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He’d resigned himself to doing his duty toward her and their child—nothing else. Just his duty

But now, someone had hurt her and could have hurt his baby. Something primal swelled up within him, adding to the mix of anger and that other emotion he couldn’t name.

“Rache,” he said, “I swear, I’m going to find out who did this. And until I do, I’m not letting you out of my sight. You and that baby are my responsibility, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone get close enough to hurt you again.”

Rachel’s brow wrinkled and she looked down at the water glass.

She hadn’t liked what she’d heard, and he knew why. His intention had been to reassure her, but it hadn’t come out exactly right. He’d sounded harsh and angry.

It appeared she didn’t believe him. She had to know he could take care of her. So why did he get the feeling she didn’t want him to?

About the Author

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

Mallory loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats.

She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Mills & Boon.

Detective
Daddy
Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the girls at the beach house.

Chapter One

Ashton John Kendall stormed through the squad room, ignoring the curious gazes of his fellow detectives. He headed straight toward the back, where the Crime Scene Investigations unit had their desks.

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, after delivering the bad news to his family. God, that had been hard.

He could have talked to Rachel last night as well, but—no. He’d been too angry. Way too angry.

Problem was, eight hours of tossing and turning hadn’t lessened his fury one bit. Hell, he hadn’t even stopped at the coffee shop for his usual coffee and casual flirting with the blonde barista.

He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. That was odd. Rachel wasn’t at her desk.

She was always here by this time. He glanced at his watch to be sure. Eight-thirty. During the weeks when they’d dated, he’d found out how obsessive she was about being on time. She liked to get any paperwork out of the way first thing before heading to the lab, so her schedule would be clear in the case of an emergency.

“Damn it, where is she?” he snapped to no one in particular.

“Good morning, Ash,” the transcriptionist sitting at a tiny computer table against the wall said.

He smiled at her and tried to tamp down his anger. “Hi, Vanessa. How’s your brother?” He and Vanessa had dated for a short while a couple of years ago. They’d had fun.

She beamed at his question. “He’s doing really well. He’s acting like his old self again.”

“I’m glad. A shame that he had to go through a triple bypass at thirty-three. Have you seen Rachel?”

Vanessa shook her head. “No. She’s been late a couple of days this past week. She should be in anytime now.”

Rachel Stevens late for work—and not once but several times?

Jack Bearden walked in with a steaming cup of coffee. “Morning,” he said. He, Rachel and Frank Marino were the senior criminalists for the Ninth District of the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department.

“What about the lab? Could she be down there?” Ash asked Vanessa.

“Maybe, but I doubt it. You know how she likes to clear her desk first thing in the morning.”

Ash took a deep breath, working to control the anger that was building up again. “Tell Rachel I need to talk to her as soon as she—”

“Ash?”

He whirled around to see Rachel standing there, clutching a big leather purse. She looked pale. “Here I am,” she said, spreading her hands and offering a smile that looked pasted on.

Just seeing her ramped up his anger another notch. “Yeah, we need to talk,” he snapped.

Rachel ducked her head and slid past him to her desk. She laid down her purse and started to take off her raincoat, but apparently decided to leave it on. She slid her fingers around the back of her neck to free her ponytail.

“Have a seat,” she offered, pointing to a straight-back chair.

“Not—here,” he grated.

Rachel looked up, startled, as did Vanessa and Jack. Ash sucked in a breath and consciously relaxed his jaw. “Can we—?” He inclined his head in the general direction of the squad room.

She studied his face, her own still pale, her lips pressed tightly together. Then she nodded and stepped past him.

“Where?” she asked evenly.

“Room three.” Interrogation Room Three wouldn’t be occupied unless there had been a drug raid or a gang war during the night. Sure enough it was empty.

Ash held the door for her, then closed it behind him. Rachel sat down and folded her arms. She looked miserable—and guilty. As well she should.

But she also looked small and scared. A hollow feeling in the middle of his chest, which had been there ever since he’d cooled things between them, began to throb. He rubbed the spot with his knuckles. Maybe it was indigestion.

“Ash?” Rachel said tentatively. “Will this take long? Because I’ve got a lot to do this morning.”

He quelled the urge to stand over her as if she were a suspect. Instead he pulled out a chair across from her and sat, flattening his palms on the tabletop.

Rachel watched him, her eyes wide in her pale face. Pink spots rose in her cheeks. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

She looked frightened. He knew he could be formidable. His brothers used to call him the berserker when they were kids. But he’d never turned his wrath on a woman. With an effort, he composed his face. He wanted her to speak first. Wanted her to own up to what she’d done without him having to drag it out of her. Own up and apologize.

She frowned and her gaze dropped to his hands. She took a long, shaky breath. “Ash, I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“You don’t?” he interrupted, irritated by her hedging. “Really? You didn’t think I’d find out eventually? I guess you hoped I wouldn’t get wind of it until the official announcement.”

Rachel recoiled as if he’d slapped her. “The official—?”

Ash leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Do you know I had to sit my family down last night and tell them? Can you imagine how devastated they were? Especially Natalie.”

He pushed his chair back and stood. He was too angry to stay seated any longer. He walked over to the two-way mirror and watched her reflection.

To his surprise, she was staring at him with a look of confused horror on her face. Was it a distortion of the mirror? He turned. No. She still looked confused.

“Natalie devastated? I’m not sure what you’re talking about—” Rachel stopped, biting her lip. She rubbed her temple with two fingers. “Wh-what did you say to them?”

“Come on, Rach, what do you think I said?”

Rachel blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. She shook her head. “I don’t think I und—”

“That’s right,” he interrupted. “You didn’t think. You obviously didn’t consider what this would do to me. To my family. Why didn’t you refuse? I’ll bet it was Meeks, wasn’t it? I know you’ve been seeing him. Are you two still tight? Did he talk you into doing it?” She’d dated Tim Meeks, an assistant district attorney, for a few weeks after Ash had delivered his patented Let’s cool things off for a while spiel. And everybody in the squad knew how ambitious Meeks was.

Rachel swiped at the tear, her eyes narrowing. For the first time she didn’t look terrified. He was relieved. Even though he was angry enough at her to spit nails, he hadn’t intended to make her cower.

“Tim? Talked me into—?” She looked down at her hands just a second, then back up at him. Gone were the confusion, the horrified expression, even the guilt. In their place was what looked like relief.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said archly. “I feel like I walked into the middle of a suspense thriller. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me just exactly what you think I’ve done, and why you think Tim Meeks talked me into doing it.”

Now Ash was confused. But his stoked fury overrode all other emotions. “You know, I have friends in the D.A.’s office, too. My friend was kind enough to give me a heads-up. I appreciated the advance warning. Of course, I’d have appreciated it more coming from you.”

“Warning?”

Ash slammed down his palm on the table. “Would you stop acting like you just landed on the planet?” He clenched his jaw. “Rick Campbell—I’m assuming you know who he is?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Small-time burglar, loser, slaughtered my parents in their beds twenty years ago?”

Rachel’s eyes went wide. She didn’t acknowledge his question.

“Is it coming back to you now? His family finally managed to convince District Attorney Jesse Allen to reopen the case and retest the DNA. They’re sure that DNA evidence will prove their son didn’t murder my parents.”

“DNA evidence? Oh, my God.”

Ash studied Rachel. Was that surprise or guilt? Of all the terms he might use to describe her, including dedicated, professional, beautiful, sweet and sexy-as-hell, the words sneaky, underhanded or traitorous would never come to mind.

“What? Suddenly you remember what you did? Dr. Rachel Stevens, Criminalist, DNA Profiling? It was Meeks, wasn’t it? He got you to do it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” she whispered, her face blanching. The pink spots were gone now. “It was a blind request.”

“Right,” he retorted. “You expect me to believe—” But Ash didn’t get to finish, because Rachel moaned and put her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, no,” she mumbled. She shot up out of her chair. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well,” she muttered as she lurched toward the door.

“Hey, come back here. I need to know the results—” But she was through the door and rushing down the hall, her hand over her mouth.

