Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 6

  She gave him a smile that made her cheeks ache. “Maybe I’m trying to protect you from the kook who lives here.” Snark wasn’t her forte, but the flash of embarrassment that crossed over his handsome features boosted her confidence. “That is what your partner called me, isn’t it? Kooky?”

  “He did.” That he didn’t try to deny it earned him points, but the confirmation struck hard, nonetheless. He rubbed a hand against his chest. “I apologize for that. Bowie’s experience with the more eccentric residents of our city needs to be expanded. And better tolerated. He could probably also do with a new thesaurus.”

  Her lips twitched at the unexpected joke. “Do you agree with him?”

  “That you’re kooky? I wouldn’t say so, although spying on a man you’re convinced killed someone doesn’t seem like the safest of moves. How about I reserve judgment?”

  A man you’re convinced... She could have stepped into the verbal trap he’d set, a trap he’d baited with a dimple-revealing smile that had her stomach doing somersaults. But rather than taking that step forward, she took one back. And opened the door wider. “How about we have this discussion over a cup of tea.”

  He blinked. As expected, she’d caught him off guard. “I’m sorry?”

  “Tea,” she said slowly. “It looks like you could use some. I’m sorry, I don’t have any coffee. I know you prefer it.”

  “How do you know?” He straightened, but hesitated, appeared a bit unsure of what to do next.

  “Because you were slugging it down the other night when you were here. Don’t get me wrong, I love the smell of strong brewed espresso, but the caffeine wreaks havoc on your nerves, and I don’t need shaky hands. So let’s do tea.” When he came forward, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. Her fingers immediately warmed as they pressed into him. A blood-zinging buzz hummed through her as she curled her fingers under and into the soft fabric of his shirt. She couldn’t have let go of him if she’d wanted to. And she didn’t want to.

  “I thought you were going to let me in.”

  She lifted her chin, looked into his eyes that drew her in like breath. She wanted to draw him. She wanted to just look at him and let her mind fly. But now, more than anything, more than she should, she wanted something completely wrong, something she’d never wanted before in her life. She wanted...

  She stepped forward, slipped her hand up and around to his neck and drew him to her, covered his mouth with hers. She could feel his surprise, taste it on her lips as she moved her mouth, angled her head and deepened the kiss. A surge of energy flashed through her as she felt his hand skim down her side to rest on the swell of her hip. She barely had time to process the skin-tingling sensation before he moved in, pulling her tight against him. Whatever control she thought she had slipped away as he took over, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, tangling with hers, painting an image in her mind of what their bodies could do together.

  That thought was enough to prompt reason to return. She broke off the kiss but didn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop herself from tangling her fingers in his hair. “I can’t believe I just did that.” Every nerve ending in her body was sparking like a downed electrical wire.

  “That makes two of us. Please tell me you wouldn’t have done that if Bowie rang the bell,” Jack murmured.

  She loved how he made her smile. “I’m sure that was completely inappropriate, so if I should apologize—”

  He kissed her again. A short kiss, barely a brush of mouth over mouth, but it was enough to have her wanting more. Enough to prove she hadn’t been out of line.

  “I have just one question before you come in.” She pressed her lips together to retain the taste of him as she held back a sigh.

  “Just one?”

  Oh, yeah. She was in serious trouble with this man. And the timing couldn’t be worse. “What are you really doing here? It can’t be because you caught me playing peekaboo with a serious bad guy over there.”

  “Actually, it can.”

  “It can?” She frowned, not understanding even as she dared to hope. She stepped back and lowered her arms. “Why?”

  “Because.” He seemed unable to resist. He reached up a hand and brushed a finger down the side of her face and spoke the three words that made her heart soar. “I believe you.”

  * * *

  The offer of tea couldn’t have come at a better time, Jack thought as he wandered her apartment. No doubt the lack of sleep, more than a day’s worth of coffee before noon and a truckload of self-doubt had done a number on his system. Why else would he have kissed her back like that?

