About That Man. Sherryl Woods

she inspired both. Her skin was flawless, her eyes the color of spring violets.

      “Detective,” she said oh-so-politely, then acknowledged the woman with him with a curt nod and an unmistakable hint of betrayal in her voice. “Frances.”

      Walker had the feeling it was more good manners than Southern hospitality that had her inviting them in. Daisy Spencer was studying him warily, as if she feared he might rob the place if she turned her back. He was used to being regarded with distrust, but that was usually by the bad guys, not by an upstanding citizen. The woman was uptight as hell about something, but darned if he could figure out what it was. Shouldn’t she be relieved that he was coming to see his nephew, that she’d most likely be off the hook if Frances Jackson had her way? Surely all these small-town do-gooders were of the same mind–foist Tommy off on him and end their involvement.

      “Would you care for a cup of tea?” Ms. Spencer asked. Again, her voice was measured, with just a teasing hint of a drawl.

      “That would be lovely,” the social worker said.

      Frances might be content to follow some sort of local protocol, but Walker was impatient to get the reason for the visit out of the way. He had reluctantly agreed to meet Tommy today, see how they did together. Beyond that he’d remained neutral, refusing to commit to anything, despite Mrs. Jackson’s evident expectations. Now that he was here, he just wanted to get the awkward moment over with. He was still shaken by that visit to the cemetery and the finality of seeing a headstone with Beth’s name on it.

      “Where is he?” he asked bluntly, ignoring the offer of tea.

      The question drew a disapproving frown from the woman currently caring for his nephew. Which, in turn, drew attention to a mouth so kissable it made him forget for an instant why he was here. His gaze traveled from that tempting mouth to curves that were barely disguised by a prim white cotton blouse and linen slacks. Discreet gold jewelry flashed at her wrists, and a delicate diamond and sapphire ring winked on one slender finger. Not an engagement ring, he noted with an odd sense of relief. Wrong hand.

      “If you’re referring to Tommy, he’s in the kitchen finishing his supper,” she told him, gesturing vaguely to another part of the small but tastefully furnished house.

      The house hadn’t been exactly what he’d expected, either, given her reported status in town. It was little more than a cottage, really, painted a cheerful yellow, with old-fashioned white Victorian trim. It came complete with a white picket fence, all of it the epitome of a young girl’s dream. Hell, it was on Primrose Lane–how quaint could you get? The tiny front yard was a riot of flowers, even though it was still early spring. Neighboring houses were bigger, more imposing, but none had been cared for more lovingly.

      The inside was tended with just as much care. Walker couldn’t help wondering how long some of Daisy’s expensive porcelain knickknacks would last with a rambunctious boy around. Apparently she wasn’t all that concerned, because she hadn’t hidden them. That raised her a notch in his estimation.

      “Why don’t you and I sit down and get to know each other before I get Tommy?” she suggested.

      She said it in a way that set off a whole lot of wicked images Walker was sure she hadn’t intended. Even so, he frowned. No wonder Frances had kept her questions to a minimum. Apparently she intended to let this woman do her job for her. Walker had other ideas.

      “Ms. Spencer, as much as I would love to get to know you better,” he said, giving her a thorough once-over that brought a blush to her peaches-and-cream complexion, “I’m here to meet my nephew. You and I can go a few rounds another time. Which way’s the kitchen? Through here?”

      He was already heading in that direction when she caught up with him, snagging his arm with a surprisingly firm grip. He glanced down at the pale fingers with their neat, unpolished nails against his thick, tanned forearm and felt an unexpected slam of desire. He swallowed hard and stepped away, but without making any further move toward the kitchen.

      “Detective, perhaps you can bully suspects in Washington, but around here, we have ways of conducting ourselves that meet a higher standard.”

      Walker stared down into those flashing eyes, admiring again that startling shade of amethyst and the fringe of dark lashes. A man could forget himself and his intentions pondering the mysteries of eyes like that. He sincerely regretted that he didn’t have the time to spare. It was getting late, and he wanted to hit the road before dark.

      “Ms. Spencer, you are the second person today to suggest that I’m uncivilized.” He leveled a hard look at her that usually worked quite well during an interrogation. “I’m beginning to take offense.”

      Not so much as an eyelash flickered. “Then prove me wrong.”

      “How?”

      “Talk to me. Tell me about yourself and the life you’re prepared to offer Tommy.”

      He shook his head. “You’re not going to be satisfied till we play Twenty Questions, are you?”

      “Not a chance,” she agreed cheerfully.

      “Then by all means, let’s talk.”

      He followed her into the living room, settled back in a chintz-covered easy chair and kept his gaze pinned to hers. She perched on the edge of the sofa, kept her own gaze perfectly level with his, and began a litany of questions that suggested she’d made a list before his arrival. She started by asking about his parents, where he’d gone to elementary school, what his favorite subjects had been, whether he’d liked sports.

      He grinned at her. “Ms. Spencer, at this rate, it’ll be midnight and we won’t even get to my college years.”

      Her expression brightened. “You went to college, then?”

      “I didn’t think to bring along a copy of my diploma, but yes, I graduated from the University of Virginia.”

      “A fine school,” she said approvingly.

      “Are we finished now?”

      “Not quite. Are you married, Detective Ames?”

      “Not anymore.”

      “I see.” Her mouth pursed ever so slightly. “Any children?”

      “Two boys.”

      “And they live with you?”

      “No, they live with their mother in North Carolina.”

      “I see.”

      There was no question about the disapproval in her eyes now. She flashed a quick look at the social worker, whose expression was carefully neutral.

      “Anything else?” he asked. “Are you interested in my favorite colors? Maybe whether I wear jockey shorts or boxers?”

      Color flamed in her cheeks. “Of course not.”

      “Then I’d like to see my nephew.”

      Unfortunately, Walker was soon to discover, while they’d been wasting time on all those ridiculous questions, Tommy had vanished into thin air. When Daisy at last led them to the kitchen, they found it empty, and there was no sign of Tommy anywhere else in the house or yard.

      Walker cursed his own stupidity. He should have guessed that the woman was stalling so his nephew could make a break for it, though why she should do that was beyond him. It was a diversionary tactic that he’d seen used often enough in his career. Still, he was surprised that Daisy Spencer would flat-out try to thwart this reunion that Frances Jackson was so dead-set on bringing about. Maybe they’d gotten their signals crossed.

      It seemed Frances’ thoughts were running parallel to his own. “Oh, Daisy, what have you gone and done?” she asked, dismay written all over her face.

      “Me?” Daisy said, regarding her incredulously. “You think I hid him?”

      “I know you want him to stay here, but this is not the