He immediately frowned. “You’re cold as ice. And you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”
She quickly pulled her hand from his. “I guess that’s just what I do when I’m around you. Probably overcome by all those images of us ‘doing it.’ But don’t worry, by the time we start working together, I’ll have it under control. Good day, Detective. I’ll see you on Monday.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SIMON WALKED OUT TO his car but abruptly stopped. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t say what, exactly, but his gut was telling him not to leave. The few times he’d failed to listen to his gut had resulted in danger. Most recently, his gut had told him that Lana’s actions had put her in danger. It had told him to stay with her. Watch her. Protect her. He hadn’t done that. Instead, he’d let his pride and his anger affect him. He’d walked away from her, which had given her the opportunity to walk straight into a serial killer’s arms...
Shit. Thoughts like that didn’t support his comments to Mac, and what he’d thought was his honest belief, that he didn’t blame himself for Lana’s death. He wondered what Nina Whitaker would say about that. That he truly held himself responsible? Whatever her response would be, and however much it would anger him, he wasn’t going to ignore the unsettled feeling he was having now.
Doubling back to her front entrance, he knocked on the door. She didn’t answer. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. Frowning, he considered the possibilities. She could have hopped in the shower. Or more likely, stepped out onto the patio to take in her spectacular view.
He went around the side of the house. The backyard was a mess—piles of brick and earth, the place obviously undergoing some sort of landscaping. But she wasn’t on the patio. After hesitating briefly, he tested the small patio door next to the kitchen, and found it unlocked. Not smart of her but lucky for him. He inched it open and called out, “Nina. It’s Simon.”
Again, no answer.
Alarm crawled up his spine.
Where the hell had she gone?
“Nina?”
He stepped in. Kept calling her name as he checked one room after another. He didn’t draw his gun, but he was acutely aware of the weight of his off-duty piece in his pocket holster. He positioned his hand at the ready, prepared to use the weapon if he needed to.
In the living room, he startled a large tortoiseshell cat with large white rings around its eyes—like a clown face. The cat hissed, then dove under the couch. He scanned the area, noting the impressive main-floor kitchen. Next to the kitchen were two doorways, one leading to an informal dining area, the other leading to a huge pantry and food prep area that was as big as the kitchen and dining area in his own apartment. Everything was neat and tidy, but the airy rooms only served to highlight how little space one tiny female would occupy. He wondered if the sheer size of the house made her feel as lonely as he imagined it would.
He didn’t like the idea of her being lonely. Hated it, in fact. It just didn’t seem fair. She obviously had a huge heart and a tremendous amount of courage—the way she’d placed herself in front of Michael Callahan, protecting him despite Simon’s derision and aggression, spoke to that. Who protected her? Who brought her joy? Pleasure?
And what the hell business was that of his? His increasing obsession with her bothered him. It made him want to turn around and get the hell out of there. But then he remembered how cold her hand had been. How she’d been trembling. Almost as if she’d been scared. And how she’d obviously been trying to hide that from him.
He found the idea of her being scared even more disturbing than the idea of her being lonely.
He was heading toward what he figured was her bedroom when she stepped out, her gaze on a piece of paper. She must have caught sight of him from her peripheral vision because she glanced up. And screamed.
Simon held his hands out, palms up, surrender style. At the same time, he noted the look of wild fear in her eyes. She was wearing earphones and blasting music. Her fear was understandable given he’d startled her in her home. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d already been frightened before that. “Whoa. It’s just me.”