when she did and nodded at her. Well, at least he’d fit in just fine with the rest of the Southern men, who knew just how to treat a lady.
She took her tea and went upstairs, sat down at her desk, pushing all thoughts of strange men in her kitchen away. The first order of business was tracking down the art books.
She hit pay dirt with her first try. The publisher, Taschen Books, had a New York branch. A knowledgeable staffer took down the information, then put her on hold. She came back and told Taylor they didn’t have actual copies of the books-the print runs had been small and they were well and truly out of print-but they did have access to the corporate entities who held the electronic files the books were printed from. She’d put in a request first thing, would get back to Taylor with the information. Hopefully this morning. Taylor gave her cell number and a fax number at the office, so they could print off the two pages in question and get them to her as quickly as possible.
She’d arranged to meet McKenzie at a truck stop at I-65 and Old Hickory at 8:30 a.m. She took a quick shower and was putting her wet hair in a bun when Baldwin appeared in the bathroom doorway.
“You look good wet, you know that?”
She laughed. “You’re nuts.”
“I’m not,” he said, reaching for her. “I wish we were alone.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Me, too. What are you going to do today?”
“Depends on what this guy from the Met has to say. I’m going to plug in everything we have down here, too. Something about these cases…well, you know. It feels so similar, but something is wrong. Will you call me when you finish in Manchester, tell me what you have from there? If these cases are linked, then the killer has been at this awhile and we might have something to go on. I’ll use the new information to flesh out the profile, present it, and hopefully, we’ll catch this son of a bitch.”
“Oh, speaking of which, remind me to fax you the ViCAP reports. I found another real possibility down in Chattanooga. I’m going to follow up on that today, too.”
He looked worried. “You didn’t tell me you had a third.”
“I don’t know if it’s linked for sure. Just a gut feeling, you know? I’ll get you all the details.”
“Okay. Nice work, by the way. You’d make one hell of an agent.” He kissed her, so deeply it made her dizzy, then gave her a wicked grin. “Don’t forget to fax me the ViCAP report.”
“Smart-ass,” she said, but smiled back. “I’ve got to go. Will you be going to Quantico tonight?”
“Tomorrow. Need to get Highsmythe in front of the rest of the team.” He released her, and she felt that sense of disappointment she always had when they stopped touching. He made her feel alive, and when they were disconnected, she missed the electricity.
She gave him another little kiss, then finished dressing. Baldwin slipped into the shower. She stood in the doorway and watched him this time, his lithe body, the water rushing over his broad shoulders, the way he turned his face into the water like it could wash away the bad things he was forced to see. She felt a tug, deep in her stomach, and sighed. He was just so beautiful. So intelligent, so giving. She was lucky to have him.
She glanced at her watch. If she lingered any longer, she would be late for McKenzie. She opened the door to the shower and motioned for him to come closer. She kissed him this time, and saw the effect it had. Grinning, she tweaked him, then turned to leave.
“You tease,” he called out, and she laughed.
“Sorry, babe. I’m gonna be late. Have a good day.”
She could hear him growling as she walked down the stairs. It tickled her, how she could get him going so easily.
Highsmythe was still in the kitchen, staring sadly into his cup of tea.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s empty,” he said, then grinned at her. She smiled back at him. Crazy Brits.
“Enjoy your day,” she said. “See some of Nashville while you’re here.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
She looked at him a moment longer, wondering if he was being sincere, then grabbed her keys. He was charming, she’d give him that.
“Goodbye, Mr. Highsmythe.”
“Goodbye, Miss Jackson,” he said, but the door was already closed. He sat back in his chair, realized he didn’t have any breath. He felt like he’d been holding it from the moment she’d sauntered into the kitchen in that tight white top, those incredibly long legs bringing her closer and closer. She was possibly the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.
He felt a twinge deep in his heart. There were photographs of her and the FBI agent in the living room, taken on a vacation, all smiles and gooey eyes. In the photograph the woman looked a lot like his Evan; he’d been expecting someone who had a similar bone structure, but in person, the dynamic of her was…overwhelming. Tall, lissome, curved in all the proper places, hair the exact same shade of natural honey-blond that Evan had worked so hard to replicate. They didn’t smell the same-Evan’s shampoo made her hair smell faintly of citrus.
Memphis poured a fresh cup of tea and took a deep swallow. He was mightily impressed. Baldwin had made him the tea-china pot, loose-leaf Earl Grey. The real thing, not those tepid bags with a string hanging over the edge of a plastic cup. He didn’t think Americans had any idea how to brew a real cup.
He replayed the morning, moment by glorious moment.
“I’m Taylor Jackson,” she’d said. “You must be Baldwin’s contact from Scotland Yard.”
He resisted the urge to correct her-New Scotland Yard, actually, we haven’t been Scotland Yard since the 1890s-but bit back the retort.
“Please, do call me Memphis,” he’d managed, then gave her a most winning smile. She’d responded, he felt the grip of her hand tighten just for an instant, and her previously polite smile reached all the way into those loch gray depths. His heart, quite literally, skipped a beat.
“Are you all right?” she’d asked.
God, no. He would never be all right again.
The remembered scent of lemongrass and gun oil forced its way back into his senses, and he looked up, face to face with the woman again. Jesus, at least she didn’t smell like Evan. That would have been too much to bear.
“Forgot my phone. Sorry for the interruption.”
He stumbled to his feet, his chair scootching back with a screech, but she’d already turned and was walking back to the garage door. There was something odd about Taylor Jackson’s eyes, a clear gray, with the right slightly darker than the left, like a storm was moving in and hadn’t reached all the way across her face. She was a true beauty, far from perfect, which gave her even more allure. Good Lord, and she was armed. He was bewitched. He felt himself harden, turned back to the table, busying himself with the plate in front of him. Good grief. He was sporting a stalk like a spotty youth.
What the hell was wrong with him? He took stock of the situation, broke it into pieces, just like the police shrink would want him to. The woman was beautiful, yes. She looked like his dead wife, yes. She was alive, and near, and smiled so very nicely at him, oh, yes. She belonged to the agent he was working with on one of the biggest cases he’d touched on in years, yes again.
He struggled to push the woman from his mind, to get his head back to his job. There were three girls whose deaths needed solving, that’s why he was here.
It worked for a few minutes. He poured himself the last of the tea, sat back at the table. He couldn’t help himself; his mind drifted back to Taylor Jackson.
There were two huge differences between Taylor’s voice and Evan’s-while Evan’s was almost high-pitched, and her British upper-class diction perfect, Taylor’s voice was deep and smoky, like she’d been up all night, tinged with the slightest of drawls. It did terrible things to his insides.
Evan’s eyes were different, too, the color of the warm summer sky. Like his.
For a moment, he and Taylor had been exactly eye to eye. He could have sworn he saw some sort of recognition there, an understanding. But he was tired, and she was too familiar.
He heard the garage door close, she was officially gone. He laughed mirthlessly. Get it together, man. The mental admonishment sounded exactly like his tutor at Oxford, who was also the coach of his house’s rowing crew. “Get it together, man. Get your head in the race.” He was relentless on the river-they’d called him the Terror of