  Inappropriate. Completely and utterly so. It wasn’t just that it could compromise any case, but it was just unprofessional. Not that he’d started it, but he was more than willing to keep up with Greta, who might just have succeeded in blowing the top of his head off. He groaned, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What on earth was he thinking? Noticing, accepting that Greta Renault was a fall-to-his-knees knockout was one thing. Acting on it? Discovering she was so much more? The last thing he needed was another complication when it came to his job.

  At least this type of complication.

  Getting involved with a witness was a serious breach of conduct, and right now, he couldn’t afford even a minor infraction. And there was nothing minor about Greta Renault.

  His lungs ached as if he’d climbed a dozen flights of stairs rather than three. If that was the afterburn of kissing Greta, there were worse consequences, he supposed. That said, his poor treadmill was going to quit after the workout he’d be giving it starting tonight. How else was he going to burn off this...energy?

  Not, he told himself, by finishing what she’d started. Maybe once the case was over he could pursue things, but mixing mind-blowing pleasure with business was only going to get them both in serious trouble.

  The intoxicating scent of jasmine drifted through her apartment. It hadn’t taken him long to realize her hair and skin smelled like the exotic flower. While she was in the kitchen, he resisted the temptation to drop onto the sofa. Instead, he explored the expanse of windows overlooking Fremont’s building next door.

  He could see where she’d had a clear view, and given the sparse furnishings in Fremont’s office, she wouldn’t have had any issues distinguishing figures either in the light or dark. And that, Jack realized as he stepped back, was part of what bothered him. That office in particular was such an open space; there was virtually nothing private about it, even if you thought you might be alone. And, according to Fritz, there were always at least two security officers patrolling the building. It would have taken pretty meticulous planning on Fremont’s part to have returned to Sacramento—about a six-hour drive from LA—when he should have been attending an event, kill someone, then get rid of all of the evidence without leaving any trace other than a convenient glasses lens behind.

  “The whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

  While he might not be able to puzzle out the mystery that was Doyle Fremont, he could, hopefully, attempt to gain some insight into his witness. And there was no better way to do that than to browse the only collection of items she had on display: her books. And she did have a lot of them: enough that they filled the shelves stretching nearly around the entire outline of the living room.

  The art books didn’t surprise him. She had an extensive collection of detailed coffee-table books on dozens of artists, including a few he hadn’t heard of. He drew his fingers along the spines, making mental notes before continuing his search.

  Interesting. Only the first column of shelves had been dedicated to art, but these others...all of these others held various copies and editions of medical and psychology texts. Pharmaceutical encyclopedias. He trailed his fingers over writers’ books on mental disorders and diseases, multiple years’ worth of the DSM. Psychosis seemed a favorite topic of hers, as did dissociative disorders. Manic depres
sion, schizophrenia... The subjects just went on and on. And nowhere, in this entire display of texts and written word, did he see anything indicating Greta’s personality.

  He leaned on the back of the sofa, scanning the shelves yet again for any photographs, trinkets, knickknacks he might have missed, but there were only books. Not even pictures of her art shows or even her artwork. All of that seemed confined to her studio, a studio he now realized he’d like to take a more extensive look through.

  If the medical texts didn’t confuse him, her taste in literature certainly did. Metamorphosis by Kafka seemed a particular favorite. She had multiple copies, some of which had extensive handwritten notes and highlighted passages. He did find a few mysteries thrown in, but they, too, dealt with the psychological. The science fiction selections focused on the mind, its power and its flaws. He’d never been so relieved to find a good selection of romance novels, but again, these leaned toward romantic suspense that dug deep into the psychological aspects of the villains of the stories.

