“I’m just telling you the marks were there, on the door.”
“But anybody could’ve broken in, and for a variety of reasons.”
“It’s just something Huff should’ve considered.”
He rolled onto his back, and the muscles in his arms bulged beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt as he linked his hands behind his head. “He did consider what he found—it was my daughter’s blood. What are the chances of being framed for a crime like that?”
Jasmine tried not to notice the appealing spectacle he made—powerful and warm as he watched her from beneath those dark lashes. “Unlikely, but not impossible.”
“Huff doesn’t trust Black.”
“That doesn’t mean Black’s lying about this.”
“It means he’s probably lying.” The bed creaked as he shifted again, this time punching up his pillows. “You said the body was in Moreau’s cellar.”
“That’s right.”
Romain didn’t say anything for a moment. When he did, his words sounded like they’d been forced through his teeth. “Was it a child?”
Jasmine nearly reached out to touch him, to console him if she could, but she felt too helpless in the face of his grief, a grief she read in every line of his body.
“No. A man. He died violently—I could sense that a struggle had taken place.”
“A recent struggle?”
“It wasn’t a fresh kill. I’m guessing it happened five, six years ago.”
That was better somehow, better for him. But it still wasn’t good news for anyone. “So what does that tell you?” he said, and sat up. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Maybe it was his injuries, but Jasmine suspected it had more to do with her presence in his bed. They were too aware of each other on a sexual level.
“That there’s more to this than we originally thought,” she said. “Who called in the tip about Moreau carrying a large bundle into the house the night Adele was taken?”
“The neighbor across the street. A woman by the name of Tracy Cooper.”
Jasmine hadn’t seen any activity at that house. “Do you know if she still lives in the same place?”
“I have no idea. Until you showed up, I was trying to put this behind me. I hadn’t even talked to Huff, until yesterday.”
“You called him?”
“I wanted to ask about you.”
“What’d he say?”
“That you’re desperate enough to do or say anything if it’ll help you find your sister.”
“That was nice of him,” she said.
“He thinks you’re faking the psychic thing, that you’re a fraud,” he added.
She confronted that kind of skepticism almost every day of her life, and not just from strangers, either. It went with the territory. But it was never easy, and hearing it from Romain bothered her more than usual. “What do you think?” she asked, bristling.
“I think you aren’t going to find your sister by reinvestigating Adele’s case,”he said. “Regardless of the details, Moreau was a murderer. The body you found should tell you that much. He’s gone. Whether you agree with what I did or not, I’ve done my time. It’s over. Let it go before you get yourself into more trouble.”
He was still “doing his time.” But she saw no need to say that. “If it was really over, there’d be no danger to me or anyone else,” she said instead.
He pressed a finger and thumb to his closed eyes. “Why won’t this go away?”
He was talking to himself, but she answered. “Because, like I said, there’s more.”
“More what?” he demanded, dropping his hand.
She pulled her knees close to her body, hugging them to her chest—and his eyes immediately fell to the wide legs of her boxers and the bare thigh they revealed.
“More secrets. More lies. More guilt,” she said, trying to keep her mind on the discussion. “Why else would someone try to kill me simply for looking around a cellar?”
He blew out a sigh. “What about the dead guy?”
She was losing her focus, concentrating on the shape of Romain’s lips. He had nice lips, lips that made her think of what he’d done to her in that shower fantasy….
“What about him?”
“Do you have any idea who he might be?”
“No clue. The police might, but—” she frowned “—my name hasn’t been added to their phone tree. Even if someone tried to call, they wouldn’t be able to reach me. Whoever stole my purse has my cell phone, too.”
“You can’t get service down here, anyway.” His gaze flicked over her bare legs once again. “Why’d you come to me?”
“This was the only place I could think of that felt safe.” She tried to discreetly lower her legs, but she wasn’t wearing a bra, and that soon became as much of a distraction as her legs had been. “You’re staring,” she finally pointed out.
“Do you mind?”
Jasmine recognized his arousal, but she sensed negative emotion, too. It was her emotional history that bothered him—and the fact that he wanted her but wished he didn’t. “I’d like it better if you weren’t angry.”
His eyebrows drew together. “I’m not angry.”
He’d lived with that emotion for so long, he probably wasn’t even aware of it anymore. “Would you rather I left?” she asked.
“No. You know what I’d rather you did.” His voice grew rough. “The question is whether or not you’re as interested as I am.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Coming to her knees, she inched closer to him. The wariness that entered his face told her how hesitant he was to trust her. He reminded her of a wild animal, watching the advance of a human. When she smoothed the hair off his forehead, she almost expected him to flinch or knock her hand away. He was so ready to close himself off, protect himself. But he didn’t. He let her touch him, let her kiss his temple, his cheek, his lips. Was he remembering what such tenderness felt like?
“Be careful,” he warned as her fingers delved into his hair.
“I won’t touch your injuries.”
“I’m not worried about my injuries.” He spoke so close to her mouth their lips actually touched. “I’m warning you not to start this unless you’re willing to finish.