Change of Life. Leigh Riker

first marriage, he knew, but it was her spouse’s third trip around the matrimonial track, and each time he had downsized in terms of his bride’s age. Earl Whitehouse was a prominent local builder and Royal Palms was his project.

      Talk about career development. Without ever holding a job, Geneva Whitehouse had become an instant multimillionaire.

      In the next breath she knocked him flat again.

      “I hate to say anything against Nora, really. But I saw how determined she was to get my business.” Geneva Whitehouse reported Starr Mulligan’s similar statement, then stopped.

      Caine sighed to himself. Getting a witness to talk could be as hard as bathing Annie’s cat. For another moment she couldn’t go on. Or at least that’s how it appeared to Caine, who felt his anticipation rising with every empty second.

      She tried again. “Nora said—”

      His tone was gentle yet insistent. “Yes, Ms. Whitehouse?”

      “The burglary here is one thing and I’m heartbroken over my vase. But, well, I couldn’t help but overhear. Detective Caine, Nora threatened someone…with murder.”

      Nora stared down at the just-received wedding invitation on her desk and thought of violence. And here she’d imagined she had put her past—her marriage—behind her at last. She reread the formal words.

      Mr. and Mrs. William Baker

       Request the honour of your presence At the marriage of their daughter Heather to Wilson Pride

      The creamy vellum sheet was decidedly stubborn, if an inanimate object had any such quality, or it would have disappeared by now, zapped by Nora’s fervent wish that she hadn’t been included in the guest list. Attend her ex-husband’s wedding? Nora shuddered, but the words on the invitation hadn’t altered, either. She wished she could simply ignore them and the troublesome date that she had tried, only a few months ago, to make sure would never happen.

      She wasn’t proud of herself for attempting to sabotage Wilson’s newest “love of my life,” and now it seemed she had definitely failed.

      Nora leaned around her desk to catch Daisy’s eye. The golden retriever was lying in her usual spot between her and the door to her office. Several months ago, taking into account her lost clients, Nora had been forced to lay off her receptionist, and Daisy had kindly offered to work for free. Three times a week she kept Nora company at work, while supposedly discouraging intruders; in return, Nora dispensed extra doggie treats and kept a Chinese porcelain bowl of cold water on hand in lieu of a salary.

      “Well, Daisy,” she said, “what do you think of Wilson and his bride? It’s a good thing he didn’t ask you to be in the wedding. I would never have forgiven him for that. But does he really think I want to—”

      Nora heard the outer door open.

      Apparently her ears were better than Daisy’s. The dog hadn’t gazed at Nora for more than a second before dropping her head again onto her paws, letting her floppy ears fall over her eyes, and going back to sleep. Now she didn’t move—until Nora’s visitor appeared in her office doorway. Detective Caine, apparently. The policeman had called to say he was dropping by.

      The Walking Wounded, was Nora’s first surprised thought.

      And, for some unknown reason she might never understand, all of the blood drained from her head straight down to her Jimmy Choo pumps. For a second, she swayed in her ergonomic desk chair.

      Quickly, even in her distress, she took inventory of the detective. His rumpled black Dockers, his herringbone jacket, his shirt and tie were good quality and well-tailored but looked uncared for, like the man himself, it seemed. His craggy, hard-jawed face, shadowed by a late afternoon stubble, had seen too much living, Nora felt sure, with a sharp, masculine nose and shrewd yet puppy dog-sad dark eyes. His head of thick, dark hair, with just a hint of distinguished gray at the temples, clearly needed a stylist.

      Yet he drew her gaze again. He reminded Nora of herself right after she had left Wilson and unwillingly struck out on her own, feeling ironically abandoned. She was feeling that now after getting the invitation to his wedding while she was still single and likely to stay that way.

      Nora, the saver of other lost souls ever since her divorce, felt almost sorry for Caine. So did Daisy, apparently.

      The retriever’s eyes opened, then brightened, and her plumy tail began to flap in greeting against the carpet. So much for Daisy’s new career as Nora’s quasi-secretary and protector. The detective smiled a little, then bent down to give Daisy a good scratch behind the ears.

      “Ms. Pride?” he prompted.

      “Yes,” she said. “I’m Nora Pride.”

      “Nice dog.”

      Daisy rolled over for an expert tummy rub, gazing at Calvin Caine like an adoring strumpet. “She certainly seems to like you.”

      Nora smoothed her limp skirt, wishing she’d had time to powder the shine from her nose. She reminded herself that he was a cop and not to underestimate him, though it was clear he liked animals, usually a plus in Nora’s book. Why did he want to talk to her? He hadn’t said, but Nora’s heart did a three-sixty roll. She had a stack of unpaid parking tickets stashed in the glove compartment of her car. Had the department finally tracked her down? Why send a detective?

      He gave the surroundings a cursory yet professional assessment: Nora’s glass-topped desk, the wall of shelves behind it neatly sprinkled with books, a tidy stack of interior design journals and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Then his gaze returned to Nora. He looked her up, then down.

      “I have a few questions,” he said.

      When he stood, Nora inspected his badge, tucked his card away without looking at it and then gave him another careful scrutiny like the one he’d given her. He had a decent build, good shoulders and a straight spine, if not of the same height and breadth as Heath Moran, who still hadn’t bothered to answer her numerous telephone calls.

      Hugh Jackman, she decided of Caine. A more mature Hugh Jackman.

      Then he murmured, “Geneva Whitehouse.”

      Geneva? Almost before Nora could take in the name, the questions came at her like bullets. This wasn’t about parking tickets. When had Nora left Geneva’s house yesterday? Who could vouch for her whereabouts last night?

      “I was home, alone.” Perversely, considering the situation, Nora wished he would smile. She’d like to see what he looked like then, because she suspected he didn’t smile often. Or maybe she was trying to divert herself from her obsessive study of the wedding invitation a few minutes ago—that is, until he brought up Starr. And the apparently missing vase.

      “Yes,” Nora admitted, “I did see Starr yesterday.”

      He had picked up on her cool tone. “You’re not friends.”

      “I didn’t say that. We’re, well, more than acquaintances. We’re competitors in interior design.” Oh, you bet. Nora had barely been out the door yesterday before Geneva Whitehouse called to inform her that she’d chosen Starr to do the work on her home. The sudden decision had wounded Nora, but she tried not to show it. “Ours is a small world, Detective Caine. One can’t afford to make enemies.”

      “Would you call Ms. Mulligan an enemy?”

      Nora felt her cheeks heat. Before she knew it, they were as hot as a pancake griddle, and she could sense the blood rushing through her veins, centering in her chest and making her feel breathless. Nora fought the strong urge to fan herself with Wilson’s invitation. Her skin must look as red as fire. Dear God, she was having another of those flushes, worse than before. Caine’s fault. That alone was enough to make her dislike him.

      “Starr and I may have had words a time or two, bless her heart. She doesn’t have the best…disposition. But we both know where our bread is buttered.” She had formed a small lie,