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“You don’t leave me much choice, do you, Annie?” And he picked up the gun.

Chapter Three
     
    A nnie stared at him for a long moment as he held the gun in one large, capable hand. She held her breath, feeling oddly disoriented. As if she had jet lag, when she hadn’t crossed any time zones coming after James McKinley.
    He knew how to use that gun. Beneath his newly reacquired businesslike demeanor was a man who was far more dangerous than she’d ever expected.
    She forced herself to turn away from him, pouring another cup of the wickedly strong coffee, and when she looked back the gun was gone. She didn’t know whether he carried it or he’d stashed it someplace, and she didn’t want to find out. It was gone, and that was enough. The sight of a gun in James McKinley’s hands unnerved her.
    The silence was heavy and uncomfortable between them, and she forced herself to break it. “What are we going to do next?”
    His lids drooped over those disconcerting eyes, and she could almost tell herself he was the old, safe, reliable James. “Let me think about it for a while,” he said finally. “It’s safe enough here for the time being, if no one but Martin knows you’re here. We’ll take it a day at a time. You can tell me what you know, what you suspect, every tiny, seemingly meaningless detail. About the missing print, about anything he might have said, done. Anything that seemed different, strange to you. And then I’ll decide what we can do about it. Whether I think there’s anything that can be accomplished.”
    “And if you decide that there isn’t?” she asked in a sharp voice, not bothering to hide her irritation with his high-handed ways.
    “Then you can go back home with your mind at ease.”
    “It’s not that simple. What if I’m not willing to take your word for it? What if you decide he wasn’t murdered, that nothing was going on?”
    He leaned back, his expression still carefully bland. “That leaves us with a little problem, doesn’t it?” he drawled. “Tell me something, Annie. Why did you come after me? Why didn’t you get Martin to help you? The two of you have shared a lot more than we ever had.”
    “What do you mean by that?” she asked in a wary voice.
    “Just what I asked. Why didn’t you go to Martin for help?”
    “I did.”
    “You asked him for help in finding who killed your father?”
    “Not exactly.” That was another change since Win had died, Annie thought. She was no longer adept with the polite, social lies. “I asked him to help me find you.”
    “Don’t you think he would have helped you?”
    “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Win always said that if something went wrong, I should come to you. That you would know the answers.”
    “Did he?” There was no way she could read the expression on his face. “And you still do what your father tells you, don’t you, Annie.”
    It wasn’t a question, and she wanted to lash out, to deny it. She glanced down at her rumpled T-shirt, shoved her tangled hair away from her makeup-free face, and met his gaze quite calmly. “You tell me, James,” she said.
    It was a mistake. As long as he kept his lids half-lowered, she could lull herself into thinking he was the safe, protective presence she was looking for. When his gaze met hers, all bets were off.
    “Point well taken,” he said after a moment’sperusal. “I presume you’re not sleeping with Martin anymore.”
    She spilled her coffee. The cup was almost empty, but the black liquid spread across the spotless table like oil. Or blood. “What business is it of yours?”
    “Everything connected to Win is my business if you expect me to find out why he was killed. When you sleep with your father’s protégé, then it might have a bearing, even if he is your ex-husband.”
    “I thought
you
were my father’s protégé.”
    “And you haven’t slept with me.”
    Yet. The word, unspoken, danced through her mind. She wondered whether it went through his