  “Did she get a psych degree on the side?” He’d always said he enjoyed a bit of mystery when it came to women, but maybe this was taking things a bit too far? Even her DVD selection seemed biased toward crime, noir and psychology, with a collector’s edition of every Hitchcock movie, along with some cult classics he’d never gotten around to viewing. One movie in particular seemed to be a favorite as she had multiple versions, including the twenty-fifth anniversary edition, a bootlegged director’s cut and foreign editions. “Midnight Witness. Huh.” He pulled it free to scan the summary.

  Mew.

  Jack glanced over his shoulder in time to see Cerberus leap onto the stool at the edge of the curtains.

  As if reading his thoughts, Cerberus stopped licking his paw and stared Jack right in the eye. They blinked at the same time, a draw, and, if he let himself think on it too long, Jack wondered if the cat had really smirked.

  “Tea’s brewing.” Greta’s soft voice had him breaking contact with Cerberus. “It takes a while. Why don’t you sit down before you fall over?”

  “Before I...” He set the DVD case in its spot. Whatever he was going to say next evaporated as she walked over and, with one effortless move, slid his jacket off his shoulders and draped it over the back of a chair. “Um.” His face went hot when her hands came up and unknotted his tie. What would she go after next?

  “I think we’re past you feeling shy around me.” She whipped the tie off and led him over to sit down. “And don’t be such a man. You’re struggling. Sitting will help. And so will the tea. African Nectar blend. It’s what I drink when I’m feeling stressed and out of sorts.”

  “I’m not stressed.” At least not in the way she might think. But she was already flitting back into the kitchen as if the kiss had never happened. When she returned, she had the oversize notepad he recognized, along with a collection of various pencils. He glanced around, wondering if this was one of those hidden camera shows everyone was so obsessed with. Why did everything within these walls feel just a bit off? “Greta—”

  “Relax now. Tea soon. Talk later.” She curled up in the opposite end of the sofa, reached behind her for a remote control and clicked on the fireplace. The flames burst to life in perfect blue-tipped orange and immediately sent the aroma of burning wood into the room. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to passive-aggressively seduce him.

  She flicked her gaze to his, offered a quick smile, but no offer of conversation. He shifted around, rested an arm along the back of the sofa so his stretched-out fingers almost reached her shoulder. That bare skin of hers, was it as soft as it seemed? As soft as her cheek had been? As supple as her lips?

  “What are you doing?” he asked as she focused all her attention on her sketchpad.

  “Now that I know you believe me, I assume you need a statement.” Her hand started moving in the same way it had the night she met him, lightning quick over the paper. “I do images, not words. Those can come later. Once these are...” She trailed off, her whisper-soft voice fading as the warmth of the fire embraced him, and she fell back into the world at the tip of her pencil.

  “You didn’t put any kind of hallucinogen in that fireplace, did you?” Jack tried to joke as his eyes went heavy.

  “Reality gives me enough to deal with. I don’t need help in that area.”

  He noticed her expression barely flickered as she said it. A face that he now realized he’d seen before, when he’d spent endless hours staring into that painting of hers. But that wasn’t possible. The figure in his painting didn’t have a face.

  At least not before he’d met Greta. Now she would.

  “You said you believe me.” Greta’s statement had him pulling out of a haze of attraction that began to buzz through him.

  “I did. I do.”

  “But you didn’t.” Greta pinned him with those amazing, eerie gray eyes of hers. “Did you? Please don’t tell me kissing you made you feel obligated to make some false confession. If you don’t believe me—”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” he teased, then he continued. “I believed you believed what you saw actually happened. That was enough to make me do some poking around.” Was that enough to keep him from getting kicked out of her loft for a second time? He liked it here, the space, the decor. Liked her. Minimalist yet practical and comfortable, both the dwelling and its resident. And not because of how she’d greeted him. He longed to uncover why he found no knickknacks, no framed photographs of friends or even family. Not even a speck of dust seemed to have settled in for an extended stay, while Jack should probably start charging the dust bunnies in his house rent.

  “And now?”

  “And now what?” Jack wondered how anyone’s voice could sound as soft as sable.