Ash stared, openmouthed, at her back as she ran from the room.

RACHEL SPLASHED MORE cold water on her face, then let it run over the pulse points in her wrists. She shivered.

Her doctor had told her the nausea usually started at around six weeks. She supposed she was lucky that she’d made it all the way to eight. He’d also told her that with her petite five-foot-three-inch frame, she’d probably be showing in no time.

She turned sideways, let her raincoat slide down her shoulders and arms to the floor and held up the hem of her top. She sucked in her belly and squinted at the mirror. It was a little bit round. And most of it wouldn’t suck in. As much as she hated it, the doctor was right.

Another wave of nausea hit her, so she splashed some more water on her face and using her hands as a cup, drank a couple of cold mouthfuls.

Then she patted her face dry, picked up her raincoat and went back to her desk. Under the guise of studying a DNA report that had just hit her desk, she thought about Ash and his accusations.

She’d been sure he was talking about her pregnancy at first, as impossible as that was because she hadn’t told anyone yet. But ever since her doctor had confirmed that indeed she was pregnant, she’d felt like she was walking around with a big neon sign over her head.

The longer Ash had railed at her, the more confusing his words were, until he said Campbell and DNA.

She’d immediately realized what had happened. The knowledge that the DNA she’d run for the police commissioner had belonged to the man who’d murdered Ash’s parents had turned her already queasy stomach upside down.

If she’d stayed in the room one second longer, she’d have puked all over the table.

The request, which had come two weeks before, had hardly surprised her. The police commissioner’s chief of staff had called her about a special assignment. It was rare to get a request from the top, but it happened. Rachel herself had gotten two previous requests from the commissioner’s office.

This request was to run DNA analysis and comparison on a cold case. The commissioner’s chief of staff had asked her to pick up the package from the commissioner’s office herself.

Of course, she’d been curious when she’d seen the sanitized documents and unlabeled samples, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to make an analysis and comparison blind, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. She’d performed the tests and written her report and, per the commissioner’s request, personally delivered the whole packet to his office.

Now she knew which case it was. The Christmas Eve Murders. One of the most widely publicized murders in St. Louis’s history. The victims were Joseph and Marie Kendall, beautiful, wealthy and successful. The prominent St. Louis couple had been murdered in their bed on Christmas Eve while their four children, Devin, Ashton, Thaddeus and Natalie, slept peacefully, dreaming of sugarplums, in a nearby wing.

Rachel shuddered as nausea spread through her again. A few deep breaths warded it off. She dug into her purse for a package of crackers and nibbled on one as she processed everything Ash had said.

What surprised her—and hurt her—most was that he actually thought she’d had anything to do with reopening the case. He wasn’t thinking clearly, because he knew how her job worked. In the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, a not insignificant part of DNA analysis was cold cases.

As a Senior Criminalist #1, DNA Profiling, she processed requests for analysis ranging from appeals from lawyers claiming their clients were falsely imprisoned, to court cases where previous DNA evidence was called into question. Another large part of her job was rechecking and verifying analyses done by outside labs.

She had no control over which cases she reran. She merely delivered on her assignments. Her position was cut-and-dried. She couldn’t do favors for anyone if she wanted to.

Ash’s accusation that she would have done that kind of favor for Tim Meeks was preposterous. Insulting even.

As if she’d jeopardize her job for the scrawny, preppy A.D.A. She’d gone out with him a time or two after Ash had done what every female in the department had warned her that he would do—wooed her, won her and made her fall in love with him, then dumped her.

The women were right about his legendary charm, too. He’d eased away so cleanly and smoothly that it had hardly hurt—at first.

“So what was that about?” Vanessa asked, twirling her chair around. “I’ve never seen Ash lose his cool like that. What did you do to him, girl?”

Rachel arched her neck and massaged a knotted muscle there. Then she shook her head and chose her words carefully. “He’s upset about a case. He had some questions about the DNA.” She hoped the hint that she and Ash were discussing technical DNA questions would quash Vanessa’s interest. She was right.

“Oh, okay. I thought you might have managed to make our local Casanova angry. So far Ashanova is batting a thousand. He’s the only man I’ve ever dated that I still like, even after he broke up with me.”

Rachel regarded Vanessa. She was dark-haired, pretty and had a fair share of men hanging around. But Ash was in his early thirties while Vanessa couldn’t be more than twenty-five. What had he seen in her? Okay, besides the obvious. “How’d he break up with you?”

Vanessa studied her nails. “You know, I’m not sure I can explain it. It just sort of happened.”

Rachel nodded. It had just sort of happened with her, too. And Vanessa was right. It was impossible to explain. Somehow, he’d gone from sexy heat to casual cool, and she’d emerged without a scratch—well, except for the baby.

She ran her palm across her tiny baby bump, unable to keep a smile from her face. She was absolutely thrilled about the baby. She was fine with raising it alone. Women did that all the time, and her mother had already been saying for years that she’d be chief babysitter for her future grandkids. And Rachel wasn’t worried about providing for her child because she had an extremely well-paying job.

Speaking of which—she needed to get back to it. She moved her mouse to wake her computer. But instead of picking up where she’d left off the day before with a case involving three suspects, all of whom had left their DNA at the crime scene, she went to the search function and pulled up the Christmas Eve Murders case. She paged down to the summary report.

She’d heard of the case, of course. Everyone had. The Kendalls had been prominent on the social and business scenes in St Louis. The tragic story of their murders was embedded into the history of the city.

She skimmed the summary. Now a captain, Charles Hammond had been the lead investigator on the case. Her “uncle” Charlie had been her dad’s best friend and fishing buddy until her father was killed in the line of duty.

She continued reading. An ex-con named Richard Campbell had been arrested skulking around the upscale neighborhood of Hortense Place where the Kendalls lived, on that Christmas Eve twenty years before.

In a statement to the press, then-Detective Hammond had reported that Campbell had two previous convictions for burglary. He’d been out on bail when the murders occurred. Based on Campbell’s rap sheet and the preliminary investigation, Hammond said the murders appeared to be impulsive rather than premeditated, perhaps a robbery gone bad.

An eyewitness placed Campbell close to the Kendall estate that evening, carrying jewelry and rare coins, later found to be from nearby houses he’d broken into.

Rachel read another couple of paragraphs but the only additional bit of evidence mentioned was that Campbell had scratches on his right arm and Marie Kendall had tissue and blood under her fingernails.

Of course Campbell swore he was innocent and also that the scratches had happened as he had crawled out the window of the last house he’d burglarized.

“Didn’t anyone check the window for blood?” she muttered. She’d need to pull the case file to check on that, and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be granted access to it, not now.

She took another tiny bite of cracker as she double-checked the date of the murders. She shook her head. Twenty years ago DNA profiling was in its infancy—newborn in fact. The vast storehouse of specific identification information that Rachel took for granted hadn’t even been dreamed of when the Kendalls were killed.

But damning circumstantial evidence plus public outrage over the cold-blooded murder of a prominent St. Louis couple had resulted in a quick conviction. Campbell had received two consecutive life sentences.

Dear God. Rachel sat back in her chair, her hand over her mouth. Now, DNA had exonerated Rick Campbell. Twenty years ago, not one but two families had been destroyed—the Kendalls and the Campbells. Now, one family, the Campbells, was healed—scarred but healed, while the other, Ash’s family, was being destroyed all over again.

“What?” Vanessa said, turning toward her.

Rachel started. Had she spoken aloud? “What? Oh, nothing. Sorry. Talking to myself.”

Vanessa looked at her oddly. “Okay,” she said, and turned back to her computer.

Rachel leaned her elbows on her desk and covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do? She thought about the report she’d sent to the police commissioner, especially her conclusions. The last line of her conclusion appeared emblazoned on her eyelids, as she reviewed the last paragraph in her mind.

