She stood where she was, ignoring both his remark and the open door, and said in a voice tight with impotent fury, “You searched my shop?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s what happens when you get charged with murder. You coming in, or not?”

She moved grudgingly through the doorway, throwing him a hot bitter look as she passed him. “My lawyer said you’d searched my house, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. What did you expect to find? My bloody shoes? A smoking gun?”

“That’d be nice,” Roan said affably, “but no, actually.” He closed the door while she flipped a light switch and they moved together through a storage room that smelled of the permanent waves his mother used to get every spring and fall, past a tiny bathroom that held a toilet, a vanity and an assortment of mops and brooms. “I have a lot more respect for your intelligence than to expect anything like that. Fact is…” He paused to let her go ahead of him through a pink-curtained doorway. “I was hoping I might find something that’d tell me a little bit about you. Like…you know, what your real name is…where you come from. What the hell you’re doing in my town.”

She was moving ahead of him through the salon, between rows of hair dryers and wash basins, slowly, as if in a daze. She hadn’t turned on the lights, and even though the front of the shop was mostly glass, with the weather being gray and overcast like it was, the room had that ghost-town look closed places get when you’re used to seeing them full of people and chattering voices and laughter.

She said without turning, in a soft, weary voice, “My name is Mary. And I didn’t shoot Jason Holbrook. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” he said just as softly, as he moved close behind her. “If I could believe it.”

She turned her head quickly to one side as if she meant to reply, and the jerking movement made his jacket slip off her shoulders. He caught it before it fell and settled it around them again.

Then, somehow, without any thought or guidance from him, his hands came to rest there, too, as if that was where they belonged. Before he could think of all the reasons why he shouldn’t be touching her, or, God knew, even talking to her, he found himself curving his fingers around her shoulders and turning her to face him.

“Dammit, Mary,” he said in a low, guttural voice that wasn’t familiar to him, “I almost do believe you. But the problem with one lie is, it poisons everything you say. I know you lied about who you are, so how am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth when you say you didn’t kill Jason?”

She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes that opaque gray color he was beginning to hate because it reminded him of shuttered windows…and felt like a door slammed in his face. Then she turned her face from him in a hopeless way that made him want to shake her. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you. If my lawyer…”

He was frustrated enough that he did give her a little bit of a shake, just enough to bring her eyes back to him. “For God’s sake, Mary, forget the lawyers. I know the damn protocol. Just…give me a reason to believe you. That’s all I’m asking.”

Instead of answering, she slipped off his jacket and handed it to him-though he supposed that was a kind of answer, just not the one he was hoping for. Then she moved away from him, rubbing her arms as she gazed distractedly around her at the clutter left by the searchers.

Roan drew a breath, reining in and gentling himself down the way he’d seen Boyd do with a riled-up horse. Even so, he couldn’t keep his exasperation out of his voice.

“Look-all I care about is getting the person who did this thing. But I have to tell you-and the reason you’re being charged with it-at this point the right person looks like you. Do you understand that? There might not be much in the way of physical evidence against you, but that isn’t gonna matter. This is a small town and this is a personal killing. Jason was a jackass, especially where women are concerned, but the fact is, there isn’t another person around here who had a big enough beef with him to go and shoot him over it.”

He paced a few slow steps to the windows and stood looking out at the street, which was mostly empty here in spite of all the hullabaloo going on just a block away at the courthouse. He watched a couple of scrub jays courting one another in a yellow-flowered shrub across the way, apparently oblivious to the un-springlike weather, and felt a certain edginess in his spirit. He was dragging a restless hand through his hair when he remembered it was a favorite habit of the senator’s and made himself stop.

“Mary,” he said with a sigh, “to a certain extent, my hands are tied here. The father of the man you’re accused of killing is a United States Senator, a powerful man with a lot of pull. If I hadn’t arrested you, he’d have found somebody else to do it-the state lawmen, probably.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice came from behind him, faint and breathless.

