Jackson's Woman. Maggie Price

if sensing her thoughts, Jackson shifted his stance, met her gaze. His eyes held hers for a long moment, then dropped to the hand she held pressed against her ribs. A frown line formed between his dark brows.

      A tightness settled in Claire’s chest. Was he measuring her the way she had him? Searching for physical changes in the woman who’d called it quits and left him after a passionate affair that had lasted only a handful of months?

      “Claire?”

      Halting beside the pedestal table, she shifted her gaze to her friend. “Yes?”

      “We’re wrapping things up downstairs,” Liz said as she stepped farther into the apartment. Tall and leggy, she wore black slacks and a turquoise blazer that nipped her thin waist. As usual, her ginger-gold hair was plaited in a tight French braid.

      Claire was aware of Jackson moving to stand a few feet away in front of the fireplace. Propping a shoulder against the mantel, he crossed his arms over his chest.

      A whiff of the familiar spicy tang of his aftershave reached her. Claire set her jaw against the quick clutching in her belly. Her body was simply reacting to a known stimulus, she told herself. Nothing more.

      Still, his scent had her mind scrolling backward in time. It had been summer when he’d first walked into Home Treasures. She’d just been a sales clerk when she looked up and saw a tall, intense man stride through the doorway. While he explained he needed a wedding gift for a co-worker, she had felt the sexual attraction sparking between them, running like a sizzling conduit beneath the surface of every word they exchanged. The way Jackson’s eyes had deepened, darkened, verified he felt it, too. They went out to dinner that night. And the next. Days later, Claire linked her fingers with his while they climbed the stairs to this very apartment. They’d cranked the air conditioning to arctic, lit a fire and made love for hours while flames danced on the logs.

      And when the task force had disbanded and he’d asked her to go with him, she’d said yes. Because she’d been so crazy in love she couldn’t bear to think about living her life without Jackson Castle in it.

      It had taken six months to learn that making life-altering decisions based on one’s hormones was for the young and foolish. She was older now. Wiser. More practical. Never again would she put aside her own needs so rashly.

      Her throat dry, she switched her mental focus to what Liz was saying.

      “…and we dusted for prints only on the displays where things weren’t in the same place you said they’d been yesterday evening when you closed the shop. I asked the lab guys to be careful with the fingerprint powder, but you still have a mess to clean up.”

      Claire pictured the blood that had pooled from beneath poor Silas Smith’s head. She had more than just fingerprint powder to deal with. “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight so cleaning the shop will give me something to do.”

      Her gaze concerned, Liz squeezed Claire’s arm. “My partner and I will be back in the morning to interview the square’s other business owners. Maybe one of them caught a glimpse of someone hanging around outside your shop. In the meantime, call me if you think of anything else that might be important. Or if you discover anything missing from the building.”

      “All right.” In reflex, Claire shifted her hand from the ache in her ribs to her throat. “Liz, do you have any idea at all who killed Silas?”

      “Not yet. The alarm company says your system was deactivated using your code, so it’s possible the suspect entered the shop after Mr. Smith turned off the alarm when he came in to do the repairs you wanted done. That’s the most likely scenario.”

      “Do you have an unlikely one?”

      “It’s possible the suspect somehow obtained your code fraudulently, or had electronic equipment capable of cloning the code and disabling the system. Later, the victim walked in on him.” Liz checked her notepad. “You’re sure the only person other than yourself and Mr. Smith who has your alarm code is Charles?”

      “Positive.” Charles McDougal was much more to Claire than just Home Treasures’ previous owner. When she was ten, she had come here to live with her aunt, and Charles and his late wife—who’d lived in the apartment across the hall—had opened their hearts to her.

      Over the years, he had taught Claire all he knew about antiques. He’d helped send her to college, kept the apartment vacant for her when she’d run off with Jackson, and he’d welcomed her home when she’d returned with her heart broken.

      Claire swallowed hard against that painful memory. “I always call Charles and let him know when I change my alarm code in case he drives through town when I’m not here.”

      When Liz frowned, Claire added, “You know how concerned Charles is about my safety. There’s no way he’d give my code to anyone.”

      “Not on purpose,” Liz agreed. “I still need to make sure he didn’t write down the latest code and leave it lying around where someone could see it. Do you know where he is now?”

      Claire shook her head. The day the crusty widower had sold her the building and the shop’s contents, he’d fired up his RV and taken off, vowing to stop at every antique shop, estate sale and flea market in the country.

      “He called about a week ago from southern California. You should be able to reach him on his cell,” Claire added and recited the number.

      Liz slid her pad into a pocket. She looked at Jackson with the hard eyes of a cop, then shifted her gaze back to Claire.

      “Special Agent Castle is here because he has a very different theory about the break-in and murder. Since I need to coordinate things with my partner and the lab guys, I’ll let him explain it to you.”

      Instead of turning to go, Liz slid an arm around Claire’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “I figure finding old Silas dead is just one of the shocks you’ve had tonight,” she whispered.

      Claire nodded. The other shock—Jackson’s pres-ence—was something to be discussed in detail later, girlfriend-to-girlfriend.

      The cell phone clipped to Liz’s waistband rang. She answered the call, spoke a few words then hung up. “Everything’s done downstairs.”

      Claire pulled her keys from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll walk you out and lock up.”

      She led the way down the inside stairway, acutely aware of Jackson trailing behind her and Liz.

      At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the small room she used as an office stood open. Wordlessly, Claire passed by her tidy desk and file cabinet, then stepped into the shop where the lights blazed. She turned down one of the narrow aisles bordered by cloth-covered tables and display cases loaded with candlesticks, crystal bowls and vases. When she passed by the spot where she’d found poor Silas, her gaze lowered to the hardwood floor. The sight of the pool of dried blood had her stomach clenching while the apple-and pine-scented air cloyed in her lungs.

      “Claire?” The deep timbre of Jackson’s voice registered up and down her spine.

      Pausing, she glanced across her shoulder. “Yes?”

      “You still keep the cleaning supplies in the closet behind the main counter?”

      She nodded. Did the man ever forget anything? “I don’t expect you to help me clean.”

      “It’ll go faster with two of us.” He veered off toward the waist-high counter while she and Liz moved to the front door.

      There, Liz turned, her eyes crimped with concern. “Look, I know what this guy once meant to you, but I’m a homicide cop and I don’t take anyone at face value.”

      Claire felt her face pale. “You don’t suspect Jackson…?”

      “Not now that I’ve grilled him and checked out his credentials with the State Department.” Liz flicked a look back at the closet behind the counter. “Considering