The DNA analysis of Sample 90-12-335 yields a 99.9935% probability that the tissue, blood and hair samples found at the scene belong to the same individual. These samples, compared to the submitted sample, 11-09-125, yield only a 0.0000003% match. Conclusion: The samples found at the crime scene and the submitted sample do not match. The two sets of DNA are distinctive and belong to two different people.

I’m so sorry, Ash, she said silently. So very sorry. How was she ever going to face him again? She was already carrying one secret that would change his life forever. Now she had a second. Within days, he and his family would know that Rick Campbell, who’d served twenty years for the murder of Joseph and Marie Kendall, was irrefutably innocent. The real murderer was walking around free.

Chapter Two

Late that afternoon, Rachel stood in the living room of Ash’s two-bedroom house for the first time in two months, trying not to cry. She was still devastated about the DNA analysis, and hyperemotional anyway, because of her pregnancy. Then, just as she’d been about to leave for the day, Ash had stopped by her desk and told her—no, ordered her—to pick up the last of her things from his house, and leave the key he’d given her.

So here she was, where some of the best times of her life had taken place. Ash was the sexiest, funniest, sweetest and most charming man she’d ever known. The passion between them had flared like a supernova and had never dimmed. At least hers hadn’t.

Her friends at work had warned her about him. Behind his back they called him Ashanova and joked that his motto was love ’em and leave ‘em—happy.

She’d of course thought she was different. And she was—at least in one way. As far as she knew, none of the other women he’d dated had ended up pregnant.

Her hand drifted to her tummy and she smiled through the tears that streamed down her cheeks. This little baby was an accident, although Rachel would never tell him or her. Sadly, on her part, this baby had been conceived in love. Too bad the father had just been having fun.

She brushed away the tears from her cheeks and surveyed Ash’s normally neat house. It was a mess. Half a pizza sat congealing on the coffee table, along with a couple of empty beer cans. She glanced into his bedroom. The covers were piled on the floor and two empty glasses sat on the nightstand. A pile of dirty clothes lay in the doorway to the bathroom.

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. If she hadn’t already confirmed it by the circles under his eyes, she knew it now. Looking at his rumpled bed, she could picture him tossing and turning as he tried to shut out visions of his slaughtered parents.

And she couldn’t even blame him for his anger. His whole life—and the lives of his family—had just been toppled like Humpty Dumpty. He’d gone through the horror of losing his parents twenty years ago. Now, he had to face a new horror, an even more devastating one. Whoever had killed his parents was still out there—free.

But even if she’d known whose DNA she was comparing, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She had an obligation to the victims, to the department, and yes, even to the suspects, to not only uncover the truth, but to keep the information confidential.

She debated for a second whether to make his bed and straighten up, then immediately thought better of it. He’d probably think she was trying to get back in his good graces. Her best bet was to pick up her things and get out before he got home.

Her things. What had she left here anyway? She hadn’t moved in with him, so anything she’d left had been accidental. Sort of.

She shook her head in frustration as she looked in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and found a soft-bristle toothbrush and a hair clip. In the nightstand she discovered her favorite watch, and on his dresser was a gold hoop earring she’d been sure she’d lost.

Had she subconsciously left these things here in hopes of reminding him of their passionate nights and the weekends they’d spent making love, sleeping, eating, watching a ball game or a movie and then making love some more? She couldn’t really deny it.

She stowed the few belongings in her purse and headed toward the front door. As soon as she crossed the threshold into the living room, the smell of the leftover pizza sent nausea crawling up her throat again. Holding her breath, she hurried into the kitchen and ran a glass of cold water from the refrigerator door dispenser and leaned against the counter, sipping it.

The cold liquid cooled her throat and lessened the nausea a little bit. But when she straightened, stars danced in front of her eyes and her head felt woozy. She knew the signs. Ever since she was little, those stars had preceded light-headedness and, if she didn’t sit or lie down immediately, fainting. She hoped she wasn’t going to see stars her entire pregnancy.

She took the water over to the kitchen table and sat down. She rolled the cold plastic against her forehead, hoping to clear her head and stop the dizziness. But the stars got brighter. So she rested her forehead on her folded arms—just for a minute, until the queasiness dissipated. Then she had to get out of here.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to be here when Ash got home.

ASH HAD JUST COME OUT of the grocery store when his phone rang.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

“Thaddeus, little brother. Thank God. I figured I wouldn’t hear from you for a week—or a month.”

“Well, the words family emergency sort of cut through the usual red tape. What’s going on? Is everyone all right?”

“Red tape? Are you embedded with the troops somewhere?” Thad was a photojournalist with a renowned news magazine, not a special agent. How much red tape could there be?

There was a brief pause, then Thad spoke. “Figure of speech,” he said. “So what’s the emergency? Is everybody okay?”

“Everybody’s okay, but I’ve got some bad news.”

“What?” Thad’s voice sharpened.

“The new D.A. here accepted the Campbell family’s petition to have Campbell’s DNA run against the blood and tissue they found under Mom’s fingernails.”

“The DNA?” Thad repeated. After a short pause he asked, “Well, it’s Campbell’s, right? I mean, it has to be.”

“I haven’t seen the results. I’m not even supposed to know about it.”

“Your girlfriend, the criminalist, tell you?” Thad knew about Rachel. Whenever he and Ash talked, he always asked who the new flame was and, feeling sorry for his brother, so far away from home and stuck taking pictures of death and devastation in one war-torn country or another, Ash always told him. But they hadn’t talked since he’d broken up with her.

“Ex-girlfriend, and she’s the one who ran the analysis,” Ash said bitterly as he tossed the grocery bags in the backseat of his car and got in the driver’s seat.

“Damn. That stings. Still, she’s the criminalist, right? So it’s her job. Have you told everybody? Or are you waiting for the results?”

Not for the first time, Ash questioned his judgment in letting his aunt and uncle, his brothers and his baby sister know about the petition. Should he have waited for the results to come back? “I told ‘em. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“How’d they take it? How’s Natalie?”

“Terrified. What would you expect?”

“Did the news trigger anything? Did she remember something?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it didn’t. She doesn’t seem to remember finding Mom and Dad at all. All she knows is what she’s been told about that morning.”

“Still—I guess she was pretty shaken up?”

“Yeah. I told her that she ought to see the shrink at Kendall Communications, but she still refuses.”

“I can’t blame her. I’m not so sure it would be a good idea for her to remember what she saw. I wish I didn’t have that picture in my head, and I was five years older than Nat. What about the others? Devin?”

“He’s sure the DNA will come back as Campbell’s, just like I am. Aunt Angie is just worried about all of us, but man—you should have seen Uncle Craig. I thought he was going to have a stroke, right there. I nearly had to wrestle him to the ground to keep him from calling the D.A.”

“Well, Dad was his brother.”

“Yeah, but his reaction was way over-the-top. His face turned purple and he had trouble breathing. Seriously, I thought he was going to stroke out on me.”

“But he’s okay?”

“Yeah. For now.”

“Ash, what if the DNA doesn’t match?” Thad asked.

Ash winced as if dodging a bullet that had struck too close for comfort. “It’ll match,” he said starkly.

“Right. But what if it doesn’t?”

Ash’s shoulders hunched against the question. “I don’t know. Hell, it’s been twenty years. I can’t even imagine that it won’t.”

He heard Thad sigh through the phone. “I know. But I don’t like what my gut’s telling me. Listen. I think I can break away. I’ll let you know when I can be there.”

“You don’t have to do that. There’s nothing you can do to change anything. I just thought you ought to know what’s going on.”

“Nope. I’ve decided. I’m due some time off. I’ll just need to clear it and then find a plane to hitch a ride on. That could take a while. I might end up having to ride with cargo. But I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Great. It’ll be good to see you.”

“Hang on a minute,” Thad said. “You’re not getting away that easy. If Rachel’s status is now ex—big surprise—then who’s the latest flame?”

Ash grimaced. “There’s not one at the moment.”

“Not one? You’ve got to be kidding me. What? Did you two break up yesterday?”

“No. Two months ago.”

“Okay. First, I’m seriously impressed that you remember how long it’s been, and second—two months! That’s got to be a record. What’s the matter with you?”

