THE COP NEXT DOOR
Silhouette Intimate Moments #1181
October 2002

The man was way too calm. He stood close enough now that the flickering light of her candle revealed more detail. His hair wasn’t as dark as she’d first thought, but more the color of rich coffee, much like the café au lait she’d had that morning in New Orleans. A cowlick kept the bangs from his face, lending him a restless, unkempt look that might have appeared sexy, had he not held a gun in his hands. His jaw desperately needed a razor. And his eyes. Pewter, she noted, soft and steely, just like his voice.

“What are you going to do with that?” she asked, gesturing toward the pistol. “Shoot me?”

He looked at the weapon in his steady hand, then at her. “A pretty lady like you? Hurting you is just about the last thing I want to do.”

She didn’t like the insolence in his eyes, the awareness that flared between them, the fact that beneath her robe, she wore nothing at all.

“Then why are you pointing it at me?” she asked.

“Not as effective if I don’t.”

“Effective for what?”

“I can’t have you running from me, and as long as I have my friend here, I’m pretty sure you won’t.”

The blasé answer chilled her. In his faded jeans and T-shirt the man looked harmless enough, but his iron-hard demeanor warned otherwise. If not for the gun, she would have turned and bolted the second she saw him standing at the top of the stairs.

“Quit looking at me like I’m a depraved lunatic, sugar. I’m not going to ravage you, then dump what’s left out back in the bayou.”

“If you’re trying to put me at ease, it’s not working.”

“I’m not here to put you at ease.”

With her gaze steady on him, she took another step back. Her cell phone sat on a table around the corner. If she could reach it, she stood a chance.

“Come any closer,” she warned, “and I’m calling the police.”

The man went very still. Then he laughed. “Sugar,” he drawled. “I am the police.”

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