In Harm's Way. Lyn Stone

the glass wall through which they both could see Robin.

      “No. She might have to be in town for a good while and that could get expensive. Thought maybe I’d try to find something a little more reasonable for her. Sandy’s apartment is empty.”

      Hunford raised one bushy brow. “That’d keep her handy, I guess. You think she’s a flight risk?”

      Mitch shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t mind keeping an eye on her for a while.”

      Hunford studied him for a minute. “Might not be a bad idea if you or somebody did that.” He held up his finger again. “And, Winton?”

      “Yessir?”

      “Don’t shoot anybody else if you can help it. And for goodness sake, don’t get personally involved with the suspect.”

      “You ever known me to do that kind of thing?” He hid his exasperation and left before he said something he shouldn’t.

      Don’t get personally involved with the suspect? However, the boss did have an excellent reason to issue such a warning, Mitch admitted to himself. He just hadn’t thought his interest was that obvious. Hell, he’d just been polite to her. There were no longing looks or unnecessary touching in that interview room. Nothing suggestive at all. He’d been very careful of that.

      As he approached Robin Andrews now, Mitch was struck anew by that fawnlike vulnerability wrapped in such a deceptive package of striking sophistication. He knew he was going to have to watch himself as closely as he watched her.

      The way she looked, she shouldn’t need to fear anything. The world should lay itself at her feet and wait to be walked on. But the outer package was camouflage, Mitch knew. Inside there was a young woman who needed someone to take care of her. To care about her. He could do that temporarily without going off the deep end.

      Mitch puffed out an exasperated breath, stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. Even knowing what he might have to face later, he still couldn’t bring himself to send her out into a strange city all alone.

      “Let’s go, Ms. Andrews,” he said, accepting the inevitable. He wouldn’t get involved, damn it. Not exactly. He’d just make sure she had a place to stay. Nobody could argue she needed that, and there was no one else who would see about it.

      “I know where there’s a furnished apartment. One bedroom with a kitchenette in an old Victorian,” he told her. “Actually, a friend of mine left me the key, and plans to be away for the next couple of months. You could sort of sublet if you’re interested. There wouldn’t be a lease or anything to fool with. Rent’s next to nothing. Much less than a hotel will be if this runs on for a week or so.”

      It would be considerably longer than a week, almost surely, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that now.

      “No, thank you. I would prefer a hotel. The expense is no problem,” she said.

      Mitch smiled. “I’d feel better knowing you were in a safe place. The Captain said I should make sure you were okay until we catch the shooter.”

      She still looked doubtful.

      “Come on, it’s a nice apartment. Cozy. How ’bout it?”

      “All right, thank you. That would be fine,” she murmured. “Does this mean you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with James’s death?”

      “It means that after I complete the report and hand it over, I’m off the case. Detective Taylor, that young sergeant you met earlier, will be in charge. Right now, I’m just trying to get you settled.”

      She got up and adjusted the strap of her expensive leather handbag over her shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you, Detective Winton.”

      “Don’t mention it,” he answered with a fatalistic shrug. “And you might as well call me Mitch if we’re going to be neighbors.”

      “Neighbors?” she repeated with a look of concern.

      “That’s right,” he confirmed. He opened the door for her, and they walked side by side through the parking area to his old brown Bronco.

      The rigid set of her shoulders slackened, and she sighed with relief when she saw they were not returning to the unmarked car he’d used to bring her there. He opened the front passenger door and she got in. Thought she was home free, he guessed, and wished to God it were true.

      No, he was not behaving professionally by wishing that, but figured he had better be fully aware of it so that he could act accordingly. He was attracted to her, felt protective toward her and, consequently, had the overwhelming urge to prove her innocence. His objectivity, if he’d ever had any with regard to her, was completely shot to hell.

      Traffic was almost nonexistent in the wee hours. Mitch automatically kept a check on their surroundings and the rearview mirror. The habit was so ingrained it was annoying sometimes. Most of the time he did it without even thinking.

      “Nashville looks like a nice city judging by the little I’ve seen of it,” she said softly. “I’ve never been here before.”

      Mitch glanced over, taking in her profile. She was wearing a small, sad smile, probably thinking about her husband and what he’d told her about the town. She needed distracting. “You stated your occupation is graphic designer. What exactly do you do design?”

      “Web pages for businesses,” she answered. “I’ve always been fascinated with computers.”

      “Sounds like a perfect job for you, then,” he said, wishing he knew more about computers so he could discuss them intelligently. “I know how to log on at work and access the info I need, that’s about it. You know, I actually had you pegged as a model?”

      “I used to be, but I outgrew it.” From her curt answer, Mitch concluded she definitely didn’t want to elaborate.

      “Thanks for trying to take my mind off…things,” she said. “You’re very kind for a stranger.”

      “‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,’” he quoted. “Blanche DuBois, Streetcar Named Desire.”

      “Oh, come on,” she said, with a surprised little laugh. “She was such a wimp!”

      “I didn’t mean to imply that about you. What you said just reminded me of the phrase. You like old movies?”

      “Sometimes. Books are better.”

      “I guess,” he said, bringing that particular conversation to a dead end. He rarely had time to read, other than for additional training or information. He liked to, but if he couldn’t sit down with a book and finish it in one sitting, he didn’t pick one up.

      “So,” he said, broaching another subject as he turned onto the loop and snaked his way around the city, “I guess New Yorkers keep to a much faster pace than we do down here.”

      “Evidently,” she said dryly without elaborating.

      Mitch smiled. “Never rush when we can take our time. Never run unless somebody’s chasing us.”

      He heard a short laugh of surprise, then a soft little “Sorry. I did sound condescending, didn’t I?”

      “No problem. Being underestimated works mostly to our advantage. Mine, anyway.”

      “I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she said, but without any asperity.

      Mitch hadn’t meant it as a warning. Or had he? Was he subconsciously trying to prepare her for the fact that he wouldn’t cut her any slack if she was lying about killing Andrews? This second-guessing himself was driving him nuts.

      “Will you be all right?” he asked, shoving his self-analysis to the back burner. “Financially, I mean. What about your work?”

      “I can function just as well from here, assuming I can have my laptop back.”

      “Back?