“Maybe I’m taking a break,” Ash said wryly.

“Maybe.” Thad’s voice had changed. Ash would swear his younger brother was grinning. “And maybe you’re still hung up on her.”

Ash winced. “No. I don’t get hung up.”

“There’s always a first time, even for Ashton Kendall, confirmed ladies’ man.”

“Say goodbye, Thad,” Ash muttered.

“Goodbye, Thad.”

Ash hung up and headed for his house, frowning as he replayed his and Thad’s conversation in his head. Thad had always been able to read him. There was some truth to what he’d said. Ash hadn’t dated anyone since he had broken up with Rachel. He considered his brother’s comment and his own response. Of course he didn’t get hung up. But Rachel was the singularly most irritating woman he’d ever dated. Irritating and interesting.

He shook off those thoughts and concentrated on Thad’s other irritating quality—his ability to drill down to the heart of any situation. Thad’s other question replayed in his mind, the same question that had bothered him ever since he’d heard the news.

The question no one else in the family had asked—not Devin, not Aunt Angie or Uncle Craig and not Natalie.

What if the DNA didn’t match? What if Rick Campbell was innocent?

As ASH TURNED ONTO HIS street, he saw Rachel’s car in his driveway. He looked at his watch. Six-thirty. Damn it. She got off at five. She’d had plenty of time to get here, clear out her stuff and leave.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t already haunted by the ghost of her presence in his home, in his bed—a new experience for him. One he didn’t like. Did she think seeing her in his house would land them back in the sack? At that thought, his body tightened in immediate sexual response.

No! No way. He had let her down gently and moved on, same as always. He loved women, but he wasn’t interested in settling down. Ever.

He’d heard the talk. He knew what people—and by people he meant women—said about him.

Love ’em and leave ‘em—happy. It was true. The phrase summed up his attitude toward women in a nutshell. But since Rachel, he hadn’t found anyone he was interested in enough to ask out.

For a split second he considered turning around and leaving. Give her plenty of time to clear out. He could run over to the mansion, not to see his aunt and uncle, but to check on Natalie, who had moved into the roomy guest cottage a couple of years ago. He wanted to make sure she was doing okay.

Then his stubborn streak kicked in. This was his home. He wasn’t the one who should be leaving. Rachel was. He pulled up to the curb, leaving the driveway clear behind Rachel’s car.

Stalking inside, he stopped short when he didn’t see her. Not in the living room and not in his bedroom. But what he did see took him aback.

Damn, he’d left a mess. He’d had trouble falling asleep, ordered a pizza at midnight that he’d barely touched and then finally drifted into a fitful sleep around four-thirty. He took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose at the smell of cold, stale tomato sauce and cheese. He didn’t mind cold pizza, but he liked it from the refrigerator, not sitting out all day.

He picked up the pizza box and took it into the kitchen to throw into the trash. He stopped cold. Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, her head on her hands, asleep.

“Rach, what the hell are you doing?”

She started, then lifted her head. There was a red patch on her left cheek where it had rested on her hand. “Wha—?” She blinked. “Oh, Ash. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Ash found himself caught by her eyes. He wasn’t sure what it was about those gold-green eyes with the reddish-brown ring around the edge of the iris, but he did know they had the power to make him think crazy thoughts—like how great it would be to fall into bed with her again, or how at thirty-three he was getting a little tired of the chase. How his flirtatious lifestyle wasn’t so much exciting these days as exhausting.

He shook his head to dislodge those thoughts that had been creeping into his mind ever since he’d cooled it between them. He had no intentions of changing anything about his lifestyle—which was why he wanted Rachel’s stuff out of here. He never brought women to his house and this was why.

Invariably, once a woman got a toe in the door, she started nesting—leaving things in his bathroom, his bedroom, sometimes even in his bed.

Plus, he didn’t like the silly twinge that squeezed his chest every time he opened his medicine cabinet and saw Rachel’s toothbrush.

“Well, you’re awake now,” he said ungraciously. “Did you get all your stuff?”

She nodded and stood, closing her eyes for a couple of seconds. She was pale as she picked up her purse. “I hope you don’t mind, I got—some water,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath.

Ash frowned. What was wrong with her? Was she upset that he’d told her to come and clear her stuff out of his house? He was the one who had a right to be upset, not her.

She stepped past him into the living room, muttering something that he didn’t catch.

“What?” he asked, following her.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Nothing.” She hurried toward the door.

“Rach, wait a minute.”

She stopped without turning around.

“We never got to finish our conversation this morning.”

She turned. The red patch on her cheek stood out against her pale skin. “You call that a conversation? I’d call it an interrogation. You were really at the top of your game.”

Ash shrugged. He wasn’t happy with the way he’d acted, although for the most part, he felt like it was justified. Okay, maybe not slapping the table. “Why didn’t you give me the courtesy of letting me know you were running the DNA found on my parents’ bodies?”

“Come on, Ash,” Rachel said, sounding exasperated. “I didn’t know whose sample it was. It was a special request, with a one-day turnaround. Everything that could possibly point to a particular case had been redacted. You know how they do those things.”

“You should have known by the date,” he snapped. “How many twenty-year-old Christmas Eve murder cases do you think there have been in St. Louis?”

She leaned her head back against the front door and closed her eyes. “The date was redacted, too.”

“How about the fact that there were two victims, or—”

“Please, Ash. Even if I should have known, I didn’t,” she said, bringing her gaze to his. “Even if I had realized whose case it was, I couldn’t have told you. You know that. And this case was more sensitive than most. It was specially requested by the commissioner.”

“The commissioner?” Ash was shocked. It was the police commissioner who had granted the petition to reopen the case and have the DNA sampled, not the new D.A.?

Ash felt like he’d taken a blow to the stomach. His own boss hadn’t given him the courtesy of a heads-up. That stung.

Rachel was watching him closely. He shut his eyes for an instant, composing his thoughts and blocking the look on her face. She obviously hadn’t meant to say that much, because her lips were pressed together tightly.

“You’re sure? It wasn’t the D.A.?” he asked, even though he knew he hadn’t misunderstood.

“I can’t talk about this,” she protested. “I’m—I need to go.”

Her voice sounded strained, more strained than it should have, given their conversation. He wasn’t about to let her leave until he had all the answers he needed. “No. Not yet. What did you find? What were the results?”

Rachel turned the knob on the door, but her fingers slipped. “I—can’t—”

He stepped toward her. “Rachel, did the DNA match? This is my parents’ murder we’re talking about. I need to know!” he demanded.

“Ash, stop it. You know I can’t tell you anything.”

“This is me,” he said, thumping his chest. “I was asleep down the hall while that man murdered my mom and dad. My baby sister found them on Christmas morning. She was six years old. Six. Can’t you understand what this means to me—to my family?”

He was so close to her now that he could see sweat beading on her forehead. Her face had lost all its color, and her lips were pinched so tightly together that their corners were bluish-white.

“Rach?”

“I—can’t,” she gasped. “I just can’t—” She turned and tried again to twist the knob and open the door. But her fingers slid off.

“Ash—?” she whispered. “Help—”

And she collapsed.

Chapter Three

By the time they got to the hospital, Rachel was alert and begging the EMTs to let her go home. But to Ash’s relief they didn’t pay the least bit of attention to her.

She’d only been unconscious for a few minutes, but it was long enough to scare the spit out of him. One second she’d been turning the knob on his front door and the next, she’d collapsed directly into his arms. He’d lowered her gently to the floor and made sure she was breathing, then he’d tried to wake her, but she’d been out cold.

He’d called 9–1–1 and identified himself as a detective with the Ninth District of the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, and ordered an ambulance.

By the time he’d hung up, Rachel had stirred. But she was nearly incoherent, so he’d made her stay on the floor and cradled her head until the EMTs got there.

Now he was pacing the waiting room floor like an expectant father as he waited for the doctor to finish examining her. They’d probably run a bunch of tests. Hell, they could be here until midnight.

