Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles
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red, and her full lips pinched together to hold back more sobs. Bedraggled and exhausted, she was a mess. His mama would have said that Brooke looked like something the cat dragged in. And yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off this beautiful, vulnerable woman. Her pain and sorrow were raw, honest.
“You’re staying with me tonight,” he said. “In my hotel room. I’ll sleep on the sofa, and you can take the bed.”
“I don’t think so.” She tossed her head, sending ripples through her auburn hair. “I lost control for a moment, but I haven’t lost my mind.”
“This topic isn’t up for discussion. The only way I’ll know you’re safe is if I can keep an eye on you.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll take care of it. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”
As he drove into Aspen, he listened with half an ear while she told him she was capable of taking care of herself and certainly didn’t need him hanging around like some kind of cut-rate bodyguard. She wanted to be alone, needing solitude to regroup.
But finally she admitted her exhaustion. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay with you for one night. It’s not like this is a date or anything.”
“Far from it.”
The fact that she is a beautiful and desirable woman doesn’t matter a whit. My mission is to keep her alive. No one else would die at the hand of Robby Lee Warren’s avenger. In that way, Michael would honor the vow he’d made to the memory of Grant Rawlins.
At the hotel, he turned his car keys over to the valet while Brooke looked at him with a curious expression.
“Nice hotel,” she said.
“I thought so.”
“At the boutique this afternoon, you didn’t wince when I told you how much those gorgeous leather gloves cost.”
He nodded.
“There aren’t many cops who can afford the prices in Aspen.”
“I suppose Aspen is a bit pricey.” He glanced at the streets of the mountain town, decorated with garlands and sparkling lights. “Reminds me of a Christmas card.”
“Classy but quaint,” she said. “When I lived in Atlanta, I always missed the snow at Christmastime.”
“I could do without the cold.”
At the door to the hotel, a young man in jeans and a ski patrol parka called out, “Brooke! Hey, Brooke!”
She held up a hand to acknowledge the guy, but she clearly didn’t want to talk to him.
He hustled closer—close enough that Michael could smell the beer on his breath when he said, “I heard about what happened to Sally.”
Brooke edged closer to Michael. “There was nothing I could do.”
“It was suicide, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never knew anybody who killed themselves. Amazing.” He dragged his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. In spite of the mountain cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves or a hat. “Wait until Tyler hears about this.”
Tyler who? Michael had to wonder. Despite his conviction that Sally had been mistakenly killed by the serial killer, further investigation might be necessary.
In a glance, he analyzed the man who stood before him—a typical tanned ski bum, carefree and full of beer. But he had an edge, an anger in the depths of his brown eyes. Michael held out his hand and introduced himself.
After a muscular handshake, the young man said, “I’m Peter Thorne.”
“And you were friends with Sally,” Michael said.
“Hell, I slept with her.”
Beside him, he heard Brooke inhale a sharp gasp. “That’s enough, Peter.”
“I might have been her first score when she got to Aspen,” he said. “Didn’t take Sally long to move on to bigger fish, though. Guys who were famous and rich, like Tyler Hennessey.”
“Never heard of him,” Michael said.
“Man, you are definitely not from Aspen. Tyler’s a superstar. For sure, he’ll be going to the Olympics in snowboarding.”
Michael barely knew what snowboarding was. “So, Sally dumped you for this superstar?”
He gave a hard laugh. “Dropped me like a landslide.”
Though Michael’s first concern was to get Brooke safely to the room, he wanted to find out more from Peter Thorne. “Breaking up is no fun. That must have ticked you off.”
“I’ll tell you this.” He jabbed a drunken forefinger toward Michael’s chest. “Sally ticked off a lot of people. Am I right, Brooke?”
Silently, she nodded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Peter, “if this wasn’t a suicide. There are lots of guys who wouldn’t mind seeing Sally Klinger dead.”
“We have to go,” Brooke said. “Good night, Peter.”
Michael watched Peter stagger along the sidewalk. There seemed to be no lack of motive for people who wanted to hurt Brooke’s roommate. Boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends. Her husband.
Even Brooke had admitted that she wanted to get Sally out of her life.
He took another look at the auburn-haired beauty who entered the hotel in front of him. Had her anger toward her roommate turned violent? Was it possible that the woman he’d come to protect from a serial killer was a murderer?
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