Navy Seal Cop. Cindy Dees

stood up and fished a business card out of his wallet. “Here’s my phone number. Call me if Mr. Hubbard shows up or contacts you. If you think of anything else that might help me locate him, call me any time, day or night.”

      “When do you sleep?” she asked.

      One corner of his mouth curled sardonically. “I don’t.”

      “You’re a cyborg, then?”

      “Something like that.” He had to give her credit. She had a quick wit. When she wasn’t hiding things or scared silly, she was probably an entertaining person to be around. “Don’t worry about waking me up. If you hear from him or think of something, call me right away. Time is the enemy in missing persons cases.”

      She nodded her understanding and reached for his card. Their fingertips brushed and he caught her fast, light inhalation. Attracted to him, was she? Aww, baby. It’s totally mutual.

      An urge to reach out, cup the sweet curve of her cheek in his hand, to lean down and brush those berry lips with his, to whisper in her ear that he would make everything all right, nearly overcame him.

      Damn, she was messing with his head! It must be the fact that he couldn’t have her that was making her so completely irresistible. But he had a hard rule about not dating on the job, and he wasn’t about to break it. Not for her. Not for any woman.

      Not that he actually dated much at all. What with working long hours as a cop and longer hours on the weekends training SEALs, he didn’t exactly have a thriving social life. Throw in the occasional deployment with the SEALs where he could be gone anywhere from a few days to weeks, and it wasn’t worth the effort to try to sustain relationships in between the demands of his twin careers.

      He supposed he technically could be accused of serial dating a long string of women. But he didn’t engage in actual relationships with any of them. At best, a few of them rose to the status of friends with benefits. But he’d learned a long time ago never to give away his heart to anyone. He’d seen the devastation love wrought, and he wanted no part of it.

      He followed Carrie out of her apartment and down to the second-floor landing. “Who lives in this apartment?” he asked, pointing at the locked door there.

      “Gary. The show’s producer rented this whole building for the month we’ll be in town.”

      “Do you have a key to his place?”

      “I do. He’s forever misplacing his keys and locking himself out, so I’m the designated spare key lady.”

      Did she realize that having access to his home made her more of a suspect? It connoted more of a personal connection between them than she’d admitted to so far. The vast majority of abductions, and murders for that matter, were committed by people close to the victim.

      He waited while she fumbled around in her fanny pack and found the spare key to Gary’s apartment.

      She reached out to unlock the door and he forestalled her, grabbing her wrist quickly and saying sharply, “Let me do that.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s unlawful trespassing for you to enter without the owner’s permission. I can legally enter to search the premises in an emergency. And given that we have film of the man being abducted by force, I’d say that qualifies.”

      In reality, he didn’t want her tampering with any evidence that might incriminate her. Not to mention he wanted to make sure there were no hostiles lurking in the abducted victim’s home.

      He stepped in front of her and eased the key into the lock. He turned the knob silently and pushed the door open by slow degrees. No movement on the other side, no sound. No reaction at all. He eased the door further open.

      He gestured for Carrie to stay back and slipped inside the darkened apartment, identical in layout to the one upstairs.

      Hubbard’s apartment smelled like beer and stale pizza and was beyond slovenly. The place looked like it had been tossed. Seat cushions were on the floor, the contents of drawers spilled out, and everything thrown off the shelves. Television was still here, so not a robbery.

      If the place had been searched, it had been a hasty search. A quick once-through looking for something specific. Had whoever tossed it found what they were looking for? It did look like the whole place had been searched, which led him to believe the searcher had not found what he sought.

      He hadn’t sensed any stress at all in Carrie when she handed over the key. His gut was at it again, proclaiming loudly that she hadn’t had anything to do with this ransacking. Shut up, gut.

      It took him under a minute to clear the entire apartment, with just a main room, bedroom and bathroom to check out. It was empty.

      He didn’t spot any clothing, personal items or toiletries to indicate that Miss Price spent any time down here. Again, relief flowed through him. Dammit. He lectured himself forcefully. Not. His. Business.

      He moved back to the entry door and switched on the lights. “He’s not home.”

      “May I come in?”

      “No. I don’t want you to disturb the crime scene.”

      “Crime scene—” She rounded the corner to stand in the doorway and stared inside in dismay. “What happened? It looks like a tornado hit.”

      “I’d say someone searched the place. Could Mr. Hubbard have done this, or was it likely an intruder?”

      “He’s a slob, but he’s not this bad.”

      “From where you’re standing, can you identify any of your employer’s possessions that are missing?”

      She looked around helplessly. “I don’t know.”

      “Okay. I’m coming out and I’ll seal the door until the crime scene guys can get over here and have a look at the place. I’m going to ask them to lift fingerprints and do an inventory of possessions. Maybe they can identify who did this. It’s likely whoever searched this place was involved in Mr. Hubbard’s disappearance.”

      He jogged down to his car and brought back supplies. He pasted a red paper seal to the door and frame, so if anyone opened the door they would break the seal. Then he put a big yellow X of Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape over the entire entrance.

      “I’m the only other person who lives in this building,” she commented after he was done. “You could have just told me not to go inside.”

      Yes, but she was a suspect. He shrugged. “Gotta follow procedure.”

      She walked him down to the street-level exit. He turned to face her and her eyes were big and dark with worry, and maybe fear.

      His gut twisted at the sight of her looking so lost and vulnerable, and he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Try to get at least a little sleep. You will need stamina over the next few days if Mr. Hubbard has, indeed, been kidnapped.”

      If possible, her eyes got even bigger and more worried looking.

      “Call me if you hear anything at all tonight or if you remember something that might help me find your boss. Hell, call me if you’re scared and can’t sleep.”

      She nodded doubtfully.

      “Promise?”

      “I guess.”

      “Promise me,” he repeated. He was making a mistake, to press her like this. He was skirting dangerously close to forming a personal connection with her.

      “All right. I promise.”

      Why in the hell he’d felt compelled to extract that promise from her, he hadn’t the slightest idea. And frankly, he had no desire to examine the impulse any more closely. There was something about her that made him want to protect her.

      Weird. He’d never lived to protect women before. In fact, the women