And I point my Camaro toward a little bungalow on Webster Ave South.
Chapter 16
You’re brilliant.
Eve didn’t know why those words lit up her entire body—Rembrandt probably meant it as a throw away comment, something he might say to Burke, or even Silas if he helped him track down a lead.
So she should simply calm down. Stop thinking about the way he straddled that chair, his forearms ropy and strong, resting on the back. The way he leaned past her, pointing at the screen, surrounding her with his scent—a mix of the sultry summer air and a thoroughly masculine residue of his morning exertions. Stop thinking about the softening timbre of his voice when he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time and said, I think I would start all the good things sooner.
All the good things.
As if they included her.
I could kiss you.
He hadn’t meant that, either, but the shock of those words still sluiced through her.
She turned off the shower and let her body shiver for a moment before she stepped out and grabbed a towel. The weariness of the day had sloughed off her, but she still longed for her warm bed, if she could get her brain to shut off.
Tracking down the leads with Rembrandt only stirred up more questions. Like, where in Ramses’ or even Gustavo’s resume did it mention familiarity with bomb making procedures? More likely, they’d befriended someone inside the ICDL who could handle explosives.
Maybe they needed to take another look at the ICDL, something she’d mention to Rem—Inspector Stone—in the morning.
Despite what he said, she needed to stop thinking of him as Rem. As if they were more than work acquaintances. She couldn’t deny that something about him, however—an aura of confidence, even the brazen courage to run after his hunches—nudged at a place inside her that longed to step outside her methodology and lists to follow her instincts.
What would you regret?
His question rattled inside her as she pulled on a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and fuzzy socks for her perpetually frozen toes and headed downstairs to her freshly tiled kitchen. A light glowed over the stove and she opened the refrigerator. One of her brother’s beers remained, but she grabbed a yogurt and headed over to the counter to fetch a spoon.
The knock at the door made her jerk. She turned. Glanced at the clock. After midnight.
She slowly slid out the drawer at the end of the counter and eased out her police-issue Glock.
Not that a criminal would knock, but…
Holding it at her side, she flicked on the porch light. Her brother had suggested a stained glass door, so she couldn’t make out the figure standing there.
She glanced through the sidelight window.
A man. He had his back to the door, but wore a pair of dress pants, no jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, wide shoulders, lean waist—
“Inspector Stone?” She opened the door and he turned.
The shadows of the overhead light against the two-day growth of his whiskers turned his face gritty, and the look in his blue eyes suggested all business. He glanced at the Glock in her hand and raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, good idea. For the record, I like the preparedness, but I promise I’m not here to attack you, rob you, or in any way cause trouble.” His mouth cranked up one side.
She glanced at the gun, then set the weapon on a table by the door. “It’s late. So—”
“Like I said, good choice. Keep that instinct. But…I need your help, Eve.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and then gave her such a sheepish, almost boyish look she didn’t know what else to do.
“Come in.”
He stepped over the threshold. “Nice place. Smells like you’ve been working on it.”
“Yeah. My brother just finished the kitchen, but I’m about done with remodeling. I just need to paint the dining room and add a deck.” She walked past him and turned on a family room lamp. Light washed over her leather sofa, across to her fireplace. “I’ll be happy if I never remodel again.”
A low chuckle rumbled through him. “I’ll remember that.”