself and embrace a death wish? Scandal? Divorce? Somehow, she couldn't envision Ryan running from either of those.
There were no pictures of family here or in his office. When she'd excused herself to use his bathroom, she'd peeked inside the two bedrooms. Except for one unmade bed and a couple of wrinkled towels in the tub, the place looked unlived in, sterile as a hotel suite. He even had a small collection of soaps wrapped in paper with various hotel logos.
There was no music or movie collection visible, no VCR or stereo. The television wasn't even located where it could conveniently be watched. She suspected he only came here long enough to sleep and shower.
"Why are you shaking your head?" he asked, his own head still bent over the files as he looked up at her from beneath his lashes.
"Just thinking," she said, finishing off her wine. It was her second glass and her reading comprehension wasn't all it should have been. "I should go next door, try to get some sleep, I guess."
His look of profound relief dug at her vanity. He hadn't wanted her here. She had invited herself in and stayed. Then he said the very last thing she would have expected. "Sleep here."
"I beg your pardon?"
Now he he
sitated. He hadn't meant to say that, she realized. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something, like he'd decided to bite the bullet. "I don't want you alone in that apartment, okay?"
And she didn't want to be alone in it, not after the fire last night and knowing whoever had set it had known she was there. "All right."
He released his breath in a rush, then covered the act with a humorless laugh and nodded once. "All right."
Nina hopped up. "Just let me help you straighten—"
"Leave it," he ordered. "We'll get back to it in the morning."
She shrugged, looking everywhere but at him, and sidled toward the front door. "I'll go get my things."
He followed and stopped her, catching her arm before she reached the entrance. "Wait."
"Why?"
Nina could sense his reluctance to spell it out. Then he did. "Look, it's late. You can't go by yourself. And even if I go with you, that means leaving you at your door while I check the place out. I don't want to scare you, Nina, but—"
"I know," she assured him. "I'm not all that eager to push my luck, either. Thanks for suggesting I stay."
His fingers squeezed her arm. "It wasn't a suggestion. If you'd refused, I planned to insist. I was just trying to decide how to phrase it so you wouldn't go ballistic."
"Why do you think I would do that?" she said, her voice little more than a whisper. She could have kicked herself. Now he'd think she was coming on to him. And she wasn't.
Now he looked really uncomfortable. "Since I undressed you last night, I was afraid you might think I was, you know, interested."
She wasn't sure where he was going with this, but didn't say a word to encourage him.
"In something besides your safety, that is." He hurried on to explain. "I'm not, so you don't have to worry."
Well, that certainly answered her question before she thought about asking it. Nina forced a smile. It felt cold on her face. "I'm not worried."
"Good. That's a relief." He released her arm and gave it a pat. Not looking relieved at all, he stepped away from her and turned. "I'll just go and get you something to sleep in," he said over his shoulder. "Towels are on the shelf beneath the sink."