He turned, and because he knew he had to, hardened his eyes and voice. “Because if you didn’t kill Jason, then whoever did is still walking around somewhere in this town. My town. That idea doesn’t sit too well with me.” He shrugged into his jacket and said distantly, “Look, if you want to get whatever it is you came in here for, I’ll run you home.”

She jerked slightly and her arms came across her body in a defensive embrace. Almost whispering, she said, “You don’t need to do that.”

“Well, since your car’s been impounded-” He stopped when she gasped softly. “Yeah,” he drawled with a humorless smile, “so in case you were thinking of leaving town that way, I guess you’re gonna have to come up with a plan B.”

He watched her while she struggled with it, the tension in her body and the fire in her eyes the only outward signs of the battle he knew she must be fighting against emotions he could only imagine: anger, fear, frustration and despair. And then, as she turned slowly to survey the disarray left by the searchers, he saw her shoulders sag with defeat-or was it only a temporary retreat? Maybe even a feint to throw him off? How in the hell was he supposed to know what was going on inside her head when she shuttered her eyes like that?

Trembling deep inside, Mary picked up a pink smock that was lying over the back of a chrome-and-leather swivel chair and slipped it on. It was all she could do to make herself look at the sheriff in silent acquiescence. For a moment he looked back at her with a certain wariness in his eyes, as if he’d been caught off-guard by the sudden lull after the heat of battle. Then, and with a wry smile and a nod of mock gallantry, he waved her ahead of him.

When they reached the ruffled curtain that divided the back rooms from the salon, he reached past her to pull it aside for her-more gallantry that could only be meant in a sarcastic way, given the fact that he was the man who’d arrested and charged her with murder. And if that was so, why did the brush of his arm against her shoulder make her shiver, and heat blossom in her belly at his nearness…his smell?

“You sure must like pink,” he remarked as he twitched the curtain back into place.

“I hate pink,” Mary said in a choked voice, and she was shocked to discover how close to the surface the anger was, and the tears. And the fear.

He threw her a startled look, no doubt wondering why anyone should become so passionate over something so un-passionate as the color pink. But he only said mildly, “Coulda fooled me.”

“This is all Queenie’s,” she said, trying not to let her voice show how fast her heart was beating. “I’ve…never cared for pink.”

He tilted his head back and looked at her from under his hat brim. “No kidding? Neither does my daughter. Thinks it’s awful girls are expected to like pink.”

There was a pause while they maneuvered through the back door, the sheriff trying to play the gentleman and open it for her while Mary tried her best not to let her body brush against any part of his. Outside, she waited, hunched inside the thin nylon smock that was no barrier at all to the wicked little wind that skirled around her ankles and reached freshly under her skirt, while he snapped the padlock in place.

He turned back to her, hitching his jacket closer against that taunting wind, and went on in a conversational, almost friendly tone, “In her case it’s maybe because she’s a redhead. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that redheads don’t like pink. Why is that? Think maybe because it clashes with their hair?”

“Or their skin tones,” she said dully. And it was her turn, now, to watch him, and to wonder what might be behind the sudden transformation from steely-eyed lawman to easygoing companion. Be careful, Mary…be careful. He’s trying to lull you into saying too much.

They started down the alley together, and after a moment, because the silence felt awkward to her, she said neutrally, “So, your daughter has red hair?”

“Got it from her mother.” Glancing at him she saw something flicker in his eyes, a brief darkness, like a bird’s shadow. It was quickly gone, though, and he added with an air of surprise, “Come to think of it, she wasn’t partial to pink, either.”

Mary felt the keen blue eyes studying her, inviting her comment, but this time she had herself together enough to know better than to reply. They don’t miss much, those eyes…

They went the back way through the alley to the parking lot behind the courthouse that was reserved for law-enforcement vehicles and the various officers of the court. Mary knew this place; it was where she’d been brought from the jail early this morning by two sheriff’s deputies she’d never seen before. They’d put handcuffs on her and whisked her into the courthouse through a heavy steel door at the top of some concrete steps and into a barren little room where she was to meet with her lawyer, Mr. Klein, and change into the clothes he’d brought for her to wear before the judge. She could still feel the cold bite of those handcuffs…and the sick fear in the pit of her stomach.