A woman—who’d been sitting in the waiting room knitting ever since the nurse had deposited him in this drab little room that smelled of old coffee—looked up at him. “Your wife?” she asked.

Ash stared at her for a second, uncomprehending. “Uh, no. A coworker.”

“A coworker?” the woman said meaningfully, then she held his gaze until he relented.

“And you?”

“My son,” she said. “He came home tonight with a bloody nose. He got into a fight.”

“It’s broken? How old is he?”

She nodded with a sigh. “He’s thirteen. Old enough to know better, but not old enough to restrain himself.”

Just then a nurse appeared in the doorway. Ash and the woman both turned to her.

“Mr. Kendall?”

He stepped forward.

“Ms. Stevens is ready to go. You can follow me.”

“What happened? Is she okay?”

The nurse gave him an odd, knowing look. “I’ll let her tell you all about it.”

The nurse led him to a cubicle and slid the curtain back. “Here you go, Ms. Stevens. I’ll send the aide with the wheelchair.”

“I don’t need a wheelchair.”

The nurse looked at Ash, who nodded, then turned back to Rachel. “Oh, I think you do. We don’t want to take a chance that you might faint again.”

Ash felt a jolt of relief to see that Rachel had color in her cheeks. She looked a hundred percent better than she had when he’d brought her in.

“You look like a different person,” he said. “What did the doctor say?”

Rachel busied herself with her purse. “My blood sugar was low.”

“That’s all? You passed out because you hadn’t eaten?” Ash’s anger rose again, this time because he knew she was lying. Her answer had been too quick, too flip.

“That’s not exactly how low blood sugar works,” she retorted, “but basically, I guess you could say that.” She wouldn’t look at him, just kept rummaging in her purse until the aide came with the wheelchair.

She was definitely hiding something. A sudden thought sent a pang of fear arrowing into his gut. Was something wrong with her? Something serious? No, that wasn’t it. The nurse hadn’t seemed worried or sad. She’d seemed more—secretive, as if she knew something he didn’t know.

The aide kept up a stream of conversation, or more accurately, prattle, all the way to the emergency entrance. As the wheelchair turned the corner a few steps ahead of Ash, he heard a deep voice call Rachel’s name.

He turned the corner in time to see that the owner of the voice was in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck. He was shaking Rachel’s hand.

“—and congratulations,” he said with a smile before he hurried away.

Congratulations? Why would any doctor say that to a patient?

He thought back to the nurse’s secretive look.

Oh, hell. Ash could think of only one reason for the medical staff’s reactions, and that reason sent lightning bolts of shock all the way to his toes.

There weren’t many things Ashton Kendall was afraid of. He’d discovered on that fateful Christmas Eve so long ago that life was too short to spend it in fear.

He’d transformed the grief and fear that he’d learned way too young into fierce determination. He’d turned the helplessness and anger into a hunger for justice and a career. And finally, he’d filled the empty place in his heart with a casual, carefree charm that earned him lots of dates and friends without getting him into an emotional tangle.

But he wasn’t sure if he could face what he’d just been hit with.

Was he about to become a father?

RACHEL’S HAND FELT NUMB where the doctor had shaken it, but it was not as numb as her heart. She waited without breathing to see what Ash was going to say. She knew he’d heard the doctor because she could feel his gaze boring into her back. Besides, she didn’t dare look at him. If he hadn’t already figured out what the doctor had meant by his congratulations, he’d see it written all over her face.

About that time, he walked past the wheelchair.

“I’ll get the car,” he said shortly as he stalked toward the elevators without looking back. He sounded just like he had when he’d found her asleep in his house.

Downstairs, he helped her into the car with an offhand gentleness that confused her. And he didn’t say anything on the drive back to his house, where her car was still parked in his driveway. But he kept glancing over at her, a bemused expression on his face.

Once he’d pulled to the curb and parked, he turned toward her. “I guess congratulations are in order,” he said evenly.

Here it came. Rachel bit her bottom lip and stared at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. His words hovered in the air, demanding an explanation.

“So that’s why you fainted?” he went on. “You’re pregnant.” His voice sounded strained. “Why did you think you had to lie to me about the low blood sugar?”

She squeezed her interlaced fingers together. “It wasn’t a lie exactly. I’ve always had problems with low blood sugar.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at her. “So how far along are you?”

Her head snapped up. “Checking the time frame?” she asked bitterly.

He shrugged and dropped his gaze. His jaw quivered with tension.

“I’m eight weeks pregnant. My ob-gyn told me I probably conceived around the last week in July. His guess is July 22.” She threw the date down as a challenge and waited to see what Ash said.

He knew as well as she did the exact date he’d broached the subject of seeing other people. She’d never been a maudlin person, but that date was branded on her brain. It had been Saturday, August 7, two weeks after their honeymoon-like trip to New Orleans. He’d couched the conversation in terms of friends talking about what they had planned for the fall, but Rachel had recognized it for what it was—the casual, charming brush-off. It had been nine days later when she’d realized she was pregnant.

Now she met his gaze. “But in case you’re wondering, I didn’t rush out and find myself a new man the next day. In fact, I haven’t found one at all.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Look, Ash, I have no intention of making demands on you. I’m choosing to have this baby and it’s my decision and mine alone. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Listen to me. If it’s my baby, then I will take responsibility for it.”

Rachel didn’t hear what he said after the word if. She stiffened. “If?” she repeated. “If? You don’t believe me?” There came the tears, clawing their way up from her throat. She swallowed hard. “Well, that makes all of this easier.”

She opened the passenger door and got out. She felt Ash’s hand brush her elbow.

“Rach, wait. Of course I believe—”

But she kept going. Right to her car. She climbed in, started the engine and backed out of the driveway. When she turned the corner, heading toward her own apartment, Ash was still sitting in his car at the curb.

ASH DOUBLED HIS FIST and took a swing at the steering wheel. His hand stung, but luckily, his car was sturdy enough to withstand the blow.

Idiot! How in hell had he let Rachel get pregnant? Of course before the question even formed, he knew the answer. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. Friday, July 22. They’d flown down to New Orleans for the weekend. They’d had a couple of Hurricanes, the deceptively sweet drink so popular on Bourbon Street. They’d gone back to the hotel and made love—a lot.

When Ash had woken up the next morning, he’d vaguely remembered rolling over deep in the night and coaxing Rachel awake. They’d done it two more times. It had been spontaneous and satisfying and—he now knew for sure—without benefit of protection.

He cranked the car and drove to the mansion, bypassing it and heading straight for the guesthouse, where Natalie lived. On the way he called her and asked if she was decent.

Natalie had on a black T-shirt and drawstring pants with red chili peppers on them. She’d twisted up her long blond hair into a knot.

He kissed the top of her head as he stepped inside. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

She preceded him into her small living room and flopped onto her couch, her legs crossed beneath her. She was drinking something red.

“Cranberry juice,” she said. “Want some?”

He shook his head and sat in a chair next to the couch.

“I’m doing okay, Ash. Better than I thought I would be.”

He assessed her. “You sure, squirt? Because you look tired.”

“Thanks.” She laughed. “I didn’t sleep well last night. My brain wouldn’t stop whirling.”

“I know what you mean. Our brains were probably whirling in unison. Bad dreams?”

Natalie looked down at the glass in her hand. “No. Not really. Just couldn’t get to sleep.”

“Have you thought any more about seeing the company psychiatrist?”

Natalie’s pleasant expression darkened. “I really wish you’d drop that idea,” she said. “I am fine. If you just came over here to bully me, you can show yourself out.”

“Apparently this is the week for surprises. I got some weird news tonight.”

“Weird? What do you mean, weird?”

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and closed it again.

Natalie watched him, a small frown wrinkling her forehead. “Okay, Ashton, spit it out,” she snapped—her version of encouraging and sympathetic.

He smiled wryly. “Rachel—Rachel Stevens—is pregnant.”

