The Passion Of Sam Broussard. Maggie Price

to the CSI in your lab who ran the DNA profile from the tissue found inside the Colt. The profile isn’t complete yet, but the blood type doesn’t match the marine’s.”

      “So, there was a third person at the crime scene.”

      “The killer.” Liz added the reports Broussard had given her to the folder.

      “What’s your game plan?” Broussard asked. “Who do you talk to first?”

      Liz pursed her lips. Broussard wasn’t acting like an off-duty cop, itching to start his vacation. “An interview with David York. He was an attorney thirty years ago when he reported the Colt stolen during a burglary of his residence.”

      “Any suspects in the burglary?”

      “More than just a suspect. Patrol cops nabbed a guy who worked a deal for reduced jailtime by confessing to over one hundred burglaries. York’s was one of them. Since his Colt wound up in your jurisdiction, I imagine you’re going to want to take a close look at the burglar to see if you can link him to any old crimes in Shreveport.”

      Broussard nodded. “You’re reading my mind. You said York was an attorney thirty years ago.”

      “He’s a federal judge now. I have an appointment to see him this morning in his chambers.” Liz checked her watch, saw it was nearly time to head to the courthouse. “So, Broussard, are you ready to go to the property room?”

      “Sure,” he said, but made no move to stand.

      “Not to be inhospitable, but aren’t you in a hurry to get on with your vacation?”

      “No.” He rose, his gaze locked on her face.

      “No?” She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until an odd wave of emotion tightened her chest. “Why not?”

      “Your case has snagged my interest. And I’d much rather spend time sitting in on your interview with Judge York than get on with a vacation I have no interest in taking.”

      She studied him, trying to get his measure. “My session with York is just standard operating procedure. A cold case gets reopened, everyone involved has to be reinterviewed.”

      “I’m familiar with investigative procedures, Sergeant.” He tossed his empty coffee cup into the waste-basket beside her desk, then turned back to face her. “You have a problem with my observing your interview?”

      Liz refused to wither beneath his flinty stare. And her problem, she thought when the pulse in her throat started throbbing, seemed to be Broussard’s effect on her hormones.

      Wonderful.

      “I don’t have a problem, Detective,” she said coolly. “You recovered the murder weapon, which makes you a principal in this case. You want to spend your free time working instead of relaxing, that’s fine by me.” She lifted a brow in subtle challenge. “Just remember who’s in charge of this investigation.”

      One corner of his brooding mouth quirked, just a little. The smile, if that’s what it was, didn’t reach his eyes. “Something tells me if I did forget, you’re more than capable of taking me down a notch.”

      “More than one,” Liz countered, biting off the words. She grabbed her tote, annoyed that just the deep timbre of Broussard’s voice made her feel as if she were plugged into a two-twenty line.

      Chapter 2

      Sam Broussard wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. He could maybe write off his hinky feeling over the Colt to a cop’s instinct, but that still didn’t explain the sense of familiarity he’d felt the instant he saw Liz Scott.

      Then there was the close-to-electric sensation he’d felt when they shook hands. Something was going on, and he was damn well going to figure out what it was.

      So, here he sat at a hubcap-size table in the coffee shop at the Oklahoma City federal courthouse, waiting to observe the cold case cop’s interview with a judge who’d gotten held up in a hearing that had run long.

      Sam slid his gaze to Liz Scott, who sat beside him sipping coffee while she reviewed the details of the judge’s thirty-year-old burglary report. She had some face, Sam reflected. No man could ever forget that flawless skin, the sculpted nose and direct green eyes.

      Which was why he was positive now they had never met. So why had he been hit with the wave of recognition?

      Maybe it was because he’d known other women who exuded the same sensuality she did. Other women who could pull a man in with a single look. Or he could be doing what he’d done since he was a boy—feeling certain he’d met someone before when doing so would have been impossible. His grandmother often declared that he experienced the hazy sense of familiarity because it was in his blood.

      There’d been a time in his past that Sam had discounted his grandmother’s herb bags, crystals and the spirit bottles she hung in trees, and just accepted her as the lovable eccentric who’d raised him after his parents died in a car wreck. That was before Tanya came along. Sam knew for the rest of his life he would feel a raw ache over the casual way he’d ignored his grandmother’s portending of doom.

      He tightened his grip on his coffee mug and shifted his dark thoughts to the woman sitting beside him. How the hell could she be in his blood when she’d gotten married two weeks ago? He had never poached on another man’s woman and he wasn’t about to start now. Still, he couldn’t help imagining himself slowly sliding each pin from Liz’s thick braid until that fiery mane tumbled down her back.

      The thought put a knot in his chest. Tanya had had red hair, too, but not the same shade as Liz Scott’s. He’d plunged his fingers through Tanya’s hair uncountable times. Then, over the years, their marriage had gone to hell. He’d wound up hurt and angry and hadn’t even wanted to touch her.

      Then he’d as good as gotten her killed.

      Since then, he’d worked relentlessly. His job was all he had, all he’d wanted. All he would ever allow himself to want.

      At that instant, Liz lifted her gaze and looked him right in the eyes. Damn if he didn’t feel a jolt go straight through him. He hadn’t seen big, smoldering green eyes like that since—

      Since he didn’t know when.

      “J. D. Temple hit the jackpot when he broke into York’s home,” Liz said. “In addition to the Colt, the loot stolen included a large coin collection, high-dollar jewelry, loose diamonds and numerous serving pieces of solid silver.”

      Sam squinted past her shoulder at the poor-quality microfilm copy of the burglary report. “York’s law practice must have done pretty well back then.”

      “That, and he’s an author. He’s written several books on the English legal system, and is considered an expert on medieval law. He still lives in the same house he did thirty years ago, which is in the snooty part of town.”

      Her dry use of the term had Sam’s mouth curving, even while his senses ran wild with her alluring scent. She smelled good, like the flowers that bloomed in his grandmother’s garden at night.

      He didn’t want to notice Liz’s scent any more than he wanted to notice the slender arch of her throat. Or any of the other attributes he found impossible to ignore. Because he couldn’t help himself, he drew an appreciative breath and felt the knockout punch of desire. Don’t go there, he cautioned himself and forced his thoughts back to the three-decades-old burglary.

      “Did any of Temple’s other victims live in the snooty part of town?”

      “The majority of the one hundred burglaries he confessed to were within five miles of the judge’s house.”

      “So, Temple was a discerning thief.” Sam sipped his coffee. “In the property we recovered at the bust in Shreveport, there were a lot of pieces of silver—coffee services, trays, vases. Also jewelry and coins. The judge’s Colt wound up there. I wonder if