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  "That's all, Officer," Randy said. "I'll take over here."

  "Yes, sir." Neville mumbled something Sarah couldn't understand into his mic and marched from the room. She held her breath as he made his way to the back door, but he didn't disturb her piles of sorted merchandise.

  When the door shut, Randy took three steps toward her, then froze. His hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, then clenched again. His chest rose and fell, his nostrils flared and his pulse throbbed at his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed.

  Unable to speak, she waited, finding her own fists clenching. She shook them loose and wiped them on her sweat pants.

  Randy's face went from pale to flushed. "Damn it, Sarah. What the hell are you doing? What were you thinking?"

  "What was I doing?" Heat rose to her face and she knew she was undoubtedly three shades redder than he was. "What was I thinking? Let's see. This is my shop. I'm allowed to come in whenever I want to. Maybe I was trying to figure out what happened here. And maybe I didn't think it was worth bothering you until I had something concrete, because you're supposed to be doing all your other cop stuff. Sorry if I thought this might help." Damn. Her voice cracked and tears burned.

  NO. You are not going to cry.

  She gave her head an emphatic shake as if that would dispel the tears.

  Randy spoke. Softly. Hoarsely. As if the words couldn't quite make it past his throat. As if there might be a lump lodged inside, like the one in hers. He took a tentative step forward. Reached for her with one hand. "You scared me to death. I want to touch you. Hold you. For a minute. Please?"

  Her hand, seemingly of its own volition, moved up and toward his. Almost before their fingertips brushed, she felt the tingle. The one that shot through her at Randy's touch. Every single time. The one she couldn't deny.

  He took a step forward. "Dispatch called." His fingertips met hers, inched their way up until he grasped her hand. "Lights were on. Your car was here. And then … nothing. I had all these pictures in my head. None of them was good."

  "You're still thinking of San Francisco," she said, trying to remain rational, which was getting harder to do as he moved closer and wrapped his arms around her.

  "No. I was thinking of you."

  His arms tightened, pulling her to him and she melted into his body. He barely moved, simply held her, breathing deeply. His heart thudded in his chest. She allowed him to take what he seemed to need. Did the contact untangle his insides, too?

  For the span of several heartbeats, she stood there, resting her cheek against his chest. He stroked her hair, caressed her back. "I'm fine," she said.

  "I'm not. I need another minute." He embraced her, then shifted her back far enough to tilt up her chin and look into her eyes. "I keep thinking of when Chris had you. Everything came back."

  A frisson of alarm coursed through her. "Chris? Did you find out— Is he still in prison?"

  "He's there, yes. I've requested a list of anyone who's visited him. Any phone calls, emails."

  She turned her head and surveyed the wreckage of her shop again. "This still doesn't seem like something he'd do."

  "I agree, but people change, especially when they're locked up. I'm not dismissing the possibility."

  "So, have you eliminated anyone?"

  He bent and pressed his forehead to hers. "I think I've crossed your mother off the list."

  "I'm glad to hear it." Relieved that things were as close to normal as they could be under the circumstances, she ran her fingers through her hair and stepped back. "I should get back to work."

  He grabbed her wrist. "Wait. First you're going to tell me what you're looking for. Then, we'll get to work."

  She couldn't have fought him, even if she'd wanted to. "All right. Let me get some papers, because so far, this makes no sense to me."

  * * * * *

  Reluctantly, Randy let her go, wishing he could punch a "pause" button for the world so he could keep holding her. Not even make love, simply hold her. Inhale her scent. Absorb her warmth.

  All right, thinking about Sarah wasn't helping. He'd gone off the deep end when Carmen had called, but Sarah was safe. Hadn't been in danger, except in his own mind.

  He forced those thoughts away. He was working a case, and putting the world on hold was not an option.

  She returned, a look of confident determination in her expression. In control. Taking action. He smiled inwardly. Being Sarah. Of course, when she was Being Sarah, that usually left him Being Randy. He adjusted his jeans, trying to ignore the tug at his groin. And even more, the tug in his chest.