To his surprise, Natalie’s mouth didn’t drop open in shock. In fact, while her expression at first reflected surprise, it morphed quickly to thoughtfulness to what he could only describe as sheer joy.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “My first niece—or nephew. Good job!” She leaned forward, her right hand in the air. Did she really think he felt like high-fiving her over this?

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nat—”

She pulled back her hand but her enthusiasm didn’t dampen. “This is the best news I’ve heard in a while. I’m going to be an aunt!”

He scowled at her.

“And look,” she said, gesturing at him. “Talk about irony. The Kendall playboy is the first to fall. Congrats! Have you told Dev or Aunt Angela?”

“Nat, stop it! This is not something I want to tell anybody. For sure not Aunt Angie. It is not a good thing. Be serious, would you?”

Natalie beamed at him. “I am being serious. This is seriously fabulous news. Are you getting married right away?”

“No!”

When he saw the shock on Natalie’s face, he realized how loud and sharp his answer had been. “I’m sorry, but I just found out not even an hour ago, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it.”

“Do about it? You think you’re going to do something about it? Unless by do something you mean ask Rachel to marry you and buy a house and get ready to be a husband and a father, I can tell you right now, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Ash leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and running his fingers through his hair. He sat there, palms cradling his head. “Tell me about it. But, Nat, I have never been careless. Ever.”

Natalie frowned at him, her head cocked to one side. “Come on, Ash. Haven’t we had this conversation? Not even condoms are one-hundred-percent effective.”

He stared at her. “I know that, but—”

For a short moment, Natalie held his gaze. Then she stood. “But what? Do you think the baby’s not yours?”

He blew out a breath between his teeth. “Oh, I know it’s mine. Rachel wouldn’t lie. Plus, I know exactly when it happened.”

“Great. So when are you two—you three—getting married?” Natalie grinned at him.

Ash sat up, rubbed the spot on his chest where the hollow feeling resided. He clamped his jaw and forced his mind away from the confusing question of how he felt about Rachel.

“There’s another issue,” he muttered. He wiped his face and looked up at her. “Rachel’s the one who ran the DNA.”

Natalie looked puzzled. “The baby’s DNA?”

“No, no,” he said, leaning forward and again propping his elbows on his knees. “She’s the one who ran the samples from the murders against Campbell’s DNA.”

Natalie’s initial reaction was shock. The color drained from her face. She was quiet for a second, staring past him at nothing in particular. Then her gaze returned to his. “That’s her job, isn’t it? I mean, doesn’t she run all the DNA tests? Did she know whose it was?”

“She says no. She says the paperwork that came with the samples was redacted. But she should have known. It’s not like St. Louis has had that many double murders.”

“Well, that’s true. Wow.” Natalie was quiet for another moment. Then she leaned forward. “She didn’t say anything about the results, did she?”

“Nope. Not a word.” Ash studied his younger sister. “I’m sorry, Nat. I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought you should know. I know you like Rachel.”

“I do. Better than most of the women you’ve dated. She’s a really good person. All that and gorgeous, too. Your baby is going to be a knockout.”

Ash groaned.

Natalie drank the rest of her juice and headed toward the kitchen. At the door she turned around, frowning and rubbing her forehead. “What’s really bothering you, Ash? From what I know of Rachel, she’s honest and kind and good at her job. I don’t know a lot about DNA, but from what I understand, it’s pretty specific. Either the DNA is Rick Campbell’s or it isn’t.”

She set down her glass, propped her fists on her hips and cocked her head. “You have no idea what’s wrong with you, do you?”

Ash spread his hands. “With me? What are you talking about?”

She stalked over to stand directly in front of him. “Come on, Ashton. It’s so obvious. Ash Kendall—Ashanova—” she held up her hands as if displaying headlines “—finally hoisted by his own petard.”

He stood, shaking his head and digging his car keys from his pocket. “You’re not making any sense. I’d better go. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Liar. You wanted me to tell you that everything is all Rachel’s fault. Well, I won’t. You can’t turn and walk away from her like you have every other woman you’ve dated.”

“I’m not planning to. I’ll provide for the baby.”

Natalie poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “You’ll do more than that. You might as well accept it. Rachel’s different, and not because of the baby. You’re in love with her. Everybody knows it. We’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out.”

“You’re nuts,” he said with a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “I’m not in love with her, and you’d better not say a word about this to anyone, especially not Aunt Angie and Uncle Craig. They’re upset enough as it is.”

“I won’t.”

“Swear?”

Natalie held up her right hand. “Swear. It’s going to be fun to watch you squirm. Because sooner or later it’s going to dawn on you that you haven’t stopped thinking about Rachel since the moment you first noticed her.”

Ash ignored her and headed for the door. He turned back. “Nat, you’re sure you’re all right?”

She nodded and smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks for taking care of me. Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“What happens now?”

He wasn’t sure which shocking event she was talking about—Rachel’s pregnancy or the reanalysis of the DNA.

“I mean, if Rick Campbell didn’t do it.”

He shrugged and let out a long breath. “Then I guess I’m going to have to find the man who did kill our parents.”

Chapter Four

By the next afternoon, Ash was sick of hearing Natalie’s voice in his head. You’re in love with her. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He didn’t fall in love. He had fun, sure, and he did love women. But there was no place in his life for a family. He’d decided a long time ago that he didn’t believe in forever.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered in a last-ditch effort to shut up Natalie’s nagging voice. “I’m working on a plan.” He’d start by apologizing to Rachel for being a jerk about her pregnancy and officially offer his help with raising the baby. He’d provide for the child’s rearing and education. And if Rachel agreed, he wanted to be a part of his son’s or daughter’s life.

He’d woken in the middle of the night and discovered, to his surprise, that he wanted his child to know him. He knew Rachel would eventually get married. But she wouldn’t refuse to let him see his child—would she?

He’d tried to call her but she hadn’t answered, so he’d gone over to her apartment. As he stepped up to the door, he noticed it wasn’t locked. It swung inward a fraction of an inch. He frowned. It wasn’t like Rachel to leave her door open. Then he saw the splintered wood on the far side of the door facing.

Rachel! Someone had broken the door in. Adrenaline surged through him, upping his heart rate and tensing his muscles in fight-or-flight response.

He instinctively rose to the balls of his feet as he glanced around at the other three doors off this breezeway, then pulled his Sig Sauer from the paddle holster at the small of his back.

For two seconds, he stood perfectly still, taking deep, long breaths, working to calm his pounding heart. Then he held his gun in his right hand, his left supporting it, took one more deep breath and angled around the door. The sight before him ratcheted up his racing pulse. Rachel’s living room had been turned upside down.

He eased forward, his gun held at the ready, as he took in the tossed couch cushions, DVDs scattered on the carpet, chairs overturned. Where was she? Was she hurt?

He didn’t dare call out until he’d cleared the apartment. He moved across the room to check the bedroom. It was a mess, too, mattresses on the floor, bedclothes scattered, drawers ransacked. But no sign of an intruder.

“Clear,” he whispered, glancing into the bathroom. Crossing to the kitchen, he eased around the door facing and saw Rachel.

She was sprawled on the floor, dark blood staining the crown of her head.

The sight sheared his breath. Only his strict military training and crime scene experience kept him from rushing to her side until he’d verified that there was no one else here. He checked the back door. Locked—a double dead bolt.

Then he crouched down beside Rachel. She was breathing. Relief doused him like cold water.

“Rach, wake up.” He put out a shaky hand. “It’s Ash. Are you okay?” The dark blood in her matted hair was wet and shiny. It had started to ooze down her neck and drip onto the floor.

She stirred, moaning. “Ash?” she muttered. “My head—” She moved to sit up, but he stopped her.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re bleeding from your scalp. Does anything else hurt?”

She turned her head so she could see him, and grimaced. “No. Maybe my knee. He pushed me down.” She got her hands under her and pushed. “Let me sit up,” she demanded.

“Just wait a second. I don’t know if you should move. What about—?” He reached out toward her stomach. “What about the baby?”

Rachel’s head snapped up and her golden eyes searched his. “The baby’s fine,” she said. “But I need to sit up.”

