‘It’s not a crime scene,’ he said, looking his fill. He’d seen her shiver before when he’d dropped his voice deeper, so he did that now, shamelessly enticing her with any tool at his disposal. ‘And we are definitely not in public.’

‘No,’ she said huskily, sending every drop of blood from his head to his groin.

He moved toward her, but she sidestepped him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I have to walk the dog.’

Marcus exhaled heavily and followed her from the garage into her laundry room, closing the door behind them. ‘You’re trying to kill me now,’ he muttered, then smiled when he heard her chuckle.

‘Maybe just a little, but you can take it.’ She dropped to one knee at the sound of pattering of dog claws, their rhythm staccato. ‘Hey, boy,’ she crooned as a three-legged bulldog came around the corner. Her hands gently cupped the dog’s jowly head, her thumbs scratching his ears. ‘Fooled you, didn’t I? I came in a different door than I left this morning. Made you work to find me.’

The dog looked up lazily and uttered a token growl at Marcus, making her laugh. ‘He’s not much of a watch dog, but that’s okay. Zat, this is Marcus. He’s okay.’ She looked up at Marcus over her shoulder. ‘He won’t bite you.’

Marcus hadn’t thought he would. He’d been too absorbed in watching Scarlett’s face as she talked to the dog to even care if the dog had bitten him. She was softer, gentler than he’d ever seen her. And suddenly he envied the dog, who was the current recipient of that gentle touch. Slowly he eased down on one knee beside her, so close that their hips bumped and her cheeks colored the prettiest pink.

‘You adopted him from Delores’s shelter, didn’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Not the first time I went out there, or even the second. But he was still around the third time I visited her. I kept thinking that a family with kids would take him and give him a good home, but nobody did. So I did.’ Her voice softened to a croon again. ‘Idiots didn’t know they’d passed over the best dog in the shelter, did they, Zat? So I’m the lucky one.’

Marcus’s throat tightened as he wondered if she knew how much she’d just shared with him. This woman fixed broken things. He wondered if she saw him as broken too. He didn’t want to think so, even though he knew it was true. ‘Why do you call him Zat?’ he asked as he scratched behind the dog’s ear, for the simple pleasure of brushing against her hand as he did so.

‘It’s for the movie – Zatoichi. He’s a blind swordsman.’ She shrugged. ‘Japanese martial arts movies are a thing with my brothers. Phin especially. I sent him a picture of Zat when I adopted him, hoping it would bring back some good memories of our Zatoichi movie marathons, but I haven’t heard a word.’

‘How long has it been since you sent it?’

‘A month.’

‘Send it again,’ he suggested softly. ‘He may want to reconnect but not be able to. Yet. He can always say he didn’t get the first text. Or the first twenty. Just don’t give up on him.’

‘I haven’t. I won’t.’ She met his eyes. ‘You haven’t given up on Stone.’

‘No. I can’t. He . . . needs me.’

‘Why?’

Marcus hesitated. ‘That may be a story for another day.’ He waited for her to get angry, but she surprised him again, nodding sagely.

‘I get it. Some secrets are yours to tell. Others aren’t.’ She stood up quickly and walked into her kitchen, done in classic 1970s. But it wasn’t retro, it was original, the wallpaper bright enough to make his eyes bleed. ‘It’s on my list of things to do,’ she said apologetically. ‘But the stovetop and the microwave both work, so I can eat until I can afford the oven I really want.’

‘What do you really want?’ he asked, curious now.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a catalog. ‘This.’

Marcus whistled at the six-burner, two-oven Viking range. ‘That’s a monster. Do you cook, too?’

‘I was one of seven kids and my mom worked a full-time job. We all can cook.’ She paused, lifting her brows. ‘But I can cook.’

‘I have one of these,’ he said, pointing to her dream oven. ‘In my apartment. It’s never been used.’

Her eyes widened. ‘That’s a crime.’ She took the catalog and put it away. ‘Speaking of crime, I need to walk Zat, get you back to your job and get back to mine.’

No, not yet. Just a few more minutes. His mind scrambled, then remembered. ‘What about my head? You were supposed to fix it.’

She blinked, startled. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll walk him and then tend to you. Come here, Zat. Let’s go outside.’

His gaze dropped to her ass when she bent over to fix a leash to the bulldog’s collar, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets when they itched to touch her smooth curves.

‘Just make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘But don’t sit on anything but the blue couch or the rockers in the living room. Everything else I’m still fixing.’

Marcus followed her to the back door, watching as she patiently waited for the three-legged dog to hop down the steps. Then he watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket as she walked with Zat around her backyard, where the dog proceeded to water every blade of grass he could.

‘You’re letting out all my AC,’ she called over her shoulder, not turning to look at him. ‘Close the door or you’ll air-condition the whole damn neighborhood. I’ve got to check my mail. I’ll be in soon.’

He complied reluctantly, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together. Which made him sound all touchy-feely, he thought, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d decided to go for this relationship, he didn’t seem to be able to slow himself down. He wanted her – all of her. And he wanted her now.

She, however, seemed to be wanting to slow things down. He’d have to follow her lead on this one. There was no way he was forcing her to do anything. Even if it killed him. Which it just might.

Reining in his desire, he went into the living room to sit on the blue couch, but stopped short in the doorway. The room resembled a furniture store more than a living room. There were desks and nightstands and even two twin-sized headboards leaning against a wall. Chairs of all shapes and sizes were clustered in groups. Some, like the desk in the corner, were clearly broken, some were works in progress, and others appeared pristine. There were upholstered chairs, desk chairs, dining room chairs . . . and three brand-new rocking chairs.

The rockers drew his interest, and he crouched beside one of them, running his hands over the wood, looking it over. The workmanship was flawless, the design sleek yet homey. A carved inscription on one of the curved runners caught his eye. SAB.

Scarlett A. Bishop. She made these. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘She’s really good.’

‘Thank you,’ she said from behind him.

He looked over his shoulder to see her standing there, her phone in one hand, the wrapped-up leash in the other. She’d shed the tactical vest and her weapons, leaving her in a thin top that showcased every curve. ‘What does the A stand for?’ he asked.

Her dark brows lifted. ‘You mean that didn’t come up when you ran my license plates?’

He refused to be embarrassed about that. ‘It probably did. I was so relieved that the Land Cruiser belonged to you that I didn’t ask for anything else.’

One corner of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. ‘Anne. The “A” is for Anne.’

‘Good Catholic middle name,’ he said, and was startled to see her almost-smile fade as her eyes went expressionless.

‘The Bishops are a good Catholic family,’ she said bitterly, then turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving him to wonder what he’d said. Because he’d obviously touched a raw nerve.

He heard water running, and thirty seconds later she reappeared carrying a tackle box with FIRST AID neatly printed on the side. ‘Have a seat on the sofa and I’ll take care of your head. Then I really need to start working on finding Annabelle. I ran a search of all the churches within a two-mile radius around the Anders house. There are over forty of them, assuming Tabby attended a church nearby. If we expand the search area, we’re up in the hundreds.’