Chapter Four

      She’d forgotten how penetrating his eyes were, how they seemed to know just what she was thinking. Or rather, she hadn’t forgotten, she’d simply failed to reconcile their deep-down animosity with the lazy allure of his gaze.

      He was looking at her seductively now across the luncheon table, his eyes such a dark blue they seemed almost purple. Or was she imagining—or wishing for—such a look? Staring across at him, Susan knew she’d get no sympathy when she told him about her transfer. She tried to put a humorous touch to her words so he’d see what stern stuff she was made of.

      “Now that I’m a suspect, Major Savage doesn’t think I should be trusted with classified material, so he’s transferring me out of the squadron.” But as she spoke, the humiliation of being fired hit her anew, and her attempt at humor failed. She swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in her throat.

      Archer studied her intently from across the table. “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself again,” he said, lifting one dark brow. “If I remember my army days correctly, people assigned on a temporary basis could pretty much come and go as they pleased. That’ll be a plus. In the next few days we’re going to need all the time together we can manage.”

      She was caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy in his voice, and didn’t want him to stop talking, didn’t want to lose the warm feeling that coursed through her at hearing his rich baritone.

      “You sound like you’re looking forward to our time together,” she said without thinking. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could have bitten her tongue.

      He held her gaze in a penetrating stare. “Aren’t you?”

      She wanted to look down at the table, but she couldn’t. His eyes were too hypnotic. “I’m a widow whose husband has been dead only two months.” She was proud of the firmness in her voice. “What I’m looking forward to is seeing Don Albright back in jail where he belongs.”

      A half smile crossed his lips. It wasn’t reflected in his cold blue eyes. In that instant Susan knew for sure her first impression was right. This man was dangerous.

      “And what I’m looking forward to is helping the new widow clear her name.” The taunting tone was back in his voice.

      What was she letting herself in for, she wondered, hiring an almost-stranger as a private investigator? She sucked in her breath, on the verge of telling him to forget their arrangement. But what alternative did she have with the police as good as accusing her of murder and someone out to frame her? Much as she hated the idea, she needed Archer’s help.

      His familiar mask descended once again, and she felt his hand under her arm, helping her out of her chair. Unlike his taunting words, his hand seemed strong, firm, protective. When they crossed the lobby, she felt him beside her, his powerful, well-muscled body moving with easy, athletic grace.

      A dangerous man is what I need, she convinced herself as she fastened her seat belt in his rental car. If anybody can find a convicted killer, it’s a man who’s just as deadly.

      Susan felt him watching her, and turned her head toward him as he started the engine. Frowning, he searched her face in that enigmatic way of his, with his lids slightly lowered.

      “Where to?”

      Susan probed around in her bag until she found the list she’d made last night. “We might as well start with the banks downtown.” Eyeing him dubiously, she gave him brief directions to the first one. “When we find the right bank, do you really think they’ll let me look inside the box?”

      He shrugged. “Since you’re not a cosigner, they’re not supposed to, but who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. You can snow them with your ID and marriage license, and your husband’s death certificate. Act like they’re violating your rights if they don’t let you examine the box. Threaten to sue. That always gets people’s attention.”

      At first she wasn’t sure he was serious, but one look at his sober expression convinced her. “I don’t want anybody to get into trouble or do anything illegal,” she protested, her doubts about Archer coming back full force.

      Without saying a word, he swung into a bus zone near the curb and stopped, the engine idling. “Excuse me, Susan, but I thought you wanted to find whoever’s trying to frame you.” His eyes held hers relentlessly.

      She backed away from him, a shiver shooting up her spine. “What’s that got to do with this safe-deposit box?”

      “A hell of a lot.” He frowned at her like she didn’t know which end was up. “What’s inside that box may tell us who killed your husband.”

      SUSAN HIT PAY DIRT at the fourth bank on her list. While Archer waited for her outside, she took the elevator down one floor to the vault area. Windowless, with fluorescent lights glaring down on plush carpeting, the place was overheated and smelled faintly of a flowery air freshener.

      Unbuttoning her suit coat, Susan faced the clerk sitting at a desk outside the vault’s massive steel door. “I’m Mrs. Brian Wade, and I’d like to get into our safe-deposit box, please.”

      The clerk, an attractive woman about Susan’s age, appeared to recognize the name. “Just a moment. I’ll get your card.” Smiling warmly, she swung her chair around and scooted to a cabinet behind her.

      When she faced Susan an instant later, her smile had been replaced by a worried frown. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Wade. Your husband is the only signer for the box. We can’t let you have access unless he makes you a cosigner.”

      “My husband passed away two months ago,” Susan said, allowing her voice to tremble. She placed the death certificate on the desk, along with her laminated driver’s license. “Here’s the necessary information.” Tears filled her eyes and she didn’t hold them back. “I’m sure you understand why I need to get into our safe-deposit box.”

      The woman nodded, her gaze sympathetic. “Why don’t you sit down here beside my desk while I call the manager? He has to approve this sort of thing.” She picked up her telephone receiver and punched in a number.

      A few minutes later a man came out of the elevator and walked toward them. “Now, Mrs. Wade,” he began after the clerk had introduced him as the manager. “What can Inland Empire Bank do for you?”

      Summoning all her pent-up emotion—as befitted a grieving widow—she told him what she wanted.

      “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wade,” he said when she’d finished. “I know what a difficult time this must be for you, but I can’t let you open the box without a court order.” He placed a pudgy hand on her arm. “I’m sure you understand.”

      “I’m not certain I do,” Susan said tearfully. “Since my husband’s dead, he can’t possibly object to my seeing what’s inside the box.”

      The manager sighed. “I know, I know. Some of these regulations don’t make much sense.” His expression brightened. “But you should have no trouble getting a court order.”

      “How long will that take?”

      He