  "Might be easier if you came in here," she called from the office. "I can show you the computer files, too."

  She sat at her desk, a printout covered with yellow highlights lying beside the keyboard. She tapped the papers.

  "These are the pieces of Hugh Garrigue's pottery that I inventoried." She pointed to the highlighted entries. "I'm trying to reconstruct the ones I sold."

  "Go on." He couldn't resist stepping closer, leaning over her shoulder. The peach scent of her hair, as always, tripped his pulse rate.

  "The sales were good, but there should be a lot more of his pottery out here. I was looking for it until I was … interrupted."

  He glanced at the sheet. Names, many familiar, but mostly abbreviations and what he assumed were Sarah's codes for her merchandise. "I'll help, but I'm clueless about what to look for."

  She tapped a key. He watched the screen fill with images of vases, mugs, bowls and other assorted pottery. Even to his untrained eye, there was a sleek, underlying beauty to them.

  "Hugh Garrigue's?"

  "Right. His glazes are distinctive. He's got his own special formulas and nobody else does anything like them. Even in bits and pieces, I can tell the difference between one of his and anything else in the shop."

  "Are you telling me you're planning to go through all that rubble and put Hugh Garrigue's pots together and see if you can account for all your inventory?"

  "I don't think that'll be necessary, but we need to check. Do you think you'd recognize the pieces?"

  He'd damn well try. "Can you print that out for me for reference?"

  She clicked the icon and the printer whirred.

  "All right," he said. "I'll start on one side of the room, you can take the other. I'll meet you in the middle."

  She smiled. He succumbed. Pulled her out of the chair. Crooked his finger under her chin and tilted her face up. Bent to meet her lips with his.

  She reached for him, threaded her fingers through his hair. Jolts of electricity zinged through each strand, into his scalp, down his neck, his spine, all the way to his toenails.

  His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, seeking permission to enter. Her lips parted in invitation and he accepted, testing the warmth, exploring her lips, her teeth, teasing her tongue.

  She returned his kiss, her tongue following his as he explored familiar territory yet uncovered new treasures. Every kiss with Sarah brought new discoveries.

  Her hands drifted down his neck, along his shoulders, wrapped around him. Until they reached his holster. She broke the kiss and stepped away, obviously reminded of why they were here. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, noticing for the first time she wore the pearl stud earrings he'd given her for her birthday. A brief sense of relief spilled through him. Whatever she'd wanted to talk about a lifetime ago when this night had started, it hadn't been splitting up. If it had been, the earrings would have been in a box, not her ears.

  "Break time's over," he whispered. "But remember where we left off." He tapped her nose.

  In the shop, she made a direct path to the first pile of broken pots and glass, kneeling beside it, picking through it, examining bits and pieces.

  "Careful. Don't cut yourself." Knowing she didn't deal well with blood, he fished a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket. "You should probably put these on to be safe." When she didn't respond, he dangled them in front of her. "Broken glass. Ouc
h. Blood. Not good."

  One hand reached out, snagged the gloves from his hand. He pulled on a pair himself. He wasn't particularly fond of blood, either. "Okay, then, I guess you're looking over here. I'll start over there." He pointed across the room, but he doubted she heard him.

  After searching his first pile and not seeing anything resembling his pictures, he moved to another section of the room, with the same results.

  "Sarah, do you want to come check this? I must not have a good eye, because I can't find any of Garrigue's pottery."

  She got up from where she was searching. "I'm not surprised. That was what seemed off to me. So far, there's not a single shard of a Hugh Garrigue piece anywhere in this room. And the extra box in the storeroom is missing, too."

  Even his tired and distracted brain could jump to the logical conclusion. "This mess was a cover-up."

  Sarah peeled the gloves off, fanning her hands in the air. "So, someone wanted Hugh's pottery and instead of stealing it, they had to wreck my entire shop. Why? If they wanted to cover it up, why not steal a bunch of other stuff, too?" Her voice headed up the decibel scale and Randy reached for her.

