Love Can Be Murder

having surgery in the morning." They were sequestered in his hotel room on separate "islands," she on one bed with the phone, Capistrano on the other mulling over a manila file of papers. He'd already blown the fully clothed rule she'd laid down by shucking his shirt, while she, on the other hand, still wore her jacket over the shirt he'd loaned her. Zipped.
    And as far as shirtless went, he didn't look half bad. She'd never been attracted to a man with a hairy chest—not that she was attracted to this one. But it was… curious, all that dark hair lying close to his skin. And the muscles...
    "Roxann?"
    She jerked her head up. "Yes?"
    "I asked how long she'll be in the hospital?"
    Her cheeks warmed. "At least overnight, but I encouraged her attorney to consider a psych consult while she's there."
    "The guy seemed like a greenhorn to me."
    She bit her bottom lip. "I thought so, too, but he's nice. And he's staying with her at the hospital."
    "Racking up those hourly charges."
    "No, he took the case for practically nothing. For the experience, I suppose."
    "Cape hasn't shown up?"
    "No. What are you working on?"
    He scratched his head and leaned back against the headboard. His jean-clad legs extended almost the length of the bed. "Just trying to piece together elements of the murder. Sometimes if I keep going over the details, something new will spring out at me."
    She swung her legs over the side of her bed to face him. "You know, you never once asked if I did it."
    He looked up. "If you did what?"
    "Killed Carl. I admitted that I went to his house that night, and he was found with my scarf around his neck, but you never asked."
    Capistrano shrugged his massive shoulders. "Didn't have to. You're not wired to be dishonest. If you'd done it, you would've confessed, especially since your cousin is being accused." He turned back to his folder.
    It piqued her, his pat psychoanalysis of her, even if it were true. The dishonest pact that she'd made with Angora years ago had eaten at her and she hadn't realized it, not even after her insides were gone. She'd avoided relationships of any kind, pawning it off on her schedule, her obligations, her commitments, when in reality, the Rescue program had been a handy emotional hideout. The sad part was that she still couldn't bring herself to come clean—everyone would be so disappointed in her. Nell. Her father. Capistrano. And wouldn't she then have to face the lie herself?
    "Maybe you're biased," she offered.
    He looked up again. "Because I'm attracted to you?"
    She squirmed and zipped her jacket higher on her neck. He laughed, a big booming noise that made her frown. "How can you even think of sex when my life is such a nightmare?"
    He shrugged. "You look sexy in my clothes. Besides, it might take your mind off things."
    She sputtered. "Someone who once played an important role in my life was just murdered. I am a suspect, and my cousin, who is also a suspect, is in the hospital. Then there's that little matter of being dogged by a maniac."
    "So you're saying you're not in the mood?"
    She gave him the finger.
    "Okay, okay," he said, seemingly unfazed, then looked back to his notes. "We'll have the medical examiner's report tomorrow. And they're checking for Cape's fingerprints at the scene of the crime."
    Roxann marveled at the man's ability to move from subject to subject seamlessly—as if neither one mattered more than the other. She inhaled deeply to calm her frustration. He'd love knowing he irritated her. "Can I have a restraining order issued on Cape?"
    "Sure. We'll do it first thing in the morning. Then at least we'll be able to hold him for something if he comes near you again. And maybe by then we'll be able to tie him to the murder."
    As much as she hoped that Frank Cape was guilty, the thought of him killing Carl to get back at her was nauseating. If the man was that crazy, then she was seriously glad she'd helped Melissa and her daughter get away from him. And even more disturbed that Nell would suggest that she appease the bully.
    In an attempt to look somewhere other than Capistrano's bare chest, she glanced at the sound-muted television, surprised when a picture of Carl appeared over the shoulder of the newscaster. She dove for the remote next to Capistrano's leg and turned up the volume.
    "—Seger was a theology professor at the University of Notre Dame, and a coach on the varsity soccer team. Fifty-two-year-old Seger was found dead in his home early this