No One Heard Her Scream

He took his first sip of coffee. Becca found herself fixated on his lips, full and expressive. Oh, hell! This man could be connected to the arson fire. Focus, Beck. Keep your wits, woman. She sat back in her chair and forced a smile.

'I think the operative word is 'catch.' You seem to have eyes in the back of your head.'

Her mind worked overtime as she kept up her end of the conversation. Becca made a mental tally of his appearance, for purely professional reasons. Well over six feet tall with a lean athletic build, around 180 pounds. But when her imagination drifted to picturing that body up close and personal, under silk sheets, she forced herself back into cop mode and continued with her inventory of the man.

Full head of black hair, well-groomed. And he smelled so damned good.

She grimaced at her lack of focus and continued with the tough job of taking stock. Manicured nails. Expensive threads. A small scar over his right eye—a thin white line against an olive complexion—gave his face character. And it might prove to be a distinguishing mark to ID him. But his most memorable feature—his eyes— she'd recognize anywhere.

If those eyes lurked in a mug book or in a database, she'd know them on sight. Deep brown honey melting under a July sun. Was that an eye color?

'You look like a guy with an agenda. What were you doing at the theater?' She tried the direct approach.

'I was there to represent the interests of my . . . benefactor. At one time, he had an affiliation with the old theater. That is all.' He sipped his coffee, a slow deliberate move. 'Looks like your investigator found evidence of arson.'

'You guessing, or do you know this for a fact?'

'A pretty good guess, I'm afraid.'

Putting two and two together, she now understood why he'd been across the street, near the corner by the theater. He'd spied on them as they inspected the Dumpster in the back parking lot of the Imperial. Knowing he'd deny it, she tried a different tack.

'So this benefactor and his so-called affiliation, did he once own the property?' When the man answered with only a sly smile, she tried again. 'Okay, let's try something a little more simple. Does your benefactor have a name?'

'All in good time, Rebecca. I have faith in your ability to detect such things.' He cocked his head, not taking his eyes off her. 'But I have to warn you. My benefactor is a very dangerous man.'

'Is that a threat?'

'No, consider it a warning. More of a professional courtesy.'

She narrowed her eyes and stared at him, trying to determine any hint of sarcasm. He looked dead serious.

'Aren't you taking a chance by warning the cop working the case? If he's so dangerous, why cross him?'

'Guess I like living on the edge.' His expression grew more solemn. Eyes down, he toyed with his coffee cup. 'And he doesn't own me . . . yet.'

She reached across and rubbed her fingers on the sleeve of his expensive suit. 'Oh, I don't know. Looks like he's made a hefty down payment on his investment.'

For a brief moment, he torqued his jaw and looked up. She'd hit a nerve.

'Just make sure you bring your A-game with this guy. He's powerful and as nasty as they come.'

'Don't you worry about my A-game, Slick.' She raised her chin in challenge. 'I always bring it.'

'Oh, really.' With eyes focused on her lips, he picked up a napkin.

In a surprising gesture, he leaned closer and reached for her, a pale blue linen in his hand. Becca pulled back at first, shocked by his bold move. But as he wiped her chin, with an unexpected gentleness, she gave in to the intimacy and relaxed.

Way to go, Beck. Real classy. All this time, she put up a front of bravado with black smudge on her face, a remnant from the fire. And he kept a straight face, not mentioning it.

With a raised eyebrow, he showed her the dirty napkin—proof of her A-game.

'Thanks.' She barely looked him in the eye. 'Guess it's been a long day.'

After a strained moment, Becca noticed he hadn't backed away. She found him staring. And once again, she sensed a strong connection. As close as he was to her, anyone along the street might have assumed they were lovers. Becca imagined she felt his breath on her skin, and yet his touch seemed so natural—as if they'd met in another life.

A stirring, unforgettable moment.

But without warning, he broke the bond, sternness back in his expression. A gust of wind blew her hair, and, in a snap, her connection to him faltered. He sat back in his seat and let awkward silence build between them. It reminded her they were strangers who had run out of things to say.

'Like I said, you'll need an A-game, even if you have to borrow one.'

'Look, Slick, I've got an investigation to conduct. And as much as I've enjoyed our little one-sided rendezvous, I've got things to do.'

After taking a sip of his coffee, he looked across the table at her cup.

'But you haven't touched your cappuccino.'

'I only drink with friends.'

The gloves were off. No sense allowing him to monopolize her dance card. She had better things to do.

'So why this cryptic little game, Slick? You won't share your name or the identity of your so-called benefactor, yet you're chock-full of professional courtesies. Surely you have better things to do with your time than waste mine.'

After a faint sad smile, the man slipped on his sunglasses, preparing to leave.

'I wanted to meet you. To find out why a homicide detective gets assigned to a fire investigation.'

Finally, all his cards were on the table, a well-played hand thus far. But now, he was fishing. He knew she worked homicide but had no idea about the body found in the old theater. Interesting. It appeared she still held a card up her sleeve.

And latex gloves in her pocket.

'Well, imagine that. I guess there're things you don't know.' As she spoke, Becca slipped on one of her gloves under the table. 'But a resourceful man, such as yourself, will find out soon enough. I have faith in your abilities.'

She reached across the table for his coffee cup with her gloved hand and without ceremony, dumped what remained of his Java onto the sidewalk by their table. Her sudden move drew a flicker of indignation in his eyes, one that quickly faded.

'Two sets of fingerprints on this cup, yours and the waiter's. Thanks for making my job so easy.'

Becca stood, cup in hand, not waiting for him to make the next move. With a low intimate voice, she leaned over the table, her face inches from his. Close enough to see through his expensive shades.

'And that bulge I detect? You'd better be damned glad to see me . . . and have a permit to carry that weapon. If not, you'll find the next time we meet, I won't be shy about using my handcuffs.'

For the first time, the guy looked as if she had caught him off guard. But the instant was gone in the flick of his eyelash.

'Shy doesn't suit you.' He stood and smiled. Cockiness had been replaced by an element of sadness in his expression. Yet in a seductive gesture, he leaned toward her. Reacting on pure instinct, she closed her eyes and focused on the moment. The warmth off his skin and his subtle cologne triggered her imagination.

Becca's heart stopped. Instead of the kiss she expected, his soft whisper teased her ear.

'I would have been disappointed if you hadn't made a move for my prints. I look forward to seeing you again, Rebecca.'

After setting a hundred-dollar bill on the table, he turned and walked away, back the way he had come. She watched until he melded with the foot traffic on the street, her heart still pounding with the rush of his intimacy.