Secret Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“I hope I’m in the right place.” For effect, she turned her head, swept her gaze over the room and its occupants. Several stomachs were ruthlessly sucked in. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Buchanan. I think he’s expecting me.” Gracefully she brushed a loose flutter of hair away from her face. “I’m afraid I just don’t know the proper procedure.”

“He’s in his office. Back in his office.” Without taking his eyes from her he jerked a thumb. “Belinski, tell the lieutenant he has a visitor. A Miss…”

“It’s Grace.” She slid a hip onto the corner of the desk, letting her skirt hike up a dangerous inch. “Grace Fontaine. Is it all right if I wait here, Detective Carter? Am I interrupting your work?”

“Yes— No. Sure.”

“It’s so exciting.” She brought the temperature of the overheated room up ten more degrees with a dazzling smile. “Detective work. You must have so many interesting stories.”

By the time Seth had finished the phone call he was on when he was notified of Grace’s arrival, shrugged back into the jacket he’d removed as a concession to the heat and made his way into the bull pen, Carter’s desk was completely surrounded. He heard a low, throaty female laugh rise out of the center of the crowd.

And saw a half a dozen of his best men panting like puppies over a meaty bone.

The woman, he decided, was going to be an enormous headache.

“I see all cases have been closed this morning, and miraculously crime has come to a halt.”

His voice had the desired effect. Several men jerked straight. Those less easily intimidated grinned as they skulked back to their desks. Deserted, Carter flushed from his neck to his receding sandy hairline. “Ah, Grace—that is, Miss Fontaine to see you, Lieutenant. Sir.”

“So I see. You finish that report, Detective?”

“Working on it.” Carter grabbed the papers he’d tossed aside and buried his nose in them.

“Ms. Fontaine.” Seth arched a brow, gestured toward his office.

“It was nice meeting you, Michael.” Grace trailed a finger over Carter’s shoulder as she passed.

He’d feel the heat of that skimming touch for hours.

“You can cut the power back now,” Seth said dryly as he opened the door to his office. “You won’t need it.”

“You never know, do you?” She sauntered in, moving past him, close enough for them to brush bodies. She thought she felt him stiffen, just a little, but his eyes remained level, cool, and apparently unimpressed. Miffed, she studied his office.

The institutional beige of the walls blended depressingly into the dingy beige of the aging linoleum floor. An overburdened department-issue desk, gray file cabinets, computer, phone and one small window didn’t add any spark to the no-nonsense room.

“So this is where the mighty rule,” she murmured. It disappointed her that she found no personal touches. No photos, no sports trophies. Nothing she could hold on to, no sign of the man behind the badge.

As she had in the bull pen, she eased a hip onto the corner of his desk. To say she resembled a sunbeam would have been a cliché. And it would have been incorrect, Seth decided. Sunbeams were tame—warm, welcoming. She was an explosive bolt of heat lightning— Hot. Fatal.

A blind man would have noticed those satiny legs in the snug yellow skirt. Seth merely walked around, sat, looked at her face.

“You’d be more comfortable in a chair.”

“I’m fine here.” Idly she picked up a pen, twirled it. “I don’t suppose this is where you interrogate suspects.”

“No, we have a dungeon downstairs for that.”

Under other circumstances, she would have appreciated his dust-dry tone. “Am I a suspect?”

“I’ll let you know.” He angled his head. “You recover quickly, Ms. Fontaine.”

“Yes, I do. You had questions, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I do. Sit down. In a chair.”

Her lips moved in what was nearly a pout. A luscious come-on-and-kiss-me pout. He felt the quick, helpless pull of lust, and damned her for it. She moved, sliding off the desk, settling into a chair, taking her time crossing those killer legs.

“Better?”

“Where were you Saturday, between the hours of midnight and 3:00 a.m.?”

So that was when it had happened, she thought, and ignored the ache in her stomach. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”

“You’re not charged, you don’t need a lawyer. It’s a simple question.”

“I was in the country. I have a house in western Maryland. I was alone. I don’t have an alibi. Do I need a lawyer now?”

“Do you want to complicate this, Ms. Fontaine?”

“There’s no way to simplify it, is there?” But she flicked a hand in dismissal. The thin diamond bracelet that circled her wrist shot fire. “All right, Lieutenant, as uncomplicated as possible. I don’t want my lawyer—for the moment. Why don’t I just give you a basic rundown? I left for the country on Wednesday. I wasn’t expecting my cousin, or anyone, for that matter. I did have contact with a few people over the weekend. I bought a few supplies in the town nearby, shopped at the gardening stand. That would have been Friday afternoon. I picked up some mail on Saturday. It’s a small town, the postmistress would remember. That was before noon, however, which would give me plenty of time to drive back. And, of course, there was the courier who delivered Bailey’s package on Friday.”

“And you didn’t find that odd? Your friend sends you a blue diamond, and you just shrug it off and go shopping?”

“I called her. She wasn’t in.” She arched a brow. “But you probably know that. I did find it odd, but I had things on my mind.”

“Such as?”

Her lips curved, but the smile wasn’t reflected in her eyes. “I’m not required to tell you my thoughts. I did wonder about it and worried a little. I thought perhaps it was a copy, but I didn’t really believe that. A copy couldn’t have what that stone has. Bailey’s instructions in the package were to keep it with me until she contacted me. So that’s what I did.”

“No questions?”

“I rarely question people I trust.”

He tapped a pencil on the edge of the desk. “You stayed alone in the country until Monday, when you drove back to the city.”

“No. I drove down to the Eastern Shore on Sunday. I had a whim.” She smiled again. “I often do. I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast.”

“You didn’t like your cousin?”

“No, I didn’t.” She imagined that quick shift of topic was an interrogation technique. “She was difficult to like, and I rarely make the effort with difficult people. We were raised together after my parents were killed, but we weren’t close. I intruded into her life, into her space. She compensated for it by being disagreeable. I was often disagreeable in return. As we got older, she had a less…successful talent with men than I. Apparently she thought by enhancing the similarities in our appearance, she’d have better success.”

“And did she?”

“I suppose it depends on your point of view. Melissa enjoyed men.” To combat the guilt coating her heart, Grace leaned back negligently in the chair. “She certainly enjoyed men—which is one of the reasons she was recently divorced. She preferred the species in quantity.”

“And how did her husband feel about that?”

“Bobbie’s a…” She trailed off, then relieved a great deal of her own tension with a quick, delighted and very appealing laugh. “If you’re suggesting that Bobbie—her ex—tracked her down to my house, murdered her, trashed the place and walked off whistling, you couldn’t be more wrong. He’s a cream puff. And he is, I believe, in England, even as we speak. He enjoys tennis and never misses Wimbledon. You can check easily enough.”