“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 spinning. “I should’ve called you.”
“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 annoyingly attractive way I’d grown used to, which usually meant he was trying not to laugh at me. “We’re in this together, remember.”
“We are?” I didn’t see him wearing a bag of peas on his head.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s all connected, don’t you agree?”
“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 connected to Abraham’s murder.”
“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?
He continued some kind of massaging thing up and down my arm that was starting to affect my ability to concentrate. And the Vicodin was definitely kicking in.
“I told you from the start I’d be watching you like a hawk,” he said. “Did it slip your mind?”
“Everything’s slipping my mind,” I admitted. “Except I do recall that you said you’d be watching me because you thought I’d murdered Abraham.”
“Only for a moment,” he insisted.
“More like a week,” I nitpicked.
His lips curved. Then he nudged some ayurvedic energy point on my inner arm and I lost track of the conversation.
“… and then there was the fact that you were behaving rather suspiciously,” he was saying. “What else was I to think?”
I yawned. “Sorry.”
He tilted his head at me. “You need to sleep.”
“Yes.”
“You probably won’t remember much tomorrow.”
“I’ll remember you’re the hawk.” Had I said that out loud? How silly.
“Yes, remember the hawk.” He moved off the chair and knelt on the carpet next to the couch. “Before you drop off to sleep, there’s one thing I must do.”
“Yes?”
“Highly inappropriate behavior on my part,” he said, putting his hand on my cheek. “But it seems it can’t be helped.”
“Well, if it can’t be helped…”
But his lips were already brushing mine. His tongue outlined my bottom lip and electricity shot straight through me. My eyes glazed over as he moved his mouth along my chin, nibbling, planting light kisses, grazing my jaw, my ear, my forehead, with his lips as though he were memorizing the shape of my face. A nip here, a tiny lick there. It was torture. It was heaven.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and I tensed, then tried to sit up, but Derek stopped me.
“It’s all right,” he murmured.
“Commander,” an officer said. “We’d like your opinion out here.”
“Yes, of course.” He ran his finger along my jaw, then stood. “You’ll sleep now.”