Kansas City Cowboy. Julie Miller
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blonde to be slightly older than the brunette. Both women had their eyes on him, watching him with a mix of trepidation and concern. Get it together, Harrison.
Man, that Dr. Kate was a cool customer. He’d practically abducted her to get the answers he needed. He’d been bossy and on edge, yet she’d stayed calm and composed when she’d had every right to slap his face or call for backup to haul him away. She could have blown him off as the crazy out-of-towner stomping into their official territory, yet she’d answered every question with clear, if guarded, precision, and offered to bring him to the morgue herself.
Some part of his foggy brain knew she was probably running interference, keeping him away from the CSIs and detectives investigating the crime scene and talking to potential witnesses. But she could have called a uniform to drive him through town. She could have arranged for a receptionist to guide him down to the building’s basement morgue. Instead, she’d volunteered to handle the ol’ bull-in-the-big-city country boy herself. That took a lot of compassion, and probably more guts than the woman realized.
If Kate Kilpatrick could keep it together on a morning like this, then maybe he’d better do the same. With a nod that was directed to the highly trained law enforcement professional pushing its way through the emotions inside him, Boone summoned the detachment that had gotten him through a lot of disturbing crime scenes and graphic traffic accidents. “Has the body been cleaned up yet?” he asked.
The M.E.’s lips parted, in surprise, he supposed. But she set aside the computer pad and answered in a tone much less clinical than the one he’d used. “I was in the middle of processing when you showed up. If you’d given me some advance notice—”
“There was some jewelry she always wore.” Boone brushed his fingertips against the collar of his shirt. “A necklace of my mother’s. Three or four silver and turquoise rings she’d made. Janie was an arts-and-craftsy kind of gal. She took a jewelry-making class once.”
The M.E. pointed to the paper envelopes and plastic sheaves on the table behind her. “The rings are in evidence bags, waiting to go to the lab upstairs. I didn’t see a necklace. But there are clear signs of a struggle.”
She looked back across the table to Kate, with a look that could only be described as a plea for help. When Boone refused to budge, Dr. Kilpatrick nodded, giving her some sort of permission to continue sharing information with him. He needed to know everything—no matter how gruesome, no matter how tragic. His only solace right now was information—and the justice it would lead him to.
Resuming a mantle of detached practicality, Dr. Masterson-Kincaid pointed one of her gloved fingers at the thin, purplish-gray bruise bisecting Janie’s delicate collar bone. “That would explain this mark. Looks like a chain around her neck was ripped off. Perimortem, judging by the bruising.”
Another treasure stolen from his family. “Did the bastard take it as a souvenir?”
The blonde beside him shook her head. “That doesn’t fit the profile. The Rose Red Rapist hasn’t collected tokens in the past, but it is important to note. Maybe he overlooked it when he was cleaning up the scene.”
“Back in that alley?” Boone would make time for a detour to search the place himself.
Kate shook her head and stepped aside to pull her cell phone from her pocket. “The body was found at a secondary location, like the others. But if we can locate the necklace, we might just find our primary crime scene.” Her gaze slipped up to Boone, no doubt assessing how much information from their interchange he was taking in, as well as what he intended to do with that information. “Can you give me a description of the necklace?”
“A sterling silver locket. Heart-shaped, with a picture of our folks inside.”
“I found a trace of some sort of metallic substance in her hair—could be a piece of a broken necklace. I’ll call Annie and Detective Montgomery to alert them to keep an eye out for it.”
Dr. Masterson-Kincaid circled around the table, urging both her guests to clear the space around the examination table. “I’ll give you some privacy while you’re making your call. I need to take a break and phone my husband, anyway.” She rested her hand on her belly and crossed to the double swinging doors. “Ever since we got the news about the baby, he’s become a little more overprotective. If that’s possible. Um.” Boone glanced over his shoulder as she waited at the door to get his attention. “Take a few moments to grieve with your sister, Sheriff Harrison. But when I get back, I do need to get work. Alone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“And remember, don’t touch anything.”
Boone nodded.
After the dark-haired woman left, Kate apparently decided to give him some space, too. “I’ll go out there to make my calls, allow you some quiet time—”
“Don’t.” Not understanding the impulse, but not questioning it, either, he reached out and grabbed Kate’s arm. He tugged her back to his side and turned, ignoring her startled gasp as he pulled her into his chest and hugged his arms around her. “Not yet.”
“Sheriff, I …”
For a few moments, she stood there, rigid as a barn board, her arms down at her sides, her nose pressed into his chest. He knew he’d surprised her, knew he was taking liberties with a woman he barely knew. But he needed human contact right now. He needed the reassurance of a beating heart. He needed something strong to hold on to, something soft to absorb the pain and the rage and the grief roiling inside him that threatened to drag him down to his knees and bring him to tears.
As unexpected as the contact might be, there was a sensitive side to the police psychologist he must have tapped into. He felt her slender frame swell against him with a deep breath. And then she nudged her chin up onto his shoulder, wound her arms around his neck and stretched up on tiptoe to hug him back.
“Hush.” She whispered soft words against his ear. Meaningless syllables that soothed him. “I’m so sorry, Boone. Shh.”
Her body was flush against his, her arms around his neck and shoulders clinging almost as tightly as he held her. Boone buried his nose in the delicious scent of her honey-blond hair and let the grief overtake him in deep, stuttering breaths.
He held on as he purged the onslaught of emotion. Sensation by sensation, the blinding need eased and his body and spirit revived. Kate Kilpatrick was of average height, but the high heels she wore lengthened her legs and made her just the right size to fit against him like a hand to a glove. There was nothing remarkable about the shape of her body other than that the subtle curves were all there, in just the right places. She was a sophisticated blend of jasmine shampoo and woman and class.
She was businesslike yet compassionate, strong in body and resolve, yet she was the softest thing he’d held in his arms in a long time. At this moment, she was everything he needed.
But his timing couldn’t be worse.
With something else waking inside him—something that was more about family and the job, more about protecting one’s own than it was about himself—his wants, his needs and the beautiful woman who’d assuaged them both for a few stolen moments—Boone pulled his hands up to Kate’s shoulders and abruptly pushed her away.
He needed the chilly rush of air-conditioning filling the gap between them. He needed to see the self-conscious splotches of color on Kate Kilpatrick’s cheeks. He needed to watch her straighten the front of her coat and tug the sleeves back into place.
He needed to see her fixing her personal armor around her so he could do the same himself.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he apologized.
“Not a problem, Sheriff.” She smoothed her short hair back behind her ears. “Sometimes grief can be too much to bear. And I was here.”
“You’ve already done more for me than you should.” And yet he had to ask her to do something else. As of this moment he knew Kate Kilpatrick