He helped her. When she did, he saw her keys on the floor under her.

She moaned a little, grimaced and then relaxed. She touched her head. Her hand came away stained with blood. “Oh,” she gasped.

Her pain, shock and especially fear rekindled Ash’s anger—not toward her this time but on her behalf. His hand tightened on the gun and his vision darkened. Whoever had hurt her would have to answer to him.

“How long has he been gone?” he asked as the urge to give chase tightened his leg muscles.

“I’m not sure—maybe five minutes.”

“Damn it.” Ash considered running outside to see if he saw anyone suspicious, but he’d already been here three or four minutes. The man was long gone by now.

She touched her head again. “I was afraid to move. Afraid he’d hit me again or kill me. When I first heard your footsteps, I thought he’d come back.”

“You’re sure it was a man?”

She nodded gingerly. “I could tell by his voice.”

“His voice? What did he say?”

“Nothing to me. He was muttering to himself and cursing.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“No.”

“His build? Complexion? Clothes?”

“I—don’t know.” Her gaze met his, wide-eyed, worried. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. How are you feeling? No other pains? Are you sure—?” He stopped, his voice strangled by an odd tightening in his chest. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure the baby’s okay?”

Her fingers spread across her tummy and she met his gaze. Her brow furrowed slightly as she shook her head. “I didn’t hit my stomach or land on it. I’m sure the baby’s fine.”

“Turn your head. Let me look at that cut,” Ash told her. He examined the wound closely. “How badly does it hurt?” he asked.

“Just kind of throbs and stings a little.”

“I don’t think it’s more than a cut. Scalp wounds bleed like crazy.” He took out his phone. “But I’m going to call an ambulance anyhow.”

“No,” she said emphatically.

“Sorry, standard procedure.” He dialed. “This is Detective Ash Kendall. I’ve got a home invasion with injuries,” he said and gave the address. “And send an ambulance.”

Rachel’s hazel eyes sparked with anger. “You’re getting an ambulance out here to bandage a cut on my head?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, standard procedure. They’ll check you out and issue an official report of your injuries. Don’t worry about it. Here, let me help you up.”

He took her hands and helped her to her feet, then guided her to a chair. She seemed so small. His anger at whoever had done this flared again.

He sat across from her, watching her closely. Her eyes weren’t dilated and she looked directly at him, so she wasn’t having trouble focusing. At least she didn’t have a concussion. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’d just lain down for a nap when I heard something. Like wood splintering. I realized someone had broken in the front door. I grabbed my keys and tried to run out the back door, but—” She paused and shuddered. “He grabbed me from behind and hit me on the head.”

“With what?” Ash asked.

“I don’t know. It hurt. I guess I was knocked out for a while, but I could hear him throwing things around and cursing.”

Ash glanced back toward the kitchen. “He didn’t go out the back,” he said.

“No. It’s a double dead bolt, and I guess I fell on top of my keys. He had to have gone out the front.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. “They’ll be here any minute,” he said. “As soon as the EMTs are done with you and the detectives question you, I’ll get you out of here.”

“No. The way it sounded, he tore up everything. I need to put things back.”

Ash stood and held out his hand. “You won’t be cleaning in here for a while.”

“What about my clothes?” she asked.

“Not ‘til CSI gets through. You know the drill.”

Her face shut down. She nodded. “Do you think I could have a drink of water?”

Ash smiled at her. “I think we could manage that.” He filled a glass from the cold water dispenser on her refrigerator and handed it to her. She sipped it carefully, trying not to tilt her head much.

He sat at the table across from her. There was dark, dried blood on her neck and occasionally she’d brush at it with her fingertips.

Ash closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sight of the dried blood catapulted him back twenty years, just as it did every time he worked a violent crime, to the morning he’d woken to hear Natalie’s screams. He’d worked dozens of murders and assaults in his eight years on the job, and every one of them evoked that awful morning.

He’d been thirteen, too young to have prevented his parents’ deaths, but old enough to feel guilty that he hadn’t. Time and wisdom had allowed him to forgive himself.

After all, the kids’ rooms had been in a separate wing of the mansion. The police had said that if their bedrooms had been near their parents’ room, they all might have been killed.

Ash knew himself well enough to know that he’d chosen law enforcement as a way to make up for not saving his parents. Every time he collared a murderer, he felt a little less empty, a little less damaged by his mom and dad’s violent deaths.

Now he was going to be a parent himself. That odd tightness started in his chest again. He’d come over to Rachel’s apartment to acknowledge his responsibility to her and the baby, but now, seeing her so hurt and small, he realized his heart hadn’t really been in it. He’d resigned himself to doing his duty toward her and their child—nothing else. Just his duty.

But now, someone had hurt her and could have hurt his baby—their baby. Something primal swelled up within him—a fierce protectiveness—adding to the mix of anger and that other emotion he couldn’t name.

“Rach,” he said, glancing over at her.

Her eyes met his.

“I swear to God, I’m going to find who did this. And until I do, I’m not letting you out of my sight. You and that baby are my responsibility, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone get close enough to hurt you again.”

Rachel’s brow wrinkled and she looked down at the water glass.

He watched her trace the condensation on its side with a finger. She hadn’t liked what she’d heard, and he knew why. His intention had been to reassure her, but it hadn’t come out exactly right. He’d sounded harsh and angry.

From the look she’d given him, it appeared she didn’t believe him. She had to know he could take care of her. So why did he get the feeling she didn’t want him to?

THE POLICE AND the EMTs arrived at the same time. Rachel found herself in the hands of two young men in scrubs who cleaned the blood from her scalp wound, then called over a policeman who took photographs. Once he was done, one of the EMTs applied something to the cut that stole her breath, it stung so badly.

“I’m putting sterile strips on the cut,” he told her. “It’s not bad enough for stitches. It’s shallow and about two centimeters—that’s about three quarters of an inch.”

She nodded.

“Don’t wash your hair for a day or two, then have it looked at. It should be closing up by then. If your head hurts, take some acetaminophen or ibuprofen. And it would be a good idea if you stayed with someone tonight, so they could check on you about every four hours, just to be sure your pupils are equal in size and you aren’t feeling dizzy or seeing double.”

She didn’t have anyone she could stay with, certainly no one she could call at this hour. But that was okay. She felt fine, except for the throbbing headache and the blurred feeling in her brain.

As she thanked the EMTs, she saw Detective Neil Chasen coming toward her. He was a big man, tall and muscular, with skin so dark it almost looked black. She smiled at him.

“Rachel, how’s your head?”

She made a wry face. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Neil sat down at the kitchen table. “I’ll get this over with as quickly as possible. I need to ask you some questions about the person who attacked you.”

She nodded gingerly. Every movement of her head increased the throbbing. She much preferred the intense but quickly gone burning of the medication to the persistent headache she had now.

“Take me through what happened,” Neil said. “Start with when you got home.”

“I stopped at the grocery after work, so I got home about six. I put the groceries away, and decided to lie down for a few minutes.” She paused, debating whether to tell Neil she was pregnant. She decided it wasn’t relevant. “I don’t think I went to sleep. I heard a crash, like wood splintering, then I heard the front door swing open and hit the wall. It squeaks. So I knew someone had broken in.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“No.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. It read 7:15. “Maybe 6:15 or so?”

“Okay.” Neil was scribbling in his notebook. “Go ahead.”

“I grabbed my keys and ran for the back door, but before I could get there, he grabbed me from behind and hit me on the head.”

“When you say grabbed—”

She closed her eyes, trying to relive the terrifying feeling of his hand stopping her. “I think he caught the back of my shirt.”

“Where’s the wound? Can I look at it?”

“Sure.” She turned her head and pulled the hair away so he could see the cut.

“It’s on the left side.” Neil sat back down and wrote some more. “He must have grabbed you with his right hand and swung the weapon with his left.” Neil acted out his theory. “Maybe a lefty. Then what?”

“I guess it stunned me. I fell. I remember hearing him throwing things around and cursing.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

She nodded. “I could tell by his voice, and—and aftershave or cologne. He smelled like a man.”

