Christmas Confessions

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She shook her head. “I paint. Landscapes mainly. Murals. Robert does freelance marketing. Speeches. Brochures. Advertising design. Things like that.”

“So you both work here all day then work at home each night.”

Abby nodded. “More or less. We rarely put in full days here. This—” she gestured to the office in front of and behind her “—allows us flexibility to do our own things.”

“You working on a mural right now?” Jack asked the question knowing it seemed unrelated to the case at hand, but realizing you never knew where the facts of a case might lead you.

But Abby only shook her head. “Last thing anyone wants at Christmas time is a mural painter in their home or office.”

Jack scanned the stacks of cards filling the room. “Any income from this?”

“Only from the advertising. It’s enough to cover hosting and office expenses, but not much more. We really didn’t start this for the money, so that aspect doesn’t matter to either one of us.”

“Any enemies?”

His question visibly startled Abby and she took a backward step. “Not that I know of.”

Jack pushed away from the table. “Then we keep our eyes and ears open until we know for sure who’s on your side and who isn’t. And in the meantime, let’s go write that blog of yours.”

JACK STOOD OVER Abby’s shoulder as she worked, later than usual in drafting her weekly blog.

Typically, she tried to have the site updated just after midnight each Friday night. Considering it was now after noon on Saturday, she was running seriously behind schedule.

Robert had stayed less than forty-five minutes before he’d claimed to have forgotten a social event scheduled for that afternoon. Abby knew him well enough to know he hadn’t planned on having company here at the office. He’d probably packed up the bills to take home for processing.

As for the blog, Abby had tucked away the cards she’d planned to feature, working instead from only one.

The postcard and photo featuring Emma Grant.

The young woman’s smiling face haunted Abby. She couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of hurt the image had brought to life deep inside Jack.

For all of his hard-shelled bravado, the detective’s eyes provided a window into the pain he’d locked inside. Abby didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to spot his true emotions, and she grimaced on his behalf.

She hadn’t known him long, but she’d seen enough to know Jack wouldn’t be pleased by her observation. Some men prided themselves on being strong, resilient, alpha males. Jack Grant fell soundly into that camp—the camp that said real men didn’t show their feelings.

But as her gaze dropped again to Emma’s face, and Abby considered the magnitude of the loss Jack had suffered, she didn’t see how he could feel nothing, yet nothing was all he projected.

A man would have to be a robot to keep that sort of heartache locked inside forever. Sooner or later, he’d snap. Either that, or he’d shut down completely. How else could a person survive?

Jack stood behind her as she worked, the heat of his body warming the back of her sweater.

Well, the man definitely was not a robot.

Abby had never written one of her blogs with someone breathing down her neck, but she understood why the detective watched her every move, studied her every word. He’d made a commitment to clear a case, to catch a killer, to ease the suffering of the families left behind.

He was here because he thought Abby could help him. Plain and simple. He was here to make sure she didn’t misstep in their efforts to flush out the postcard’s sender.

She might be used to working alone, but Jack’s goal had become her goal, and she’d do whatever it took to help him in his cause.

“Am I distracting you?” Jack asked, as if reading Abby’s thoughts.

He leaned so close his breath brushed the strands of the hair she’d twisted up into a clip so that she could concentrate. In fact, she’d thought about the detective’s proximity long enough that she’d begun to imagine the feel of his breath against the bare expanse of her throat.