Double Deception. Terri Reed

      The Beverly Hills address took him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”

      She ignored his comment. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

      “As soon as I have the paperwork filled out.” He laid his hand on her purse which he’d deposited on top of his desk. “Is your ID in here?”

      “Yes.”

      He picked up the satchel and unzipped it. “Mind?”

      Her deprecating gaze bored into him. “Do I have a choice?”

      “No.” But still he waited for permission.

      “Then go ahead.”

      He dumped the contents of her purse onto the desktop. A compact, a black tube of lipstick, three granola bars and a thick black wallet spilled out. He unclasped the single snap on the folded wallet and plucked her ID from the first plastic sheath. He wrote down the information on the form. “Your occupation?”

      “I work for Valley Savings Bank as the Vice President of Operations. You want to call my boss for a reference?”

      Brody cocked his brow. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

      She rolled her eyes. The harsh fluorescent light overhead failed to wash out the sparks of fire in her shoulder-length hair. His gaze strayed to the curling ends where they teased the collar of her pink silk blouse. He tightened his grip on the pen in his hand to keep from reaching out to test the curls. Would they be as silky as they looked?

      Her clothing spoke of the kind of money that went along with her address. The tailored suit she wore, though wrinkled and damp, couldn’t hide the curves beneath.

      “What were you doing there, Mrs. Wheeler?” he questioned, bringing his mind back to business.

      “I wanted to see the house.” Katherine wrapped her arms around herself. He noticed her shiver while some of the fight drained from her eyes. The coat he’d failed to take with him hung on the back of his chair. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the jacket and handed it to her.

      She wrapped the too-large jacket around her shoulders. “Thanks.”

      He gave a short nod of his head. She looked small and vulnerable and in need of protection. Seeing her in his coat made his chest burn. Irritably, he pushed the phone across the desk. “Make your call.”

      He didn’t have to offer twice. Her long, tapered fingers moved over the keypad. Brody watched her hands and then, like a gawker at a crime scene, his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Pink, soft-looking. Well-shaped lips. Kissable lips

      Yanking his mind away from that treacherous path, he decided he was more tired than he’d thought. The last thing he should be thinking about was his suspect’s kissability.

      He forced his attention back to the phone, on the faint metallic sound of a male voice coming through the line. From the look of consternation on Katherine’s face, he guessed an answering machine had picked up.

      “Gordon, its Kate. You won’t believe this. I’m at the Havensport Sheriff’s office, of all things. The number here is…” She raised her brows in question.

      Brody gave her the number, which she repeated into the phone before hanging up. Circles of fatigue darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He dearly wished his mother hadn’t raised a gentleman. Despite how much he might want to let Katherine Wheeler go lie down, he still had questions that needed answers.

      Swallowing his inclinations, he got back to business. “Why did you think someone was coming to the house to kill you?”

      A watchful wariness filled her gaze. “I was alone. You attacked me. What was I supposed to think? That you wanted to dance?”

      A spurt of amusement kicked up the corner of Brody’s mouth.

      She picked up his nameplate and toyed with it between her slender hands. Her manicured nails clicked against the brass. “Where do we go from here?”

      “I need to verify your story, check out your ID—”

      “And then?” She lifted an auburn brow.

      “Then you’ll tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”

      For a brief second her gem-colored gaze locked with his before darting away. “The only trouble I have is you, Sheriff.”

      Brody smiled grimly, tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Here we go again.

      She was lying.

      On the mean streets of Boston, Brody had learned how to read people, learned to watch for the signs, and she definitely showed signs. And this time he wasn’t going to ignore the obvious. She was holding back and not for one second did he believe she’d thought him a random intruder.

      The scratches left by her nails itched, reminding him of her blind terror. He dabbed at his face with a tissue. Tiny spots of red soaked into the material. “So, what has you so spooked?”

      “Are you going to book me, Sheriff McClain?” Her knuckles turned white around the nameplate. “I’m cold and tired. And I don’t want to sit here while you play amateur psychologist.”

      He would have been amused if he hadn’t noticed the fleeting look of disdain in her eyes. She didn’t know the extent of how much psychobabble he could recite or the reasons why. He told himself to forget it, not to offer his help or advice. “You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”

      “This is unbelievable.” Her voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.” Her eyes flared with anger, deepening in color to a dark forest green.

      “How did your husband die?”

      She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward and her fingers flexed around his nameplate.

      “He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.

      Her distress affected him. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored.

      “By whom? Do you think Pete Kinsey killed him?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound harsh.

      Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, her chin lifted and she sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.

      “So what happens now?” she questioned.

      Brody tore his gaze from the slight cleft dimpling the middle of her chin. “You’re my guest until I can verify your story, because as far as I know, Pete Kinsey owns that house.” He stood and motioned her toward the cell. The small, barred cubicle was barren except for a cot, a pillow and a blanket.

      “You’ve got to be kidding!”

      “It’s not the presidential suite, but it’s better than most, and it’s clean.” And safe.

      Those bright green eyes glared at him with haughty indignation that rivaled his younger sister Meghan’s. He smothered a smile.

      Kate moved into the cell and turned her back on him. An unsettling protest nagged at Brody. He didn’t like seeing the petite redhead behind bars. She seemed harmless and innocent, hardly a hardened criminal.

      He took a step and pain shot down his leg, reminding him sharply that appearances could be deceiving. He’d learned his lesson and he’d sworn never again to let a pretty face distract him from his job. He shifted his weight and eased the pain.

      “Here.” Kate slipped the jacket from around her shoulders and shoved it at him. He took