  “What’s changed that you believe me now?”

  “I met Doyle Fremont.” He waited, focusing on the slow beat of his heart as her hand stilled. “He’s a cool son of a...” Jack cleared his throat. “He’s a cold customer,” he corrected himself. “Not sure I’ve met anyone frostier.” He’d read it in Fremont’s eyes as he’d sat across from him. Almost as if they were playing some kind of game, and only Fremont knew the rules. Little did he know he’d triggered Jack’s suspicion. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility he killed someone.”

  “He did.” She didn’t look away from her pad. If anything, her pencil strokes became stronger, harder. Went faster. “I don’t know how without a knife or a gun, but he did it.”

  “If he did, we’ll prove it.” If only it were that simple. Without evidence, without a body...

  Now she smiled. “Yes, we will.”

  “We as in the police,” he clarified when he saw the unrestrained interest in her gaze. No way was he letting her anywhere closer to this investigation. It might even be better if she got out of town for a while, holed up someplace no one knew about while he investigated whether one of the richest men in the country had committed cold-blooded murder. “While I can appreciate your enthusiasm—” he gestured to the stool and ridiculous enameled binoculars “—I’m going to make a few suggestions.”

  “I ordered a new pair of binoculars. And I’m thinking about getting heavier curtains.” She tapped a fingernail against her teeth.

  New binoc... Jack’s head pounded against the surge of frustration, but he kept his voice controlled. Barely. “How about you stop looking altogether?”

  There went that eyebrow again. Pale, considered and angular as she aimed a look at him. She really could look determined when she wanted to. “No.”

  “You called me. Well, you called the police,” he corrected as he searched for a way around her argument. “You wanted us to look into what you witnessed. So let us. Me. Not we.” He pointed between them. “We as in me as in the police pursue this.”

  Her lips curved. “I never knew pronoun confusion could be so entertaining.”<
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  “I’m not trying to be entertaining, Greta.” Did she not take this seriously? The residual fog of attraction dissipated, and he slipped back into cop mode. He knew how ruthless people could be. He knew the lengths they’d go to, to silence those who went against them. His hands had been covered in the blood of the aftermath once. He was not going to let it happen to Greta. “I spent five minutes with that guy, and I can tell you something is off with him. I don’t want him shifting his focus on to you. Not any more than it already is.”

  Greta bit her lip and winced, turned her attention back on her drawings.

  “What?” Jack demanded as gently as he could manage.

  “I think he saw me watching him earlier.” Greta shrugged. “Just after you left. I can’t be sure, but—”

  Jack swore as a timer dinged in the kitchen.

  “That’s your tea.” She uncurled from the sofa and set her pad between them. “Here. I’ll get the tray. You can start looking through these and get your notes organized.” She ripped off an oversize sheet of paper and handed it over. “Or jotted down. Or whatever it is you Columbos do.”

  “Columbos?” Jack suspected he was going to be in a constant state of confusion around this woman. She flitted from subject to subject like a hummingbird on a nectar high.

  “I like old TV shows sometimes. Old movies, too. Too dated?” She stopped, braced paint-spattered fingers against the wall into the kitchen. Jean shorts that fit her like a second skin revealed the curves that had been hidden behind silk the other night. Curves that could keep a man’s hands entertained for a lifetime if he ever got bored with those endless legs. The bright yellow of her tank was like a shock of sunlight in the darkness, much like the woman wearing it. She wasn’t small or delicate or any of the things he normally found appealing in a woman. She was full-bodied and graceful and... Jack blew out an unexpected breath...tempting as a glass of smooth whiskey after a long, trying day.

  “Never too dated for Columbo.” How was she to know the classic TV detective was one of his earliest inspirations? He used to drive his sister, Ashley, nuts racing around his house in a thrift-store beige trench coat, chewing on a fake cigar while he interrogated everything from the family dog to their mother’s houseplants.