Haunted. Gena Showalter

to confess a secret; she just needed a little push.

      Take control of the situation. “Hey, lady. You need to get something straight.”

      “‘Lady’ is just as bad as ‘ma’am.’ I’m Harper,” she called over her shoulder.

      Harper. The name didn’t quite fit her.

      He closed the distance, checking the living room to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself. Besides the shirt and pants he’d draped over the side of his couch, he had, thankfully, done a little picking up. As for his furniture, the dark leather of his couch and love seat were scuffed but of high quality, his coffee table as polished as his gun, and his rug threadbare only where he liked to pace. The floorboards creaked with his every step, but then, creaks, groans and moans as wood settled and hinges dropped were the standard sound track, blending with chatter that could be heard through the ultrathin walls.

      “Listen up,” he said.

      “Okay, I’ve waited long enough for you to offer,” the woman—Harper—interjected. “What’s your name?”

      “Levi. Now why are you here?” He gripped the counter to stop himself from shaking her. Shaking was bad. Very, very bad. Or so his captain was always saying.

      Clutching his cup, sipping his coffee, she turned to face him. Only, rather than spilling her reasons, she grimaced and gasped out, “What is this crap? Because honestly? It tastes like motor oil.”

      So he liked his joe strong. So what? “Maybe it is motor oil.”

      “Oh, well, in that case, it’s actually pretty good.” She took another sip, sighed as though content. “Definitely grade-A motor oil.” Her gaze slipped past him. “You know, your place is so much bigger than mine, with much better lighting. Who’d you have to sleep with to get it?”

      She’s as weird as the rest of them. “Who says I had to go all the way?” Apparently, I am, too.

      A laugh bubbled from her, and she choked on the coffee. “Dude. Do you know what you just implied?”

      “Uh, yeah. That’s why I said it.” Now, then. He’d allowed her to dominate the conversation long enough. He needed to move this along before she gave another one of those laughs. Gorgeous.

      He sidestepped the counter, moving closer to her, closer still, the fragrance of cinnamon thickening the air between them, the turpentine fading. He claimed the cup, set it aside and crowded her personal space, forcing her to back up until she ran into the cabinets.

      She peered up at him, those ocean-water eyes haunted … and, oh, so haunting. Just then, she reminded him of a fairy with a broken wing.

      Broken. There was that word again.

      Muscles … tensing again …

      In his experience, everyone had secrets. Clearly Harper was no exception. He recalled the day she moved in. She’d kept her eyes downcast, the long length of those pale lashes unable to mask the shadows underneath. There’d been a hollowness to her cheeks that had since filled out, and a stiffening of her spine every time someone had neared her. And wow, he’d noticed a lot considering he’d hadn’t allowed himself to watch her.

      “You have five seconds to start talking,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. There was no reason to break her other wing, but dang, his instincts to protect those weaker than himself were taking over, every part of him rebelling at the thought that someone had hurt her. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

      She gulped, and her trembling increased. “Can’t a girl get to know a guy before she begs him for a favor?”

      “No.” Evasion never worked with him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

      Color darkened her cheeks, even as the rest of her blanched to chalk-white. “Not exactly, no.” Softer voice, danger hidden by silken threads of … fear? Yeah, definitely fear. No longer was her gaze able to meet his.

      More gently he said, “Explain ‘not exactly.’”

      And there went her nails, smashing into her teeth. “Word on the street is, you’re a detective with the OKCPD.”

      “I am.” No reason to mention his forced leave of absence.

      Those ocean-water blues finally returned to him, so lovely in their purity his breath actually snagged in his throat. “What kind of cop are you?”

      “A detective, as we’ve already established.”

      “Like there’s a difference. A badge is a badge, right? But I meant, are you the good kind or the bad kind? Do you care about justice, no matter the cost, or do you just like closing a case?”

      He pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and reminded himself that he was a calm, rational being (with a gun) and she probably hadn’t meant to insult him and his coworkers.

      “Harper.” A swift rebuke, her name uttered as though it was a curse. He should have called her “ma’am” again, but since he’d teased her about how he’d gotten the apartment, formalities were out. “You’re seconds away from being arrested for public intoxication, because only a drunk person would say something like that.”

      A relieved sigh left her. “The good kind, then. Otherwise, you’d try and convince me of just how good you are, rather than taking offense.”

      “Harper.”

      She swallowed. “Okay, fine. I told you I’m a painter, right?”

      “An incredible painter.”

      Her chin lifted, those haunting secrets in her eyes momentarily replaced by affront. “Well, I am,” she said, having to speak around her fingers. “Anyway, I, uh, hmm. I knew this would be hard, but wow, this is worse than the time I had to tell Stacy DeMarko her butt did, in fact, look fat in those jeans.”

      I am not amused. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth.

      The contact jolted her, and she gasped. It jolted him, too. Her skin was unbelievably soft, decadently warm, something out of a fantasy. Her pulse hammered erratically, every pound caressing him. He let her go, stepped away.

      “Last chance, Harper. Just say what you came to say. That’s the only way to get what you need.”

      She rubbed at the elegant length of her neck, the picture of feminine delicacy, and whispered, “I’m painting something … from memory, I think, and … the problem is … I don’t really remember, but it’s there, in my head, the horrible image, I mean, and … and … I think I witnessed a murder.”

       2

      Aurora Harper, named after Sleeping freaking Beauty—and if anyone dared call her by the awful name they’d soon get a personal introduction to the razor in her boot—sat “calmly” on her neighbor’s couch. He was peering at her, silent, waiting for her to answer his latest question.

      Her tongue felt thick and unruly, unusable, and there was a lump growing in her throat, making it difficult for her to swallow. She hated talking about this, hated thinking about it, and would have given anything to slink away unnoticed, soon forgotten.

      Thing was, Levi would not be forgetting her. After her grim announcement, he’d gone stiff and jarringly quiet, then had ushered her into his living room, gently pushed her onto the couch cushions and pulled a chair directly in front of her. He’d spent the next half hour drilling her for information.

      She’d had no idea what to expect from him, had known only that he was the most rugged-looking man she’d ever seen. Oh, yeah, and every time she’d glanced in his direction he’d made her heart pound with an urge to fight him or to jump into his arms and hold on forever—she wasn’t yet sure which.

      He had wide shoulders, muscled forearms and