Love Can Be Murder

turned elastic. She kneaded the skin on his shoulders and back, reveling in the solid maleness, the stability of his body.
    "Let me see you," he murmured, his hands already undoing the ridiculous jacket she wore. She allowed her silence to be her acquiescence. The slide of the zipper sent chills over her shoulders. It would be good for them to get each other out of their systems, she decided. Good to get it over with so they could go their separate ways when this mess ended.
    Her jacket fell to the floor, then the shirt of his she wore. He never took his eyes from her, drinking her in and smiling with pleasure. He kissed her neck and collarbone before wrapping his arms around her waist, nudging down the straps of the filmy white bra and kissing her breasts. His lovemaking had an edge, a restrained power that seemed instinctual to him. Even the guttural whispers and moans he breathed over her skin were animalistic. She had always presumed that big, macho men used their strength to threaten and intimidate—she'd certainly been exposed to enough of them through the Rescue program—but the detective's determined mouth pushed her closer to the edge than she'd imagined was possible while still wearing panties.
    He certainly knew what he was doing, she noted as she gasped for air. But did she? He was so different from any man she'd been intimate with, she felt almost virginal. Maybe she should have given that making-love-to-a-man book a refresher read.
    But once the underwear came off, it was amazing how quickly everything came back to her. In fact, things were going quite well until a knock sounded at the door.
    Capistrano stopped what he was doing—much to her chagrin—and walked to the door, grabbing his gun on the way. There was something so... arresting about a naked man wielding a gun. She scrambled for something to cover up.
    "Who's there?" Capistrano asked, pointing his weapon in the air.
    "Officers Jaffey and Warner, Detective. Open up."
    Capistrano mouthed a curse, lowered the gun, and retrieved his pajama bottoms from the floor. He waited until she was haphazardly clothed before he unlocked the door.
    They charged past Capistrano into the room. "Roxann Beadleman, you're under arrest for the murder of Carl Seger."
    Okay, so arresting had been an unfortunate word choice.

Chapter Twenty-five

    IT HURT TO BREATHE . Angora pushed the nurses' call button several times in succession, but she knew they wouldn't come. They hated her. "Nurse!" she yelled, although it came out a hoarse whisper. "Nurse!"
    The door to her private room opened, and Mike Brown peeked around the corner. She rolled her eyes—the man was undoubtedly the most annoying little boy she'd ever met. And although she was grateful for his legal advice, the hayseed act was wearing a bit thin. She'd heard more about running a "soybean-slash-corn" farm than she ever wanted to know. Tractors. Tillers. Pickers. Plows. Ugh.
    "I brought you magazines," he said, holding up a bulging plastic bag.
    She gave him a begrudged smile—she had requested magazines, after all. "Thanks."
    He walked in, wearing overalls of all things. And not Tommy Hilfiger. "Progressive Farmer," he said, plopping the bag down on the bed next to her. "I had a year's worth saved up."
    "Er, thanks."
    "Is there anything else I can get for you? I have to go home for the evening milking, so I can't stay long." His baby fat made him look young and shiny. "But I'll be back tomorrow."
    She batted her lashes. "Can you find a nurse to add painkiller to my IV so I can get some sleep tonight?"
    He dimpled. "I'll see what I can do." He left the room, landing heavily on his workbooted feet.
    Laying her head back, she stared at the ceiling tiles and wondered what Trenton was doing and if he'd heard of her major illness. If she'd known how much attention a hospital stay would get her, she would've landed this gig sooner. A gallbladder was a small price to pay to have rattled even Dee, who had sounded almost motherly on the phone when she'd called to break the grim news about the operation she needed. And the secondary infection she'd contracted was a bonus. "Complications," her chart read. It had at least kept the police at bay, and the get-well bouquets coming—from her parents, her former boss at the art museum, Mike Brown, and Roxann.
    Roxann. She sighed, This entire situation surrounding Carl's death was a big fat mess. At least the bruises were fading. She wanted to act as if it hadn't even