Cold Hearted. Beverly Barton

just stand here gaping at the man. Meet and greet. Put a pleasant expression on your face and welcome him.

      Jordan walked down the hall. Rick looked directly at her as he waited for her to come to him.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Carson.” She held out her hand. “Welcome to Price Manor.”

      He hesitated for a millisecond before he clasped her hand. His grip was strong yet gentle and his hand was warm and hard. She was suddenly acutely aware of him in that age-old way a woman is aware of a virile man.

      She jerked her hand away, hating how his touch had made her feel. But she managed to keep a pleasant expression on her face.

      “Before I show you up to your room so that you can settle in, will you please come into my study for a few moments. I’d like to speak to you privately.” Jordan indicated the direction with a sweep of her right hand.

      When she glanced at Rick Carson, she noticed that he was staring at her left hand. She looked down and realized the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows had hit her engagement ring and wedding band, making the diamonds sparkle with brilliant fire. She dropped her left arm to her side and pressed her palm against her thigh.

      She knew what this man, this trained investigator, was thinking. The three-carat diamond flanked by two smaller half-carat diamonds and coupled with a diamond-studded platinum wedding band all but screamed rich widow. He no doubt believed that her husband had spoiled her with outrageously expensive jewelry. But the rings, as with the other jewelry Dan had given her, had been for show. At the time, she had tried to dissuade him from buying her the gaudy rings. But he had insisted, telling her that it would be expected for a man with his wealth to buy his second wife rings that would equal or exceed the value of those he had bought his first wife.

      Jordan and Rick Carson exchanged heated glances before she turned and headed for her small study at the rear of the house. She didn’t look over her shoulder to see if he was following, but she knew he was. Not only could she hear his heavy footsteps, but she could feel his presence as if it were a shadow hovering over her. Watching her. Examining her.

      The man made her nervous.

      She didn’t pause when she reached the open door that led into her private sanctuary. This room had once been part of a back porch that had spanned the length of the house, but sometime in the past 50 years, a section of the porch had been enclosed and divided into two rooms. A glass encased sunroom filled with antique white wicker lay on the right side and her study on the left. A wall of windows faced the back courtyard. The ceiling and two walls boasted old beaded board painted a pale peach and what had once been the exterior wall was white-washed brick. She had decorated the room herself and had chosen each item, each piece of furniture, with great care. This was the only room in the entire house that was hers alone. Even though she had not shared a bedroom with Dan, her room, like the others in this old mansion, held priceless antiques and had been professionally decorated.

      Jordan paused in front of the beige-and-brown striped settee, then turned slowly to face her guest. Their gazes clashed. Jordan swallowed.

      “Please, take a seat,” she told him as she eased down onto the settee.

      “Yes, ma’am.” He took the rust-colored easy chair across from her. “Is there some kind of problem?”

      “I hope not, but if there is, I think we need to resolve it as soon as possible. Agreed?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Ryan trusts you because you’re employed by Nicole and Griffin Powell and normally I trust Ryan’s judgment. But I need to be certain that I can trust you to keep any personal information you uncover during your investigation completely private and never reveal it to anyone other than Ryan and me.”

      “I can assure you that, unless I uncover something that directly incriminates either you or Ryan in your husband’s death, all information will be kept in strictest confidence.”

      Jordan’s heart stopped for a millisecond. Was this man saying what she thought he was? Was he implying that—No, surely he wouldn’t dare suggest that either she or Ryan might have been responsible for Dan’s death.

      “Mr. Carson, are you actually suggesting that Ryan or I might have—”

      “Look, let’s lay our cards on the table right now. I’m a straightforward kind of guy and since you’re paying for my services through the Powell Agency, you have a right to know that my only goal is to find out if your husband was murdered and if he was, who killed him. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, I understand. That’s why Ryan and I hired you.”

      When he leaned forward, Jordan instinctively withdrew, pressing back against the sofa, her body unconsciously trying to escape from the threat she sensed he posed.

      “Then you won’t object if I ask you one simple question, will you?”

      Her heart raced at breakneck speed.

      “Ask your question,” she said.

      He looked her square in the eye, his dark, penetrating stare pinning her to the spot. “Mrs. Price, did you kill your husband?”

      Chapter 4

      Rick could tell that his question had not surprised Jordan Price. She glowered at him with those cool blue-gray eyes, her expression an odd mixture of hurt and anger. But she stayed perfectly calm. Only the telltale clenching of her jaw and the hard glare revealed any emotion.

      “Would you believe me if I told you that I did not kill my husband and that I cared deeply for him?”

      “Cared deeply? Odd choice of words, Mrs. Price.”

      “Honest choice of words,” she said. “I loved Dan, but not in some silly, youthfully passionate way. Our marriage worked for both of us. In our own fashion, we were quite content.”

      “Another odd choice of words.”

      “But once again an honest choice.”

      “You’re not much for deep, passionate feelings, are you?”

      She stared at him, a glimmer of something unsettling bubbling just below the surface, a hint of fury, a tinge of inner fire.

      Don’t go there, Carson. Do not for one minute believe that she hasn’t used this feminine trick on other men. What she wants is for you to believe that you’re the one man on earth who could bring her dormant passion to life. Don’t be a fool. Don’t fall for her oh-so-smooth act.

      He gave her a thorough once-over, not subtle in the way he appraised her physical assets. Yeah, so his manner was a bit on the crude side, not the least respectful. But in his book—the Rick Carson book of rules and regulations—a person had to earn his respect.

      Jordan was willowy slender, but not skinny. Her hips rounded nicely and her breasts were large enough to fill a C-cup bra. He surmised her height and weight: five-four, a hundred and twenty pounds. Her creamy skin was like fine porcelain, unmarred by the sun or a tanning bed. She possessed an almost ethereal quality, like an angelic statue brought to life.

      “You’re staring,” she told him, her voice slightly breathless.

      Yes, he was. He was staring at a beautiful woman, but one he suspected was deadly. Was Jordan Price a black widow? Or was she what she appeared to be—sad, vulnerable, and in need of a strong shoulder to lean on?

      Rick shook off the latter thought. He wasn’t here to give comfort. His job was to investigate a murder.

      “Let’s say for the sake of argument that I believe you, that you didn’t kill your husband. Do you have any idea who did?”

      She lifted her slender hand and smoothed back an errant strand of ash blonde hair. The thick mass was pulled loosely away from her face and secured with a silver clasp into a broad bun at the nape of her neck. Other than the ostentatious set of rings on her left ring finger, her jewelry