Romancing the Crown: Nina & Dominic. Lyn Stone
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had discovered.
“Thanks for not shutting me out,” she said as he deposited the box of folders in the back of his SUV.
“No problem,” he muttered, slamming the hatch and walking her to the passenger side. He opened the door, waited for her to fasten her seat belt, then closed it.
He was lying. He had a problem with it, all right. Though he had apparently relented, he didn’t look very happy about it. He hated to relinquish one ounce of control, she decided.
She had really misjudged him at first, when she’d assumed he didn’t care one way or the other about apprehending Desmond’s killer. Everything he did seemed directed toward that end. She could see by the volume of files alone that he had put forth a bigger effort than she could have expected from any police department this quickly.
After a silent drive through the city, Nina followed him into his apartment without waiting for an invitation. She stood by as he set the box of files on the dining table.
“I’ll help you go through them,” she offered. “A fresh eye might help, don’t you think?”
“Right,” he snapped. Then, almost as an afterthought, he tossed her a half smile to soften the reply.
That wasn’t exactly a plea for assistance, but she wouldn’t quibble. At least he wasn’t chasing her out of the place with the broom.
She looked around. His apartment had the same floor plan as hers, only reversed. There was a living room/dining room combination, separated from the small kitchen by a waist-level bar with stools.
It looked very similar to any midpriced apartment in the States, only the rooms were more spacious, the unscreened windows larger, offering a view of the distant ocean. And there were no closets, making her wonder whether Montebellans were taxed by the number of rooms as they were in some European countries.
His furnishings looked expensive, but not outrageously so. The color scheme consisted of beige and browns, more masculine than her rose and green. This decor seemed incredibly boring for a man such as Ryan.
She noticed no personal items at all. No photos, plants, no original art, no brass or bright colors to spice up the monotony. Maybe he was going for restful here. It was enough to put anybody to sleep immediately, she thought with a yawn.
“Sleepy?” he asked, almost hopefully.
“No, wide awake.”
“Hungry?” he asked, this time reluctantly, as he shucked his jacket, hung it on a dining room chair and headed around the breakfast bar to the kitchen.
“Not much. Lunch was substantial.”
“It will have to be soup and sandwiches, then. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Can I help?”
“No, I’ll get it.” He rummaged through the few cans she could see on a shelf in one of the upper cabinets, his back to her. “Tomato or chowder?”
“Tomato. I hate clams.”
His actions stretched his shirt smoothly across his broad shoulders, emphasizing their width. Nina hitched one hip onto a stool and propped her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand.
No question, the man was very easy to look at. Incredible buns, she thought, idly tracing her smile with one finger.
Every move he made was a study in graceful economy. Amazing how much he accomplished and how quickly he did it without seeming to hurry.
“When I do the interviews, I guess you’ll want to sit in,” he said.
“You bet.” She continued to watch as he bent over, retrieving sandwich things from the small, European-size refrigerator. “Do you realize that almost every conversation we’ve ever had has centered on the case?” she asked.
He straightened and turned around, frowning. “So?”
Nina shrugged. “So, I thought maybe we could take a break from it. Talk about something else for a change. Sort of rest and regroup.” Ryan yanked open a drawer and fished out the silver ware. “I don’t break until the case is closed.” He met her eyes directly. “To me, that means solved.”
She flared her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. It was just a thought. How is your solve rate, McDonough?”
“Pretty damn good. I mean to keep it that way.”
“A fanatic, huh?” she guessed. “Pitbull tenacity?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he admitted, methodically slicing a thick loaf of crusty bread.
Nina reached across and grabbed one of the knives, the mayo and the plate of bread. “I’ll do that. You do the soup.”
He placed a slice of bread on the plate just as she took it and their fingers touched. For a second, neither of them moved. With a short embarrassed laugh, Nina pulled the plate toward her and Ryan turned away.
She began spreading the condiment, slowly to make the task last since it was all she had to do. “You know, you had me fooled in the beginning. The way you move. The way you talk. I admit I worried you might have an idle streak.”
He gave a self-deprecating grunt, plopped the tomato soup into a pan and ran a canful of water to add to it. He stirred while she watched the subtle play of shoulder muscles beneath his shirt.
Nina continued. “But you don’t have. I guess you’re the proverbial duck. Serene and smooth on the surface, and paddling like hell underneath.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “That’s how you see me? A duck?”
She grinned back at him, loving his Southern drawl, now knowing how deceptive it was. The guy was no duck. If he only knew how she saw him. What would he do?
“How do you see me?” she asked.
He drew his mouth to one side and frowned in thought. Then he held up one finger. “Cat,” he said with a firm nod and a reluctant smile. “Yeah. Sly. Independent. Unpredictable and untamable.”
“Lots of ‘uns,”’ she remarked, not totally displeased with his comparison. He couldn’t seem to hold on to that determined resentment of his for long. Nina decided doing that just went against his nature.
“And you’re a little bit wild and scary when riled,” he added.
She also purred when she was stroked, but he hadn’t found that out yet. Probably never would. But she figured it was smart to drag him out of that mood of his if she ever planned to get on his good side.
“See there?” she said. “I’ve tricked you into a break after all.”
He had put down the spoon he’d used to stir and was now propped against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You always get your way, don’t you? Smiling like the kitty that ate the canary.”
His intense gaze lingered on her mouth, then roamed every inch of her visible above the bar. Nina had the distinct impression that he was filling in the rest from memory, since he had undressed her after the fire.
His voice was a near growl when he spoke again. “Yeah. Definitely a cat.”
Nina pursed her lips and raised her brows, not certain whether she should read more into this sudden rapt attention than simple teasing.
Then she looked past him. “You might want to paddle around to that soup, Ducky. It’s about to boil over.”
They laughed together as he rescued their dinner and began dishing it up. She loved his laugh, the spontaneity of it. He always sounded a little surprised by it, as if he’d never expected it to happen again.
“Tell me, Chef Duck, what brought you here to Montebello?” she asked, satisfied that she was making real progress, establishing camaraderie.
Suddenly he ceased what