silk-screened peace sign stretched across her braless chest, to the bare toes peeking out from the flared legs of her low-slung pants.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She said it as an excuse for her appearance, but Thorne didn’t seem to mind. In fact, as his attention came back to her face, Gabrielle felt a sudden flush of heat fill her cheeks for the way he was looking at her.
Like he wanted to devour her where she stood.
“Oh, you have my cell phone,” she said, blurting out the obvious when she spotted the gleam of silver metal in his big hand.
He held it out to her. “Later than intended. My apologies.”
Was it her imagination, or did his fingers deliberately brush hers as she took the device from his grasp?
“Thanks for returning it,” she said, still caught in the hold of his gaze. “Were you, ah…were you able to do anything with the images?”
“Yes. They were very helpful.”
She exhaled a sigh, relieved to hear that the police might, at last, be on her side in this. “Do you think you’ll be able to catch the guys in the photos?”
“I’m certain of it.”
His tone was so dark, she didn’t doubt him for a second. Actually, she was getting the feeling that Detective Thorne was a bad guy’s worst nightmare.
“Well, that’s great news. I’ve got to admit, this whole thing has been making me a little jumpy. I guess witnessing a brutal murder will do that to a person, right?”
He gave her only the barest nod of agreement. A man of few words, evidently, but then who needed conversation when you had soul-stripping eyes like his?
To her relief and annoyance, from behind her in the kitchen, the oven timer started beeping. “Shit. That’s, um—that’s my dinner. I’d better grab it before the smoke alarm goes off. Wait here for a sec—I mean, do you want to—?” She took a calming breath, unused to being so rattled by anyone. “Come in, please. I’ll be right back.”
Without hesitation, Lucan Thorne stepped inside the apartment as Gabrielle turned to set down her cell phone and liberate her manicotti from the oven.
“Am I interrupting something?”
She was surprised to hear him in the kitchen with her so quickly, as if he had been silently on her heels from the instant she invited him in. Gabrielle lifted the pan of steaming pasta out of the oven and set it down on the range top to cool. She stripped off her hot mitts and turned to give the detective a proud grin.
“I’m celebrating.”
He cocked his head to regard the quiet space around them. “Alone?”
She shrugged. “Unless you want to join me.”
The mild incline of his chin seemed guarded, but he removed his dark coat and draped it over the back of a counter stool. He was a peculiar, distracting presence, all the more so now that he was standing in her small kitchen—this heavily muscled stranger with the disarming gaze and slightly sinister good looks. He leaned back against the counter and watched her attend to the bubbling dish of baked pasta. “What are we celebrating, Gabrielle?”
“I sold some of my photographs today, in a private showing at a chichi corporate office downtown. My friend Jamie called about an hour ago with the news.”
Thorne smiled faintly. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She pulled an extra glass from the cupboard, then held up her opened bottle of chianti. “Would you like some?”
He shook his head slowly. “Regretfully, I cannot.”
“Ah. Sorry,” she said, reminding herself of his profession. “On duty, right?”
A muscle jumped in his strong jaw. “Always.”
Gabrielle smiled, reaching up to hook some of her loose, curling hair behind her ear. Thorne’s gaze followed the movement, and narrowed on the small scratch that marred her cheek.
“What happened to you?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied, not thinking it was a good idea to tell a cop how she spent part of the morning trespassing out at the old asylum. “Just a scrape—hazard of the job from time
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She said it as an excuse for her appearance, but Thorne didn’t seem to mind. In fact, as his attention came back to her face, Gabrielle felt a sudden flush of heat fill her cheeks for the way he was looking at her.
Like he wanted to devour her where she stood.
“Oh, you have my cell phone,” she said, blurting out the obvious when she spotted the gleam of silver metal in his big hand.
He held it out to her. “Later than intended. My apologies.”
Was it her imagination, or did his fingers deliberately brush hers as she took the device from his grasp?
“Thanks for returning it,” she said, still caught in the hold of his gaze. “Were you, ah…were you able to do anything with the images?”
“Yes. They were very helpful.”
She exhaled a sigh, relieved to hear that the police might, at last, be on her side in this. “Do you think you’ll be able to catch the guys in the photos?”
“I’m certain of it.”
His tone was so dark, she didn’t doubt him for a second. Actually, she was getting the feeling that Detective Thorne was a bad guy’s worst nightmare.
“Well, that’s great news. I’ve got to admit, this whole thing has been making me a little jumpy. I guess witnessing a brutal murder will do that to a person, right?”
He gave her only the barest nod of agreement. A man of few words, evidently, but then who needed conversation when you had soul-stripping eyes like his?
To her relief and annoyance, from behind her in the kitchen, the oven timer started beeping. “Shit. That’s, um—that’s my dinner. I’d better grab it before the smoke alarm goes off. Wait here for a sec—I mean, do you want to—?” She took a calming breath, unused to being so rattled by anyone. “Come in, please. I’ll be right back.”
Without hesitation, Lucan Thorne stepped inside the apartment as Gabrielle turned to set down her cell phone and liberate her manicotti from the oven.
“Am I interrupting something?”
She was surprised to hear him in the kitchen with her so quickly, as if he had been silently on her heels from the instant she invited him in. Gabrielle lifted the pan of steaming pasta out of the oven and set it down on the range top to cool. She stripped off her hot mitts and turned to give the detective a proud grin.
“I’m celebrating.”
He cocked his head to regard the quiet space around them. “Alone?”
She shrugged. “Unless you want to join me.”
The mild incline of his chin seemed guarded, but he removed his dark coat and draped it over the back of a counter stool. He was a peculiar, distracting presence, all the more so now that he was standing in her small kitchen—this heavily muscled stranger with the disarming gaze and slightly sinister good looks. He leaned back against the counter and watched her attend to the bubbling dish of baked pasta. “What are we celebrating, Gabrielle?”
“I sold some of my photographs today, in a private showing at a chichi corporate office downtown. My friend Jamie called about an hour ago with the news.”
Thorne smiled faintly. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She pulled an extra glass from the cupboard, then held up her opened bottle of chianti. “Would you like some?”
He shook his head slowly. “Regretfully, I cannot.”
“Ah. Sorry,” she said, reminding herself of his profession. “On duty, right?”
A muscle jumped in his strong jaw. “Always.”
Gabrielle smiled, reaching up to hook some of her loose, curling hair behind her ear. Thorne’s gaze followed the movement, and narrowed on the small scratch that marred her cheek.
“What happened to you?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied, not thinking it was a good idea to tell a cop how she spent part of the morning trespassing out at the old asylum. “Just a scrape—hazard of the job from time
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