Temptation Calls. Caridad Piñeiro

table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.

      “French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.

      “Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.

      Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”

      “Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”

      Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.

      As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.

      “Would you like some more, Detective?”

      A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”

      “We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.

      “A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”

      “I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”

      “Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”

      “Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”

      “Passersby with two bullets in them?”

      Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”

      He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”

      Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”

      “You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”

      Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

      Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down and act as a witness. Or we can go—”

      “Down to the precinct,” she finished for him even as she reached for the buttons on her blouse.

      “Please turn around, and lower the shirt.”

      She did as he asked, revealing the upper part of her back, unmarred except for a myriad of faint uneven lines. Old scars?

      She gazed at him over her shoulder and he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. There was so much pain, so much fear and anguish in her gaze she couldn’t hide it.

      Without thinking, Peter laid a finger on one of the pale lines. Her skin was as cold as ice.

      She wrenched away from him. “Don’t.” She grasped the opening of her blouse as she whirled to face him.

      Peter took a step back, shocked at his own actions. At what he was feeling about this woman he’d only just met. He’d had enough of women in his life, after all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

      “Do you need anything else, Detective…? Come to think of it, just what is your name?”

      “Daly. Peter Daly from the twenty-third. Who did that to you? Mr. Turner?” Instinctively his hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting punishment on her behalf.

      Anger emanated from him. Samantha cringed and stepped away. “It was a long time ago and I’m over it.” Not that she really was. Her reaction to his touch had proven that. “Please. Just go.”

      He hesitated, clearly troubled, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

      Samantha didn’t know how to read his offer. Had she just gone from suspect to victim? If the former, he’d be back.

      As for the latter, the good detective was obviously a man used to not only dealing with violence, but meting it out when necessary. And more violence was the last thing she needed in her life. “Goodbye, Detective.”

      “Not goodbye, Ms. Turner. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

      Any other woman might have viewed a further visit from the handsome detective with anticipation.

      It was an indication of the state of her undead life that she viewed it with dread.

      Chapter 3

      Samantha Turner was a frickin’ saint. Or at least, that’s what most people believed along the block where the shelter was located. The funny thing was, when asked if they’d had any personal contact with Ms. Turner, most said they’d never seen her. The remainder had only seen her once or twice.

      The one thing they all agreed on was that the area had gotten better in the three years since Samantha had opened the shelter.

      A one-woman frickin’ social improvement campaign.

      Peter didn’t know why he was so annoyed about the supposed sainthood of Samantha Turner. Maybe it was because he knew that behind a woman’s beautiful face and virtuous ways was often a soul filled with deception.

      His ex-wife had been beautiful. She’d been sweet and oh-so-needy of Peter’s attentions. Warm, willing and waiting for him, even when he’d worked the long hours required of a beat cop. He’d been working his way up the ranks so he could provide for a wife and family. Oh, how he’d looked forward to the day when they could have children and buy that home they’d always wanted.

      Peter slapped shut the file on his desk. Glancing into the squad room, he realized no one had even noticed. There was too much going on.

      Just as there had been too much going on in his life for him to notice what his wife was doing when he was gone. Eventually she had walked out on him with her lover and their life savings.

      Beautiful is as beautiful does.

      Samantha Turner was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

      How had she come to be where she was? Who had marked her back with those scars?

      Criminal any way you thought about it. Which meant there had to be a record of it somewhere. With that information, he might get a more complete picture of the enigmatic head of the Artemis Shelter. Maybe that would help him deal with her, know how to get her to open up and provide whatever information she had about the shooting.

      More than anything, Peter wanted to nail those responsible for the killings,