  She retreated. As much as he wanted to hold her, he gave her space, letting her be Sarah. He rose, removed his gloves and wiped his hands on his jeans. He twisted and felt the release as his vertebrae clicked back into place.

  "Are you positive it's only the Garrigues that are missing?" he asked.

  Sarah lifted her eyebrows. "Positive? For that, I'd have to put everything together, but if he wanted it to look like vandalism, wouldn't he have broken some of the Garrigues, too? I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say he wanted the Garrigues and broke the other stuff. Did he think we wouldn't figure it out?"

  "Maybe he thought he was buying some time," he said. "So he could get a head start."

  "I'm lost here."

  "I admit, it doesn't sound like this creep was very smart. Maybe he was just mad."

  "Great. I'm the victim of a temper tantrum?" She yanked on her hair. "You have no idea who might have done this, do you?"

  "Not now, no," he admitted.

  "But you will, right?"

  He was quiet for a beat. "I'll do everything I can," he said.

  Her face fell. She'd heard his hesitation. "Are you saying you can't solve it?"

  "Of course not. But I don't make promises I can't keep."

  "What can I do?" she asked.

  "There's not much more we can do tonight. I need to make notes, try to get everything laid out in my head. Find a motive. See whether this could tie into the murder."

  Her mouth dropped open. "Oh my God. I totally forgot. Here I've been upset about things and a man is dead. Maybe Hugh." She buried her face in her hands.

  "Hey, shh." He took her hands, eased them from her face. "It's my job to catch these people. What you've discovered tonight could be a major breakthrough."

  A flash of pride crossed her face. "So why don't you get back to work? A murder has priority and rightly so."

  He rubbed his temples. "Not tonight. Come home with me. Or let me come home with you. I'm tired, you're tired, and I want to be with you."

  "But the case? You're not going to work on it?"

  "It's not that I wouldn't work round the clock for you, Sarah, but there's nothing more I can do tonight, other than make a call to County, which I'm going to do. They're the ones working on the murder, and since Garrigue doesn't live in Oregon, it's even further out of my hands. Not to mention I'm officially in violation of the department's new no overtime policy."

  "No overtime? But you're a cop. I thought cops worked 24/7."

  He tried not to let his frustration show. "As a department, yes. As individuals, not so much anymore. The town council passed the ruling. Budget cuts." He tried not to think beyond the no overtime ruling. Like the no job ruling.

  "Well, are they going to hire more cops to cover the hours, if they won't let you work overtime?"

  He laughed. "Yeah, right. Maybe they'll figure out a way for the crooks to work forty-hour weeks." He kissed her palm, then folded her fingers closed. "So, where to? Your place or mine?"

  She sighed. "My place, I guess."

  From her tone, she didn't seem happy about it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah followed Randy's F-150 to her apartment. Before they'd left, Randy had called the county sheriffs and updated them on the pottery lead. Although he was a car-length ahead of her, it seemed his grim attitude created a bubble of gloom that included her Element. Budget cuts. No overtime. Knowing how seriously Randy took his job, she understood how frustrated he must be. And how could the town council put money above the safety of its citizens? Someone was grandstanding, she figured. Trying to prove how much money he saved the town. For what? So people could break into her shop because there wasn't anyone around to notice?

  Randy parked in the slot next to hers behind the building. She got out of her car and waited while he yanked his small canvas tote from the floor behind his seat. She smiled, knowing it contained clean underwear, a fresh shirt and basic toiletries, because a case could keep him out all night—at least that was the reason he'd given her when he conveniently happened to have it with him after one of their earlier dates.

  His expression was as stony as it had been when he'd been talking to the deputies.

  She broke the silence. "Always prepared, aren't you?"

  Finally, his features softened. "Hope springs eternal."

  "Randy … I'm tired. So are you."

  He nodded. "I'm spending the night, so I'll need this in the morning. I'll sleep on your couch if you prefer, but I would rather hold you. Nothing more." His lips curved upward. "Unless you ask."

