Page 3 of Shiver

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, clutching the opening of her robe.

Her sultry voice held no hint of Michelle’s Southern accent. Otherwise, she looked enough like Michelle to halt the blood in his veins. “Devra Morgan?” he asked and wasn’t at all surprised by the catch in his voice.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t help staring. She clutched the robe tighter. “I’m Detective MacIntyre with the NOPD. Is this yours?” He held up the plastic bag containing the golden locket in one hand and his badge in the other.

Her eyes widened, turning a deep cobalt blue and becoming even more beautiful. “Wh-where did you find it?”

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stood back allowing him to step into the entryway. He followed her into a darkened living room. The furniture was sparse with no plants, no pictures, not much of anything personal or otherwise.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered and gestured toward a small table in front of the window. As he sat, she reached behind him and pulled the cord that lifted thick wooden blinds. Sunshine filtered through the slats, setting fire to the gold in her hair.

She smelled faintly of vanilla and he caught himself inhaling deeper. He couldn’t stop staring at her hair falling in long lazy curls down the middle of her back. He was sorely tempted to touch it, to run his fingers through the delicate strands.

She looked down at him, catching his gaze. Her eyes flickered with a myriad of colors and emotions. There was a longing in her expression—something she wanted or needed—but it quickly disappeared and her expression turned wary. She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you excuse me for a minute, please?”

He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many ways—her walk, height, the flawless texture of her skin, and her lips. Michelle’s lips had been thin and expressive, but this woman’s were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.

He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television and remote control. No bills, coupons, receipts—nothing like the clutter in his house.

The mantle above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and saw the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers but found only bare essential kitchen items.

“Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and throaty with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?

He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best “hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar” excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.

The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. She’d transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman who’d just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such a plain facade?

“I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve let my curiosity overcome my good manners,” he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.

She raised a skeptical brow.

“I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama would’ve been remiss if she didn’t pound those Southern civilities into me every day of my rebellious life.” He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any lady’s heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasn’t biting any more than a gator in December.

“What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Detective MacIntyre,” he repeated.

She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.

“How long have you lived here?”

“What does that have to do with my locket?”

“First things first, all right?”

“I don’t understand,” she hedged.

“Please answer the question.”

“Three years.”

He looked around, disbelieving. “In this house?”

“Yes.”

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