Page 34 of Conrad

His eyes widened. “I didn’t?—”

She held up her hand. “And just to be clear, I’m not going to fall for you. So don’t worry.”

He frowned.

“You probably shouldn’t fall for me either.” She looked at him, winked, desperate to deflate the sudden tension between them.

“Right,” he said. “Gotcha.” He set his coffee down and motioned to Marcie. “So, why not leave Sarah’s case to the police?”

Oh.The abrupt change of subject made her blink, scramble to catch up.Right.Sarah’s cold case.“Because it feels like they’re not looking very deep. They don’t see the connection, I guess.”

Marcie came over with a couple Styrofoam take-out boxes.

“I do.” He lifted his cookie slice into his box.

She did the same. “S & W, right? They had everything to gain from the fire. But why kill Edward? That’s the connection I’m missing.”

He leaned back, frowning. “Seriously? You don’t see it? Edward and Sarah and Kyle and now Beckett, not to mention the attempts made on Ty and Tommy back in Duck Lake a month ago?”

She closed her box, licked off some whipped cream that had gotten on her finger. “Sure—the Sarah Livingston case.”

He leaned forward. “No, Penny. Not the Sarah Livingston case.” He paused, his blue eyes on hers, something fierce and solemn and unmoving in them, the sense of it rooting her to the spot, seeping over her. “You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”

A chill washed through her.

“Everyone you knew—even Edward—dead. Someone is watching you . . . and taking out people around you and your investigation.” He picked up his box. “Now, never mind me while I follow you home and make sure you get inside okay. Do you have an alarm system?”

She nodded, her words trapped.

“Good. And then tomorrow I want you to call your rich father and tell him you need personal security, or you can expect me to show up on your doorstep, hockey stick in hand.”

He didn’t seem to be kidding as he got up and held out his hand to her.

Oh.my.

“Listen. You don’t have to do that. I have security—it’s just that I don’t . . . well, I don’t like them following me around, so I sort of fired them.”

“Well, unfire them.” He held the door open for her.

“Night, King Con,” said Marcie as they left. He smiled and waved and followed Penelope out into the night.

And followed her all the way home.

The last Penelope saw of him was his headlights as he backed out of her driveway.

No, the last she saw was her memory of him, the smile on his handsome face, his gaze on hers.

Offering her a cookie.

* * *

He was back in his skin.

Steinbeck stood away from his boss, of course, letting Declan have his space, move around the rooftop terrace of the Majestic Hotel in Barcelona, glad-handing colleagues here for the conference. And sure, jet lag sent a buzz through him, turned him hot and punchy. But it only stirred up memories of a day when he’d been someone, done things that had sent a fire through him.

He didn’t miss the beach for one lousy millisecond.

And this view topped any beachside cabana. The rooftop bar stood eight stories up, offered a panoramic view of the city. The air was still a little crisp, hovering in the mid-sixties today, so the hotel had fired up the outdoor heaters and served the food inside the adjoining restaurant. The picture windows looked out on a view of the soaring multitowered cathedral, Sagrada Família, and the wide Passeig de Gràcia boulevard, with Gaudí’s famous casas and works by other modern architects.

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