And even if there existed such a person, it was none of his damn business.

Abe pushed open the door to her bedroom, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. There was none. He hadn’t expected there to be. He flipped the light switch and saw Kristen’s skill lent itself to picking furniture as well. Art deco pieces filled the room, giving it a solid feel. There was no lace, no trace of ribbon, but still there was a feminine air. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned quilt on her bed. Or maybe the scent of her perfume, still hanging in the air. A sleek black cat sat on her pillow, watching him with eyes as green and cautious as Kristen’s.

Abe swept his flashlight under her bed and around the closet filled with black suits, dark navy suits, charcoal gray suits. Her knack for color didn’t extend to her wardrobe, or maybe there was an unwritten dress code for officers of the court. Still he wondered at the absence of party dresses, evening gowns, shiny shoes. He paused long enough to scratch the cat behind the ears before making his way back to the kitchen where Kristen stood spooning loose tea into a china teapot with big pink roses. She still wore her winter coat and he wondered if she planned to stay after all.

„This floor is clear,“ he said and she nodded mutely. „Basement door?“

She pointed to the wall behind him. „Be careful. It’s a bit of a mess down there.“

Kristen Mayhew’s mess was cleaner than any of his siblings’ houses, he thought. The fireplace mantel was scraped and sanded down to its natural wood. A set of stained wood samples rested on the top, propped against the wall. Abe sighed. Their humble servant was indeed correct. The cherry was the best choice.

Kristen jumped when his footsteps sent the stairs from the basement creaking. She wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the knowledge that a killer routinely stalked her movements in her own home, or that there was a man in the house for the very first time ever. She drew a breath, the aroma of the brewing tea settling her nerves enough that she didn’t appear insane. Abe Reagan reappeared, sliding his pistol into his shoulder holster.

His pistol. He’d drawn his weapon. A shiver raced down her spine. „All clear?“

He nodded. „No one’s here except for you, me, and the black cat on your pillow.“

Kristen smiled, just a little. „Nostradamus. He lets me sleep in his bed.“

Reagan choked on a laugh and her heart did a little trip that had nothing to do with vigilante psychos. He was an incredible-looking man. And he seemed kind. But he was still a man. „You named your cat Nostradamus?“ he asked with a grin.

She nodded. „Mephistopheles hasn’t come home yet. He’s out chasing mice.“

His grin widened. „Nostradamus and Mephistopheles. The Prophet of Doom and the Devil Himself. Whatever happened to Huffy or Snowflake?“

„I never could bring myself to name them something cute,“ she said dryly. „It just wasn’t in their nature. The first week after I adopted them they destroyed the carpet in three rooms.“

„So if you ever got a dog, you could name him Cerberus and have a full set.“

Her lips twitched as he’d meant them to and she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for his effort to lighten her mood. „The three-headed guardian of Hades. I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Would you like some tea? I drink it at night when I’m all wound up. I’m hoping it will settle my nerves so I can sleep tonight.“

„No thanks. I have to get home and catch a few hours’ shut-eye. I have to meet Mia and Jack at dawn at the first site.“

Kristen’s hands stilled on the teapot. „Which one will you do first?“

He shrugged his wide shoulders. „Ramey. We’ll do them in the order he did.“

Kristen made herself pour the tea, grimacing when her hands shook, sending tea over the cup’s edge and onto the old countertop. „That makes sense.“ She looked up at him to find him watching her with the same intense expression he’d worn in Spinnelli’s office. It was concern, she realized and her back went straight. She wasn’t weak. She might be many things, but weak was not one of them. „I’d like to be there as well.“

He considered it. „That makes sense,“ he echoed her words. „Wear sensible shoes.“

She looked down into her tea, then back up at him. „I don’t have a car.“

„I’ll be by to pick you up at six a.m.“

The volley was over and it was her serve. „Thanks. I’ll get a rental car tomorrow, but – “

„It’s all right, Kristen. I don’t mind.“

He really didn’t, it was clear to see. And that bothered her. „Then…“

He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d leaned. „I’ll be going.“ He stopped at the kitchen door. „You’ve done a wonderful job on your house.“

Her hands cradled the steaming cup, absorbing the warmth. She was so cold. „Thank you. And thank you for driving me home. And for the gyro.“

He studied her face, his expression uncertain. „You’re sure you want to stay here?“

She smiled with a hell of a lot more confidence than she felt. „Positive. You should get some sleep. Six a.m. is only a few hours away.“

Abe took a last uncertain look before backing out the door and into the carport. Through the gauzy curtains on her kitchen door he watched her lock the door and set the alarm. For a moment he debated going back inside and dragging her to the relative safety of a hotel, but knew it was none of his business. Kristen Mayhew was a grown woman and entirely capable of making her own decisions.

He started his car and had pulled into the street before he realized she hadn’t called him Detective. Nor had she called him Abe. They’d talked for almost an hour and she hadn’t called him anything at all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. He shouldn’t let her bother him. She was pretty, that was true, but he’d meet many pretty women now that he was no longer working undercover. For five years he’d held no attachments, stealing time to see his own family, his brothers, sisters, his parents, Debra, all the while worrying that he’d been followed, that just by visiting he’d place them in jeopardy.

Now he was out from under the burden of constant secrecy and isolation, working in an environment where people developed social and professional relationships. It was natural to be tempted on his first day out. And it would be unnatural not to find Kristen Mayhew tempting. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the first time he’d seen her.

And unlike the first time he’d seen her, he was now free to feel the lust that clutched at his gut like a slippery fist without the shadow of guilt. Debra was gone now. Truly gone. After five years of existing in hellish limbo, Debra was finally at peace. It was time to get on with his life. Step one would be getting Kristen Mayhew to call him by his first name. Then he’d take it from there.

From her living room window, Kristen watched as Reagan’s taillights disappeared around the corner, troubled. I should be, she thought and uneasily glanced up the street, wondering if the man who’d killed five people was watching her at that moment. But the street was empty, all her neighbors’ windows dark. The troubled feeling persisted and Kristen wasn’t sure how much she could attribute to a man who called himself her humble servant versus a man who was unwilling to leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.

Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.