Love Can Be Murder

revive her. But as the water poured over her pounding head, questions about the mysterious events over the past couple of days churned in her mind until things began to muddy. The incident last night with Guy was a case in point: He had offered her a ride home, and she had begun to question his motives. She was starting to suspect everyone in Mojo of evildoing.
    By the time the water ran cold, her headache had eased a bit. She left her hair wet while she flipped through her newly organized closet. The more she thought about it, the more she thought that the person who had done this couldn't have been B.J.—the man was a mess. No, it was a compulsive individual, probably a woman, or maybe a gay man.
    She bit her lower lip—Guy? He did have a key to her apartment, for emergencies and to water the ficus tree if she happened to be out of town for more than a few days. No, he and Marie had been working, and he'd seemed surprised when she'd told him that her apartment had been searched.
    Regardless, she had to admit that the prowler had done an amazing job with her closet.
    She put on a pair of dark jeans and a lime green sweater that she'd forgotten she owned, then dried her hair. Only when she caught herself slicking on pink lipstick did she admit that she was looking forward to seeing B.J. The realization had her reaching for a tissue and wiping off the lipstick. It was one thing to have developed an unhealthy lust for the man as a distraction from her dilemma, but to consciously foster it was something else altogether.
    She prepared a meal of yogurt and blueberries, then turned on the television to catch up on world events, sticking to CNN because she was relatively sure that Mojo wasn't on their radar.
    Wrong.
    Twenty minutes in, she saw the words " Louisiana man found knifed after his ex stabs voodoo doll " scroll across the bottom of the screen. And a few minutes later, the "local cable news update" featured Deke's death prominently. The woman was the reporter who had been waiting for her when she'd left the apartment to go to work yesterday. They showed a clip of her dodging the camera, then jogging away.
    Penny swallowed hard. She looked guilty. And the story was just too juicy—a wife dumped for a younger, blonder version. When she saw the coverage, she, too, was surprised that she hadn't been arrested. There was another clip of Sheena leaving the pink Victorian, wearing a tight black dress and huge sunglasses. Penny rolled her eyes—the woman's mourning clothes, no doubt.
    Although...Sheena didn't look at the camera or talk to the reporter. In fact, overall, she had been pretty low key with the media. Penny would have thought the woman would be granting countless interviews and slipping in a plug for her tanning salon.
    Penny pursed her mouth. Hmm...curious.
    The doorbell rang, and she allowed herself a spike in her pulse—but not a quick check in the mirror. She pushed a button on the intercom next to her door. "Yes?"
    "It's B.J.," he said. "Can I come up?"
    She hesitated. "I'll meet you down there."
    "I've got something for you."
    "If it's doughnuts, I'm not interested."
    He laughed. "It isn't."
    Despite her resolve to resist him, a smile curved her mouth. "Okay, I'll buzz you in."
    She pushed a button to release the lock on the outer door, then opened her apartment door and looked down the stairs. B.J. appeared in the doorway carrying a box. The sight of him alone gave her a sobering little jolt—wow, if she wasn't careful, she might fall for this guy.
    And something told her that falling for B.J. Beaumont would take her to a new level of aloneness when he left.
    "What's in the box?" she asked.
    "Something you desperately need."
    Her mind raced with the possibilities as he reached the landing.
    "No, it's not that," he said, reading her mind. "Something you need even more—130-volt lightbulbs."
    She grinned. "Thank you."
    "If you have a stepladder, I'll change them for you."
    She retrieved a stepladder from the pantry and followed him around as he changed every bulb in her apartment. Such a domestic thing to do, she realized, watching him make short work of the chore. Her heart beat with appreciation...and something else.
    "You've been busy," he said, gesturing to her pristine apartment.
    "Uh-hm," she murmured vaguely, wondering whether to tell him about Jimmy Scaggs and her suspicions.
    He squinted as he climbed down from the stepladder. "Are you okay?"
    She looked into his dark eyes—trustworthy