“Good. Could you identify the aftershave?”

“No.”

“Did he—touch you again, or talk to you?”

Rachel shuddered at the implications of Neil’s words. “I was afraid to move. I wanted him to think I was still unconscious. He threw something—or kicked something, cursed loudly and slammed the front door.” She took a breath. “I didn’t know whether he’d left or not, so I still didn’t move.”

“Okay. When did you move?”

“I heard someone come in. I could hear their footsteps. Then I heard—I heard Ash’s voice.” Rachel’s eyes filled with tears and she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “I’m sorry, Neil. I was just so scared. I thought the man had come back.”

Neil nodded.

“But it was Ash—” She sniffed.

Neil dug in his pocket and handed her a neatly folded handkerchief. “Have you had a chance to look around? Is anything missing?”

She shook her head and handed back his handkerchief. “I haven’t looked.”

“Why don’t we look now?”

Rachel let Neil take her hand and help her up. They went through the rooms. The man had trashed each one, but for all the disarray, Rachel couldn’t tell that anything was missing. Not even her jewelry, which was scattered across the top of her dresser.

“What about papers, case files, anything to do with a case you’re working on?”

“I don’t bring anything home that has to do with a specific case,” she muttered, grimacing at the stinging pain from the head wound.

“Nothing?” Neil asked. “Not even a laptop or PDA?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing. We have to sign out case files. I’ve never signed one out. If I have to work late, I stay at the office.”

“Does everyone know that? Is it possible that someone might break in here thinking you’ve got files at home?”

“I’m sure it’s possible. You think that’s why he broke in? Why he didn’t steal anything? I thought he was just a burglar who probably didn’t know anyone was home.”

Rachel didn’t want to think about the possibility that the intruder might have targeted her. She worked on sensitive cases, identified dangerous criminals. So she was very happy that her job was insulated from direct contact with criminals and victims.

She knew a lot about police procedure and handling dangerous situations from her dad. He’d taught her how to shoot and clean a gun. She even had a carry permit. Then her dad had been killed when he’d answered a call about a domestic dispute.

After he had died, Rachel, who’d almost let him talk her into going to the police academy despite her mother’s opposition, went back to graduate school and got her Ph.D. in Molecular Biology.

“Could be.”

“What?” Rachel blinked. She’d drifted off into thought. She pressed her fingers against the skin near the cut.

Neil was still talking. “I’ll need a list of your current cases. Is there one that stands out? That might be particularly controversial?”

Rachel bit her lip. Of course there was. The Christmas Eve Murders. Could the man who had assaulted her have been looking for information about Rick Campbell’s DNA? She glanced over at Ash, who was talking to one of the EMTs. She wasn’t supposed to know whose DNA it was. And neither was Ash. She tried to corral her thoughts so she could answer Neil.

“I work a lot with cold cases, where DNA is analyzed or reanalyzed. Those files are usually sanitized.” That was true, as far as it went. She hoped Neil would take the cue and request those official files rather than asking her anything else about them. She knew Neil would find the Christmas Eve Murders in with the rest of her recent cases, but she didn’t want to call attention to it. Let him be the one to bring it up.

“Okay.” Neil pocketed his notebook and stood. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions later, but that’s it for now.” He smiled and shook her hand. “Have you got someplace to go? Need a ride anywhere?”

She shook her head as Ash came over to join them.

“Anything?” he asked Neil.

“Not much. Rachel can’t identify anything that’s missing. I think we’re going to have to assume the break-in was connected with one of her cases until we can prove otherwise.”

“One of her cases? Which one?” Ash glanced at her sidelong.

Neil shook his head. “I’m going to have to get a list of all her recent files—see what turns up.”

Rachel saw Ash’s shoulders visibly relax. He’d been worried she’d tell Neil about Campbell.

“How’s your head?” Ash asked her.

Before she could answer, Neil spoke again.

“There is one more thing,” he said.

Rachel looked at him.

“How did you happen to find her?” This was directed at Ash.

Rachel realized she hadn’t even thought about why Ash had come to her rescue. She’d just been thankful that he was there.

Ash frowned at Neil, then shrugged. “I had something I needed to talk to her about. I got here a little after six, because I figured she’d be home from work by then.”

“You missed her at work?”

Ash’s lips thinned. “This wasn’t work-related,” he said shortly.

Chapter Five

It was nearly midnight before they made it back to Ash’s house. The crime scene guys had cut Rachel a break and allowed her to pack a small bag.

A very small bag, she thought, looking at the change of underwear and the work outfit she’d grabbed. The pants and sweater were a dark chocolate brown. She hadn’t remembered to get shoes, so she’d wear the black pumps she had on with the brown outfit.

Not only would she have the St. Louis police hovering over her, she’d have the fashion police on her tail. She giggled and then winced as the throbbing in her head increased.

She’d seen Ash’s guest bedroom before. It was small and furnished with period pieces that she knew came from his aunt Angela’s attic. As had the comforter—a flowered print with ruffled pillow shams.

Smiling, she turned back the comforter, expecting to find that the bed was bare, but no, it was made—with pink sheets. This had to be the work of his aunt.

A rap on the open door behind her made her jump.

“What’s so funny?” Ash asked. He’d changed from his dress pants and shirt to jeans and a white T-shirt that gave her more than a hint of his rock-hard abs and left his biceps bare. He was holding two folded white towels that made his tanned skin shimmer in contrast.

Her fingers tingled with the remembered feel of his skin, and so did her body. “Funny?” she asked.

“I heard you laughing.”

“Oh. The pink sheets and the floral comforter. I’m guessing you didn’t pick them out yourself.”

“Hmph,” he muttered, and handed her the towels. “I don’t think I have any pink towels.”

“I actually prefer white. They look and feel so clean.”

“Right.” Ash was obviously not enjoying this conversation about linens. “Need anything else?”

She shook her head.

He turned to leave, but she stopped him. “Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for letting me stay here. I’m really sorry about—everything.”

He shook his head, waving away her apology. “It’ll only be for a few days. I can handle it if you can.”

“Handle it?” she repeated. “Please don’t let me put you out.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, backing out of the door. She slammed it behind him, blinking. For some silly reason, his offhand comment had hurt her feelings.

I can handle it if you can. Like he was dreading having her here. No, not even that. It was more like he couldn’t care less whether she was here or ten thousand miles away.

But she remembered the catch in his voice and the concern in his eyes as he’d asked her if the baby was all right. Had she imagined that he was terrified that the baby was hurt?

She rubbed her damp eyes. She was reacting to everything that had happened. That was all. That and her changing body. The doctor had warned her that the hormones that were surging through would make her not only tired, drowsy and queasy, but also highly emotional.

As she ran her palm across her gently rounded stomach, her eyes stung again. She set her jaw in determination. She had to get a grip. She was a scientist, and her job required analysis, not feelings. She couldn’t afford to spend the next seven months fighting back tears.

Piling underwear and a camisole pajama set on top of the towels, she headed for the hall bath. Checking behind the mirror and behind the shower curtain, she discovered there were no toiletries. No soap. No shampoo. Not even toothpaste. She went into the kitchen and found Ash staring at the back of a frozen entrée.

“Do you have shampoo? Soap? Toothbrush and toothpaste?” she asked.

He looked up and frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t bring shampoo or anything with me. Can I borrow yours?”

“You’re not supposed to wash your hair.”

“Soap and toothbrush then.”

He seemed to be studying her, the frown still furrowing his brow. What was wrong with him? “Ash? Soap? Toothbrush?”

“Yeah.” He looked back down at the frozen dinner in his hand. “In my bathroom,” he said.

“Do you want me to cook that for you when I get out of the shower?”

“No.” He opened the freezer and tossed the bag inside. Then he opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got stuff for sandwiches. You hungry?”

“Not really. Just exhausted.” She cocked her head. “Are you all right?”

He let go of the refrigerator door. It drifted shut. “Sure. I’m fine. What about you? Is your head still hurting?”

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