3

      CARA RAISED her hand to ring the doorbell at Ben and Monica’s house. Then, just as quickly, dropped her hand by her side.

      “This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

      She was actually nervous about this meeting. He was coming. That annoyingly sexy and intriguing Wes Kimball. When she looked at him every professional thought in her head ran like crazy for higher ground.

      She did not get in a lather about men. The few relationships she’d experienced had been brief, all ending when the man in question couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that her career was the highest priority in her life. And she hadn’t met one yet to cause her to reconsider the idea.

      “You’re being an idiot, Cara.”

      With her index finger, she punched the doorbell a little harder than necessary and wondered if the rosy lipstick she’d added after a quick shower at her apartment was already smudged as usual.

      Monica opened the door—thank God. “Cara!” She grabbed her into a quick hug. “Don’t you look great. That lipstick is just the perfect shade.”

      Oh, goody, that mystery was solved. Now she could sleep nights.

      But while she rolled her eyes regarding her own spurt of vanity, she reveled in Monica’s. Her friend wore a clingy white sweater, a purple leather miniskirt and matching purple stilettos. Her long red hair was curled and sensuously framed her striking face, highlighting her bright green eyes.

      How she was going to discuss a fatal arson case with two men in this woman’s presence, though, Cara had no idea.

      In the foyer, she slid out of her jacket, then handed her friend the bottle of champagne she’d picked up at the liquor store.

      If possible, Monica brightened even more. “Oooh! I haven’t had champagne in ages. You’ll share with me, won’t you?”

      Cara glanced around the lovely, two-story foyer, her gaze jumping from detail to detail. Lots of wood and windows, great rich colors of dark green, claret and gold. Monica’s impeccable taste as a decorator was obvious. “One glass. I’ve got case files to go through.”

      Monica stuck out her tongue. “You can’t work all night.”

      “And I’ve got to drive home.”

      “Home? To Atlanta? You can’t—”

      Cara held up her hand. “I rented an apartment in town.”

      “Oh, good. It’ll be nice having you so close.”

      Her friend’s enthusiasm helped Cara to finally set aside the stomach-rolling memories of last night. “So, what’s for dinner?”

      “Ben and Wes are outside on the deck, grilling something. I’m not really sure what. I tried to tell them that for dinner parties these days people order in, then fix everything on silver platters to make it look like you’d slaved in the kitchen all day. But they pointed out the limited selection of ‘ordering in’ places in Baxter. I mean this town sells live bait in vending machines. Where are we going to order a respectable dinner?”

      “Live bait?”

      “Yep. Ben assured me that all real men knew how to grill, so I poured a glass of wine and left them to it.”

      “Excellent idea,” Cara said as they walked into the kitchen.

      The room stole her breath. Dark oak cabinets and floors, stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, more warm touches of red and gold, artistic bowls and accessories, and to one side an octagon-shaped cupola with a glass ceiling and glass walls. It looked like one of those kitchens on the Home and Garden channel.

      She walked into the cupola, absorbing the clear, twinkling view of the lake on the other side of the windows. She felt as if she were suspended over the lake, nothing but water beneath her and sky above.

      “What do you think?” Monica asked from behind her.

      Cara spun to face her. “Wow.”

      Her friend beamed.

      The back door swung open, and Ben’s voice floated into the room “…a pretty good game, but—” Ben himself appeared, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a platter of steaks in the other. He smiled at Cara. “Good. You’re here. And looking rested.”

      “Thanks.” Though she’d been aggravated as hell that he’d ordered her to take a break, she had to admit he’d been right. The moment she’d woken from her nap, her theory about the case had begun to solidify. She was anxious to share her idea.

      Wes entered the room just behind Ben. “Hey,” he said briefly to her, then crossed to the recycling bin to toss out his beer bottle. “Want another one?” he asked his brother.

      Now how in the world could he act so nonchalant around her when she got a head rush and butterflies colliding in her stomach when she so much as glanced his way?

      “Yeah,” Ben said as he set the platter of steaks on the counter.

      Monica handed her a glass of champagne, and Cara resisted the urge to slug down half the contents. Why did the guy make her feel so unsettled? It was damn annoying.

      Sipping her drink, she watched him wander over to the cupola and stare out the window. Even in a crowd he seemed to be alone. She knew the feeling well and wondered if he just wasn’t a people person, or if he, like her, pushed people away for deeper reasons. After so many years in foster homes, she tended to keep people at a distance out of a lack of trust and an awkwardness about sharing her feelings. Did he feel the same?

      Monica had once shared with her the circumstances of Ben and Wes’s father’s death. She’d also said that their mother had fallen apart after he’d passed away and now lived in Florida. Apparently their mom rarely saw or spoke to her children. Maybe Wes felt abandoned. Cara sensed a kindred spirit, and that seemed like a really bad thing in the middle of a major case.

      Looking away from him, she leaned against the center island. “Do we have to make small talk first, or can we get right to the case?”

      Ben’s gaze went directly to Monica.

      She heaved a sigh. “Can we at least wait until after dinner for the gruesome details?”

      Cara figured she was being rude, but with Wes around she felt especially awkward. She kept having flashbacks to her first double date, which had been forced upon her by one of her foster sisters. Everyone had laughed and talked as they ate pizza, while she’d been so frozen into silence the guys had thought she didn’t speak English. Not exactly her finest moment.

      To talk you had to share pieces of yourself, reveal feelings and ambitions. Too personal. Too close. People she got close to always left her—one way or another.

      As the group took their places at the table, she shook off the loneliness. Those days were gone. She made her own decisions, spent time with the people she wanted to.

      And she admitted—if only to herself—Wes Kimball was one of those people.

      Dammit.

      DURING DINNER, Cara put her theory on hold, mentioned the house, and Monica pretty much took care of the conversation. But she couldn’t avoid the stoic Lieutenant Kimball. Probably because he sat right next to her.

      His thigh nearly touched hers.

      Their hands even brushed once.

      He barely spoke. He grunted. And ate. Occasionally he sipped beer.

      She’d never been so intensely aware of a man before. (Though she could have done without the grunting.) She smelled his cologne over the steak. She found herself staring at his hand