All A Man Can Ask. Virginia Kantra

smiled. “Anything missing?”

      “I—” She did a quick survey of her dressertop, jerked open the drawer that held her jewelry. She stared at the tangle of silver chains and colored stones and dangly earrings, all of it pretty and none of it very valuable. “I don’t think so.”

      “Too bad.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I’d feel better if you got ripped off.”

      She stiffened with outrage and embarrassment. “I’m sorry if you feel I wasted your time.”

      His mouth compressed. “You didn’t waste my time, cream puff. You definitely had an intruder. I looked at your frame. The door was forced. But if you didn’t get robbed, we have to assume whoever broke in was looking for something.”

      “Like what?”

      He shrugged. “Like me. Maybe somebody was checking for ID.”

      She did not want to be involved. “Why would someone do that?”

      “Could be somebody around here isn’t comfortable with strangers. Could be they made me as a cop.”

      “That would explain why you were on my deck with your gun drawn shouting, ‘Police,’” she said dryly.

      Chagrin drew his brows together. “Yeah, well, let’s hope they missed that. Your bad guys were probably off the premises by then.”

      “I still don’t understand why they would search my cottage if they were looking for you.”

      “They might have hoped to find my star or my gun. But I’m carrying those. Or they could’ve been after some sign that I’m really living here with you.”

      “But you’re not,” she protested.

      His eyes met hers, dark and direct. “Then we’ve got a problem, don’t we?”

      Chapter 4

      She was not going to panic.

      He couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do. Faye met Aleksy’s hard, implacable gaze. Her stomach flopped. Could he?

      In her best teacher voice, she said, “I’d feel more comfortable if we continued this discussion somewhere other than my bedroom.”

      He grinned, and her stomach flip-flopped again. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

      “What I want is for this whole situation to go away,” she said. “But that’s not going to happen, is it?”

      He looked briefly regretful. “Probably not,” he admitted.

      Even though she was expecting his answer, it came as a blow. She tried not to flinch. “Okay.” She tugged the door shut behind him and led the way back to her living room studio, trying to get control of herself and the situation. “Then the more pertinent question is, what do I have to do?”

      “Call the police.”

      She stopped. “You’re police.”

      “This isn’t my jurisdiction.”

      “But if nothing’s been stolen—”

      “You should still call it in. You notify the local police department, they can beef up patrols, file a report, maybe dust for fingerprints.”

      “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” The realization sharpened her voice. “You want to find out who was here without it looking like you’re the one who wants to know.”

      He didn’t deny it.

      She felt slightly sick. Used. “You said I wouldn’t be involved.”

      “You’re already involved.”

      “Because someone thought you were living here,” she insisted. “Now they know you’re not.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “If they know that, then they have to think you were lying. And they’re going to wonder why.”

      She stared at him, her stomach churning.

      “Call the police,” he said again, his voice gentle. “See what the chief says.”

      She remembered the smooth voice over the phone. “He’s your brother. He’ll say whatever you want him to.”

      Aleksy shook his head. “Jarek’s one of the good guys. He’ll do whatever he thinks he has to to protect you.”

      Police chief Jarek Denko was like his voice, polite, controlled and serious. He arrived within ten minutes of Faye’s call. A female officer, lean and graceful as a greyhound on a leash, stalked beside him. Aleksy went down the steps to meet them.

      Faye watched from the porch as they communicated in terse phrases and unspoken signals, as foreign to her as if they really were the animals they resembled. Sniff, sniff, wag, wag, growl. A bubble of amusement rose in her throat.

      And then they turned in a pack to face her and she swallowed hard.

      “Miss Harper?” The chief of police was a more compact version of his brother, equally intense and almost ten years older. Aleksy’s eyes were dark as coffee. Jarek’s were light as frost. “I’m Jarek Denko. We spoke on the phone.”

      It was stupid to feel breathless. “Yes, I—I know.”

      He smiled Aleksy’s smile, with more understanding and less edge. She wasn’t reassured, but she caught herself smiling back. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

      “Oh. No. Please.” She retreated to the living room and dropped into a chair, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

      The chief sat forward on Aunt Eileen’s comfortable, ugly couch, his notebook balanced on his knee. Aleksy propped against the fireplace, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on her face.

      Faye straightened her spine. Ridiculous to feel as if she were a troublemaker called to the principal’s office. But she did.

      She hadn’t done anything wrong, she reminded herself. But it didn’t matter. She hadn’t been wrong to recommend Jamal for an art scholarship, either, and she’d still had to face a reprimand from the principal.

      “Just a few routine questions,” Jarek said. “Baker, why don’t you see what that door will tell us.”

      The young female officer sprang to the sliding doors and pulled out a flashlight. Faye watched as she angled the beam one way and another.

      “Latents?” Aleksy asked.

      Officer Baker, her long, dark hair pulled back smoothly from her narrow face, looked to her chief, clearly waiting for his command.

      “Dust it,” Jarek ordered. “Now, Miss Harper…”

      Faye did her best to answer his questions, trying to ignore the young woman shaking fine black powder off a fat black brush all over her aunt’s door frame, and Aleksy, alive and restless by the fireplace.

      “And that’s when you went to find Alex?” Jarek prompted.

      “Yes,” Faye said. “I was—just a little nervous.”

      Not nervous, she thought miserably. Cowardly.

      “Not nervous,” Aleksy corrected her. “Smart.”

      Jarek turned his head and regarded his brother. “And what were you doing on Miss Harper’s property?”

      “Fishing.”

      “Do you have a license?”

      Aleksy straightened away from the mantel. “What?”

      “A license,” Jarek repeated, deadpan. “To fish.”

      “Bite me,” Aleksy said.

      Jarek