Charlotte and Rokov...

The danger had passed, the adrenaline had dwindled, and suddenly she felt shaky. She didn't quite trust her legs to work and hesitated, hoping a small delay would help her gain equilibrium. "Thanks again."

"You all right?" His gaze all but burned through the sunglasses.

"Me? Sure. I think the guy just caught me by surprise, and I'm not so fond of surprises."

"You're headed to your office?"

"Yes."

"I'll walk with you."

"You don't have to do that." She felt helpless and silly. "I can handle a two–block walk."

"I can use the exercise. I've been sitting too much lately." He nodded as if to say, Get going.

With a begrudging acceptance, she began walking. He kept his big strides measured, setting a more balanced pace. She wasn't a fan of small talk but meatier topics had become explosive: Sooner, the carnival, the Young investigation, and God help her, the sex they'd had just six days ago.

Refusing to stoop to the weather or favorite movies, she chose the lesser of two evils. "How goes your investigation into the Young case? I've been keeping up with it through the papers."

"It's slow. We're still looking at her car and the man who got into it before she vanished."

"You'd think with all the cameras and people in this area that someone would have seen something."

"Yeah. But I'm starting to think our killer had his entire agenda well planned."

"Even the best killers leave clues."

"So I've heard."

They reached an intersection and he took her elbow in hand. Three cars passed. When the road was clear, they crossed the street. Taking her elbow was a protective, unnecessary, and kind gesture she appreciated.

"The organized killers often leave clues so small they are almost invisible," she said.

"If that's true, then this guy is very, very organized."

"She'd never heard the faintest hint of self–doubt from Rokov. And even now it wasn't so much that she heard the doubt...she simply felt the doubt. If she sat in Madame Divine's chair now, she'd have said he had a strong aura, and he was destined for great things. "You'll find the killer, detective. You're a clever one."

He grinned. "Was that a compliment, counselor?"

"I give credit where credit is due."

He slid his hand into his pocket. "Let's hope I am that clever. This guy needs to be found."

Again, she sensed the fear that another victim would die before he could find his killer. But to ask a question so personal meant opening a door she did not wish to open. And so they walked in silence.

When they reached her office, she faced him. "Here I am. Home sweet home."

He glanced at the three–story brick town house with its wrought–iron front rail, stone planter filled with red geraniums, and dark lacquer front door sporting the pineapple head doorknocker. "Fancy digs, counselor."

"Don't be fooled by the old world charm. The HVAC is in need of an overhaul, and I've got a couple of basement pipes that like to freeze in the winter." What had prompted this candor?

He tested the railing's sturdiness with a sound shake. "It still had to cost you a fortune."

"I'll let you in on a secret." It was a small, safe secret. "I go the place in a bankruptcy sale a couple of years ago. I redid the first floor, electric and plumbing, but the upper floors are a disaster. I wouldn't dare show them to you."

Humor and interest sparked in his gaze. "So Wellington and James is a façade?"

No truer words had been spoken. "One day I'll have the place finished."

"You could probably flip the building and make a good deal of money."

"A second mortgage financed the renovation. Seemed like a good move until the bottom dropped out of the real estate market and landed me upside down in the mortgage. I can't sell, but as long as I keep working, I'll be fine. The market will catch back up." And it would, just as the work would increase.

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned toward her. "Why not just dip into the trust fund to finance the renovations?"

That made her laugh. "No trust fund, detective. It's just me with a big stick holding off the wolves."

"Alone."

"That's the way it's always been."

"Doesn't have to be."

She ignored the subtext. It's less complicated that way."

"No tangles."

Tangles. The word of warning she'd used before they'd made love the last time.

"Right"

"Being alone doesn't bother you?"

Lately it did. Too many nights she'd lain awake wishing she could roll over into his strong embrace. But the cards didn't bode well for The Master at Bending Rules and The Boy Scout. "It's nothing I can't handle."

He pulled off his glasses, revealing a direct clear gaze. "I'd like to see you again."

"I would dearly love a few hours alone with you." Her voice was barely a whisper, and she was careful not to lean toward him, fearful someone would notice. "But I'm going to have to take a rain check. I barely have time to sleep."

He curled and uncurled his fingers as if resisting the urge to touch her. "When?"

"Soon."

"Very soon." Not a question but a statement.

"I can't make promises."

With an impatient jab, he shoved his glasses in his breast pocket. "Charlotte, stop worrying and just let this unfold."

"Into what?"

"He took her hand and rubbed his thumb against her palm. "Isn't that the fun of it, not knowing?"

"I like control."

"So I've notice."

Memories of her most brazen bedroom moves warmed her face.

Smiling, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then released it. "We'll work on that."

"Mighty confident, detective."

"I try." He glanced around as if scanning the streets for trouble. "Be careful. Lonnie doesn't strike me as a quitter."

She straightened, remembering they were in public. "I'll keep that in mind."

Rokov turned and strode down the street, leaving her to wonder why she was so afraid of the man.