  "Let's go up."

  He insisted on checking her apartment before he let her go in. Resignedly, she handed over her key. Behind the closed door she paced in the hallway along with the new swarm of butterflies in her stomach at the reminder someone could have been in her home.

  He returned and waved her inside like a palace guard granting entrance. Strains of quiet piano music played in the background. She recognized it as one of the CDs Randy had given her. Mozart, she thought, although she still couldn't put a title with the piece. Too many numbers. Didn't matter to her. It was soothing and that's what she needed right now.

  "You want to sit for a few minutes?" she asked. "I'm still a little wired." She crossed to her entertainment center and opened the side cabinet door. "Brandy or Irish?"

  He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Not hot chocolate? Chamomile tea?"

  "Not tonight. I had something stronger in mind."

  He shoved his hair off his forehead. "Irish, thanks."

  "Why don't you get the glasses?"

  While Randy was in the kitchen, she unscrewed the cap of the Jameson she'd bought for him. She held it to the light, checking the level. About half full.

  See. Not half empty. You're an optimist. You've never let anything interfere with your shop and this is just another setback. What's one more?

  Randy appeared with two glasses. She poured a generous serving of the Jameson for him and a more modest portion of brandy for herself. Her usual libation when she wanted more than wine was a quick glug of the brandy in her chamomile tea, but tonight she went for the full-strength approach.

  Randy settled into the corner of the couch. Still unsettled, she took the opposite end.

  "So," she began. "Tell me about this new no overtime policy. Does this mean you'll be working eight-to-five Monday through Friday instead of the 24/7 deal?"

  His face clouded. "I don't know exactly how it'll play out. My guess is they'll try to stagger my days and Kovak's so we have someone on duty or on call every day."

  "What about the regular cops? Like that guy who came to my shop tonight?"

  "In a small force like ours, we're all regular cops. Some of us have more specialized duties, that's all."

  "Do you think you might end up spending more time doing non-detectiv
e stuff?" She couldn't imagine Randy in a uniform—well, okay, she could and she kind of liked the image, but that was for an entirely different reason.

  "I don't know, Sarah." He took a long swallow of his whiskey. "One day at a time."

  Part of her liked the idea of him being around more. But one look in his eyes told her she couldn't stand being responsible for dimming the light. Last night, she'd almost told him he might have to choose between her and her job. Now, she was glad they hadn't reached that point.

  Because if it wasn't about her anymore, but about the new rules—the town council would be the bad guys. Could he adjust? Or would he stop being the good cop she knew he was and go through the motions, putting in his eight hours each day, having actual days off?

  Thoughts rammed through her head like the bumper car ride at the fair. A dead man. Hugh Garrigue? Randy's job. That Special Something. Being scared. Broken merchandise. Randy. Staying in business. Being scared. Randy.

  Tears welled and burned. Lower down, something else burned. She set her glass on the coffee table.

  "Hold me," she whispered.

  In a heartbeat he was at her side, arms around her, drawing her so close she could barely breathe, yet she wanted him closer. To hold her tighter. To let him do what he wanted. To protect her. To make everything but the two of them go away. She could be her own Sarah later. Now, she wanted to be Randy's Sarah.

  "Kiss me," she said, lifting her head. "Touch me. Take me someplace far away."

  He slid his hands from her back to her bottom, cupping her, lifting her as he stood. She wrapped her legs around his waist, aware of his arousal but more aware of her own. She laced her fingers through his hair, drew his lips against hers, probed with her tongue, trying to quench the fire within her and stoke it at the same time. Molten lava pooled between her legs.

  Her heart pounded behind her sternum, thudded in her ears. Frantic fingers tugged at Randy's shirt. The short hallway to her bedroom stretched for endless miles. Their bodies caromed off the walls. Somehow they were on her bed, still kissing. Somehow her clothes came off. Cool air on bare skin heightened her arousal. Somehow her brain sent a message to her hands.