Should that hurt her feelings? Oddly enough, it did. “Why?”
He shrugged.
She lowered her chin and studied him. Finally went with her brain instead of her rioting body. “Oh. I see.”
One of his dark eyebrows rose. In the bed, in the morning light, it was an arrogant movement. But it worked for him. “You do?”
“Yes.” His job, his past, his childhood without a mother. “I understand.” He couldn’t sit by and watch a woman he was dating put herself in danger without stepping in front of her. He was a protector—a modern-day warrior. It was impressive that he recognized those traits in himself, and even more impressive that he hadn’t just jumped on her invitation for one morning. She pushed the covers off her legs. “I have to get to work. Thank you for letting me stay the night.” Faltering for only a moment, she headed toward the bathroom, which had an entrance off his bedroom as well as the living room.
His gaze heated her butt as she walked away.
* * *
Light snow drifted through the heavy mist as a warning of another oncoming winter storm. Laurel parked in front of her mom’s garage and jumped out of the SUV, dressed in her clothing from the day before, including the horrible, flowered jeans. She’d refused coffee or breakfast at Huck’s, needing to get home and into the shower. She jumped over the snow to the front porch, eyeing the red Escalade parked to the side of the house. Her mother had a visitor?
The door opened and Dr. Abigail Caine walked out wearing a form-fitting black sweater, tight white skirt, and black leather boots. A high-end leather jacket completed the look perfectly. “I really hope you’ll think about it,” she said, a file folder in her hands.
Deidre followed, pulling a gray cardigan tighter around her tall form. “I appreciate your interest, but my partners and I aren’t ready to branch out at this time.” Her face was pinched, and her gaze darted around.
Abigail spotted Laurel, and her gaze traveled to Laurel’s dirty boots, smudged jeans, and windblown hair. “Someone had a wild night.”
Laurel moved closer to the women, her gaze direct and her focus absolute. She felt an instinctive urge to protect her mother, and her intellect fought to catch up. “What are you doing here?” She edged to the side, closer to her mom.
Abigail’s smile widened. “Business. Tell me. Were you with our Captain Rivers?”
Laurel looked up at her mom. “What is going on?” Her weapon was at the back of her waist, and right now, there was no need to pull it. Even so, she wanted to. What had Abigail been doing in her mother’s house? In her mother’shome? This was taking the game too far. Much too far. “Mom?”
Her mom frowned and looked from Laurel to Abigail. “Do you two know each other?”
“Not really,” Abigail said smoothly. “We did meet the other day, however. I’m possibly a witness in the Snowblood Peak murders.” Her eyes danced and she leaned closer to Deidre. “Can you believe that? It’s insane. Agent Snow interviewed me the other day. I might’ve seen the murderer.” She lowered her chin. “Did you find the man I told you about? Carl?”
“Carl?” Deidre asked, her eyes widening. “What does Carl have to do with this?”
Abigail’s red lips twitched just enough to be noticeable. “Wait a minute. Do you know a Carl?”
Laurel didn’t believe in getting angry. Emotion interfered with intellectual processes. However, sometimes the body took charge. “Mom? Give me a second with the professor, would you?” She gestured toward the Escalade, barely preventing herself from taking Abigail by the arm.
“Um, sure?” Her mom turned back inside and gently shut the door.
Abigail looked over her shoulder. “So. That’s trust. Interesting.”
“Get off the porch before I take you off the porch,” Laurel snarled.
Abigail’s chuckle was a mellow trill. “Oh, Laurel. You must do something about that temper.” She strode across the porch and down into the mist, a bright beacon of danger in the haze. “Apparently one night with the captain didn’t burn off enough tension. Tell me. Is he as good with his hands as he appears he’d be?”
Laurel followed her, the chill of the wind scraping her skin. “I’m not a game player, Dr. Caine. What are you doing here?”
At the vehicle, Abigail turned to face Laurel. “Everything isn’t about you, Laurel.” For the first time, a flash of anger crossed the woman’s patrician features. “This was just business, and frankly, it’s none of yours. Get over yourself, as my students would say.”
“Bullshit.” Laurel looked up the four or so inches to Abigail’s face, which was turning pink from the cold. “If you want to play smart girl chess with me, then fine. But leave my family out of your narcissistic exploits. You’ve read me wrong if you think I’ll allow anybody to use them as pawns.”
Abigail stepped closer to Laurel, right into her personal space, her expression lighting. “What is it like? That passion? Your need to protect and defend that comes from nowhere near your impressive brain?” She leaned down, curiosity glowing behind too-blue eyes. “Tell me. I want to know. The love for family—it doesn’t come naturally to you. How do you have it at all?”
It was a good question, and one Laurel wasn’t going to explore with this woman. She banished all emotion as she responded. “What is your fascination with this serial killer case?”
“Oh, Laurel. You know I couldn’t care less about any serial killer case. This is all about you.” Abigail flicked snow off Laurel’s shoulder with a pink-tipped nail. “Do you believe in the Moirai?”
Laurel snorted. “The goddesses of fate? No. Neither do you, Dr. Caine.”
