Criminally Handsome. Cassie Miles

of guy who’d wear a beat-up leather necklace. His name is Hank Bridger. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Kind of a snazzy dresser.”

      “Fringed jacket? A hat with a rattlesnake band?”

      She gave a surprised nod. “Now who’s the psychic?”

      “I saw him in the Morning Ray Café, talking to the waitress.” He lifted Jack from her shoulder and nuzzled the top of the baby’s head. “Hey, mijo, did you miss me?”

      Jack gurgled and rewarded him with a great, big smile. He was so sweet, so perfect and innocent. If anything happened to him, she’d never forgive herself. “Bridger claimed to be searching for his brother. He gave me something that belonged to the missing man. A hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.”

      “Del Gardo has financial interests in the Centurion.”

      “I didn’t get any particular vibe from the chip.”

      “No problemo. I can.”

      “Get vibes? How?”

      “Fingerprints.” He tucked Jack into the crook of his arm. “Show me the way to your computer. Let’s do some quick research on Hank Bridger.”

      She walked through the living room, turning on lights as she went. At the end of the hallway, she opened the door to her office. Very few people had been inside this room. Not the woman who came in twice a month to clean. Not the sitter who took care of Jack in the mornings.

      Emma had several reasons to keep her work private. If anyone found out what she was really doing at her computer, her financial well-being would be threatened. This secret couldn’t be shared with anyone. Not even Miguel.

      

      AS HE WENT THROUGH her house, Miguel switched his brain to analytical mode, as if studying a crime scene. His work included more than collecting trace evidence. The greater clues often came from objects or decoration or color. He could learn much about Emma by studying her home. His first impression: feminine.

      Even if he had spent way too much time noticing her slender waist and the way her hips flared into a sexy curve, he would have known a woman lived in this house because of the velvet chair, the lampshade with dangling red crystals and the pastel watercolor paintings on the walls. The paintings were signed, maybe originals. Many of the other items looked expensive. He concluded that Emma was a woman of varied tastes and had the money to indulge them.

      Her office was different. Apart from the high-tech equipment, it was as plain as a monk’s cell. No plants. No candles. No photos. Papers were stacked and sorted in bins. One wall, floor to ceiling, was solid books. In an alcove that had probably once been a closet, he saw file cabinets and shelving filled with supplies. Two long desks angled to form an L-shape. One side was a workstation with her desktop computer, scattered notes and books. The other held a printer, scanner, fax and copy machine.

      Her office was designed for real-life, practical business—nothing psychic or weird. Nothing personal.

      “Nice setup,” he commented. “What kind of work do you do?”

      “This and that.”

      An evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “The sheriff said you were a consultant.”

      “That sounds about right.”

      Most people liked to talk about their area of expertise, but her lips pressed together as if holding back. Finding out what she did in this office was the key to understanding a different side to Emma.

      He checked out the titles on the reference books. How to Build a Bomb. Encyclopedia of Firearms. Deciphering Codes.

      “If I had to guess,” he said, “I’d say you were doing consulting work for the Department of Defense.”

      “Why on earth would you think that?”

      “Your reading material looks like you’re planning to take over the world. Or training to be a spy.” The idea of Emma—a woman who wore purple leather—taking on the world of espionage tickled him. “Or maybe you want to be macho.”

      “I’ll leave that to you,” she said as she swept her notes off the desktop and dumped them in the top drawer, which she closed tightly. “Why do you need my computer?”

      He passed the baby to her and took a seat in front of the flat screen and keyboard. “I’ll link with my computer at the lab, using my password. We’ll see if your Hank Bridger has a criminal record.”

      Computers weren’t his specialty, but Miguel knew the basics. Hooking up with the lab computer while he was in the field at a crime scene came in handy. He went through the steps, feeding in Bridger’s name—Hank or Henry—for a nationwide search.

      “Running this data could take a few minutes.”

      He stood and cleared his throat to cover the growling from his empty belly. The last thing he’d eaten was the apple pie at the café. When Emma called, he’d been in the parking lot of the Morning Ray, close enough to smell the rich, hot, spicy chili.

      Food would have to wait. First, he needed to make sure Emma and mijo would be safe for the night. “Do you have a security system on your house? Burglar alarms?”

      “Most of the time, I don’t even lock the doors. Until recently, Kenner City hasn’t been a hotbed of criminal activity.” Parallel worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Can I offer you dinner?”

      Mucho gusto. His stomach danced for joy. “I could eat.”

      “Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll see what I can scare up.”

      He followed her, catching a glimpse through the open door of her bedroom. The wood on the four-poster bed matched the dresser and side tables. More high-quality stuff. Even Jack’s bassinette and changing table were classy. Since he knew she hadn’t inherited money, he assumed that whatever kind of work she did in her office paid her very well.

      She settled Jack into a baby seat on her kitchen table and flipped the switch on the CD player resting on the countertop. Soft music spilled into the room.

      “Classical,” he said.

      “Not my favorite, but I read somewhere that Mozart is recommended for babies.”

      Not for any of the babies he knew, but Miguel didn’t argue. While she dug through her refrigerator, he surveyed the room from a safety standpoint. The back door seemed solid but didn’t have a dead bolt. The three windows looked like they’d been replaced recently and were double-pane. Not that the extra thickness would stop an intruder. If Hank Bridger wanted to get to Emma, those windows wouldn’t be an obstacle.

      “Do you ever worry about getting robbed?” he asked.

      “Not so much. If I’m out of town, I pay someone to house-sit.”

      The only way for Miguel to guarantee she’d be safe would be to stay here himself. The sheriff didn’t have the manpower to provide a bodyguard, and the same was true for the FBI. Law enforcement didn’t get involved in protective custody until after an attack. Then, it was too late.

      She pulled a container from the freezer. “Lasagna?”

      He was starving, and it would take hours to thaw that brick of pasta. “I have a better idea. I’ll make a run to the café and pick up a couple of burritos.”

      “Great idea. Cooking isn’t really my thing.”

      After she shoved the lasagna back into the freezer, she whirled around and beamed an unexpected smile in his direction. The worry in her face disappeared. Her blue eyes shimmered like sunlight on a mountain lake.

      The analytical side of his brain shut down. As he stared at her, he forgot the potential danger that brought him here. The soft piano sonata from the CD player painted the air with soft pastels, like her watercolor paintings—colors that suited a gentle, graceful woman with silky