Homicide in Hardcover

As I rounded the bar toward my bedroom, I heard the floor creak behind me, then something hard and heavy smashed into my head. My thoughts evaporated as I crumpled to the floor.

“That’s it, baby. Come on, open your eyes.”

I drew in a breath and smelled the most delicious scent of leather and forest and springtime rain.

My eyes flickered open, then closed again.

“That’s it, you can do it,” he whispered, his voice warm and rich like whiskey sweetened with caramel-flavored hot chocolate.

I was either dead and gone to heaven or suffering serious brain damage, because I vaguely recalled waking up to that same voice in my ear once before.

I mentally surveyed my situation and surroundings. I wasn’t dead. That was a good thing. I was on my couch. The cushions felt like clouds under me. My head felt as if a train had collided with my skull. A cold cloth covered my forehead.

I opened my eyes. Derek held my hand and stroked my cheek. I was safe.

“Thirsty,” I managed to whisper.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I opened my eyes, saw him cross the living room to the kitchen, then return a moment later with a glass of water.

“I brought you a painkiller. I found the prescription bottle on top of your refrigerator.”

“Thank you.” I still had some Vicodin left over from the evil dentist I’d seen last month.

He carefully lifted my head and held the glass for me to drink. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I said again, then focused beyond him. The coffee table was at a right angle to the couch and the overstuffed red chair was pulled into the space. He sat there, about two inches away from me. “Did you rearrange my furniture?”

“Yeah.”

“Odd.”

“I take liberties where I can.”

He helped me lie back down until I jolted from something icy on the pillow.

“It’s a bag of frozen peas,” he said. “Lie down.”

“I have peas?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I found them in your freezer behind several dozen packages of pizza and ice cream.”

“Don’t judge.”

“Lie back. The peas will help with the swelling.”

“Good news.” The thought of my head swelling up was not appealing. I carefully laid my head down on the frozen package. It was cold, but after a few seconds it began to numb the pain.

“Better?” he asked.

“Seems to help.” Trying not to move my head, I squirmed around to adjust the cushions and yank the hem of my pajama top down until I was more comfortable. Figures I was still wearing my provocative pink kitty jammies. “How’d you get in?”

“Good question,” he said, sitting back and filling the big red chair nicely. “Your door was wide-open.”

“I was afraid of that,” I whispered. “Did you call the police?”

“They’re already here.”

“Good. Maybe my neighbors saw someone.”

“I take it you saw no one.”

“No, of course not.”

“The door to your front coat closet was open.”

“I checked all the closets.” But that closet was stuffed with coats, so I supposed someone could’ve hidden themselves behind them.

I struggled to sit but gave up as soon as my head started to pound. “Did you find my baseball bat? They might get prints off it.”

“Still playing at crime-busters, I see.” But he said it mildly, without a hint of sarcasm.

“I guess,” I said wearily.

“I’d better make my report, then.”

“What report?”

He held up his hand. “First off, the blood you found on the book belonged to Abraham.”

“Oh.”

“The fingerprints found in Abraham’s studio were his.”

“No one else’s?”

“No. And the only prints found at Baldacchio’s house were his own.”

“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “I guess that’s something.” And the fact that he’d shared that information caused my heart to beat somewhat erratically. Or maybe it was the frozen peas.

“Indeed, it is.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and took hold of my hand. Warmth spread up my arm as he said, “Now, why didn’t you call me last night when your place was ransacked?”

I frowned, and the small move caused shards of pain to skitter across my skull. “Feels like so long ago.”

“It was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Right.” So much had happened since then. I’d almost been killed in a noodle house. I’d almost been killed in my own house. And what about the mysterious Gabriel? Good guy? Bad guy? Good Samaritan? Clever opportunist? Had he left me a red rose or was that the killer’s calling card? My head was spi

“But you didn’t.”

“No need to rub it in. I admit you’re right.”

“Ah, music to my ears.” He twisted his lips in that a

“We are?” I didn’t see him wearing a bag of peas on his head.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s all co

“Absolutely.” Maybe it was the crack on the head or maybe it was the way his blue dress shirt fit his muscular torso, but I completely agreed with him. “It’s all co

“So we’re agreed.”

“Yes.”

“And where does the wilted red rose on your pillow fit in with the story?”

My eyes widened. “That’s why I called you. I found it on my pillow and it freaked me out.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s rather Gothic, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Before I conclude that our killer left it as a warning of some kind, I suppose I should ask if there’s someone in your life who might’ve left it as a romantic gesture.”

I thought of Gabriel. If he’d wanted to break in and steal the Plutarch, he would’ve done so without playing the rose-on-the-pillow game.

Derek coughed. “Was that a yes?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, coming back to the room. “No, there’s absolutely no one I know who would leave a rose on my pillow.”

“All right.”

“That’s why I called you,” I explained. “I was scared.”

“And when the studio was ransacked last night, who did you call?” he asked, not ready to let go of that point.

I waved my hand lamely. “Last night I ran to my neighbors’ place; then Robin showed up and we drank a lot of wine and I spent the night at her house.”

“I see.” Was it possible he was genuinely hurt?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t call you because it didn’t cross my mind that you might be…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

He could. “Interested? Concerned? Insane with fear for your safety?”

I bit back a smile. “Insane? Really?”

“You needn’t sound so pleased about it.” He placed his hand over his heart, but his blue eyes shimmered with mirth. “I’m suffering clear to my soul.”

“Oh, please.” I laughed softly. “That’s probably heartburn.”

His eyebrows went up. “Smart mouth. As soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently, remind me to punish you.”

I laughed again. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’re in no condition to bait me.”

“I hate that you’re right.” The surge of energy brought on by our friendly bantering was dwindling. My brain was losing the battle of wits and my eyelids were giving up on their fight with gravity. “Well, thank you for being here tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”

“You’re forgiven,” he murmured, moving closer to the edge of his chair as he traced lines along my fingers and the palm of my hand.

The sensation of his touch went straight to my solar plexus. I watched him watching me and knew he knew exactly what he was doing to me. If I were in better shape, he wouldn’t stand a chance. For tonight, though, I had to cop out.

“I think you might’ve saved my life.” I hated being so weak. I was used to saving my own life, thanks. Or better yet, not having to save or be saved in the first place.

He patted my hand. “It’s all part of the job.”

“Yes, of course. The job.” Right. He had a job to do. So much for our little flirtation. What had I been thinking?