Page 21 of Walking the Edge

“Don’t let me interrupt.” She crossed the room to vanish behind the swaying bead curtain. With her small hips, a seductive walk eluded her, though she might not be trying.

“I’m going to stay at the hospital.” Jack again. “When are you going home?”

Mitch rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Not for another hour or so.” He needed to take advantage of the progress he’d made so far. With luck, food would mellow this woman and he’d find out more.

“Why?” Jack demanded like the cop he used to be. “What are you doing?”

“Thanks for the update.” Mitch secured the cell in a thigh pocket and followed the sound of running water.

Cath stood at the sink, filling a stockpot. Her pushed-up sleeves revealed slender arms. So soft. So fragile. Mitch switched his gaze to the yellow daisy clock above the stove. Don’t let her throw you off stride. Do what you have to.

She flicked a glance his way. He could almost see another brick going into the wall behind her rigid jaw. “You want me to set the table?”

“No.” She turned off the faucet.

“If you tell me where to look”—he tapped a couple of cabinet doors—“I’ll get the spaghetti down. I can time it for you too. That’s the best way not to overcook pasta.”

“I don’t need any supervision.”

That sounded familiar, but okay. Fine. He’d think of something else.

She set the pot on the stove and turned on the burner. The sight of the blue flame licking from the burner made him wince. To distract himself from the reactivated burning in his palm, he traced the line of her hips down to her woolly socks and tennis shoes. No bulges anywhere but she could have hidden her weapon in the back of the waistband.

He clenched his jaw at the idea she might still feel the need to arm herself against him. “Someone who packs heat on their job probably knows what they’re doing.”

“There’s no ‘probably’ involved.” She scooped sauce into a pan. “You sure you want to stay for supper?”

The scent of tomato sauce reminded him he hadn’t eaten for hours. No way was he leaving now. “You owe me for fixing the door.”

“You think?” Her shapely brows arched.

“That’s why you offered, but I’m not expecting any kind of reward.” What a crock. He expected her to start spilling some useful intel.

“Good.” She might as well have given him the bird.

What did she think he’d want? A tumble in bed? A spark did sizzle between them, but they hadn’t engaged in enough foreplay. You’re not going to either.

A New Orleans locales wall calendar hung beside the doorway. Mitch concentrated on her scribbles there in a futile effort to block the burning in his hand. “I should stick around until the police get here, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” She twirled to face him.

“Don’t you want to report the burglary?”

“Why’s that necessary?” She picked at a nail, a furrow between her brows. “This was just a random burglary. There’s no reason to involve the police.”

He’d made a sensible suggestion. At least it would have been to a law-abiding citizen with nothing to hide. “Your break-in could be part of a pattern with other burglaries in the neighborhood.”

“I haven’t heard of any others.” She opened a drawer.

“You need to file a report. Otherwise if anything’s missing you’ll never even have a chance to get it back.”

She piled placemats and cutlery on the table. “Like the family stainless steel?”

“Whatever.” He shrugged.

The water in the pot rumbled. She found a box of spaghetti. “Go ahead and set the table if you need to make yourself useful.”

His only desire was finding and arresting her brother, but he could be useful to her in many ways. “You think you know my needs?”

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