Doggedly she plowed on. “Well, I embarrassed myself. I’m truly, deeply sorry.”

“Jaclyn.” His deep voice flowed over her. “I understand that you’re under a lot of stress. I’m sorry to add to it, but I do need you to look at some photographs.”

He only thought he knew what her stress level was. “I have a wedding and a rehearsal tomorrow, and I personally have to handle both because Mom has a wedding and a rehearsal, too. We’ll be running from one place to another all day long. I know you can force me to look at photographs instead, I understand that—”

“Murder trumps weddings,” he pointed out.

“Making a living is pretty high on the list, too,” she snapped, feeling her self-control begin to fray again. “Besides, I couldn’t identify the man I saw if he were standing next to me.”

“You don’t know until you try,” he said, straightening from her car and reaching to open the door for her. “Go on home now, and decompress. I’ll be in touch.”

She got in the car, still clutching the roll of papers. From those parting words, she thought she could safely assume he was going to completely wreck her schedule for the next day.

Bright and early the next morning, Friday, Eric made it to work without getting involved in any robberies that ate up half his day. The solution was simple: he made coffee at home, scouted around and found an old thermos, and brought his own coffee. When even a McDonald’s drive-through wasn’t safe for his coffee hit, it was time to come up with another way of doing things. He’d make his own damn coffee from now on. God knows he wasn’t having any luck getting good coffee any other way.

The first thing he saw when he approached his desk was a manila folder that hadn’t been there the afternoon before when he and Garvey had come in, but it was there now, on top of the stack. No one was in the lab at this hour, so someone must have placed the paperwork on his desk last night.

That was what he’d been waiting for. Maybe he should’ve swung by the office after he’d left Jaclyn, but he’d been in an irritable, pissy mood after watching her drive out of the church parking lot, and he’d headed straight home so he could lie in bed and not sleep for a few hours.

The pissiness wasn’t because of her temper tantrum, but rather because he’d been hamstrung by the case and couldn’t do anything about her tantrum—and he’d really, really wanted to. Man, how he’d wanted to. He’d had to fight to keep from simply grabbing her, kissing her until they both fell down, and then he’d kiss her some more. God, who knew a temper tantrum could turn him on so much? It wasn’t the tantrum itself; it was Jaclyn—losing her ladylike cool. Even then … she really hadn’t.

She hadn’t used a single cuss word. She’d stomped her feet, thrown her keys down, yelled some inventive and amusing … hell, he couldn’t even call them insults, because saying she hoped he got beriberi wasn’t an insult, it was more of a complete lack of good wishes. She’d jammed her shoulder into him—twice—and though technically he could have charged her for that he’d have felt like a fool if he had, because he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, maybe even a hundred. But she hadn’t poked him, hadn’t hit him, hadn’t tried to bite him. It was as if she had no idea how to physically attack someone, even though she’d admitted being an inch away from punching Carrie Edwards, but that was different because she’d been physically attacked first.

Making Jaclyn Wilde lose control was fast becoming his favorite thing in the world to do.

So he’d gone home and not slept while he was thinking about sliding into her, her pussy all wet and slick and swollen, those fuck-me legs wrapped around him, her head tilted back and all but screaming as she came—yeah, that was a good way to not sleep, the best, but he’d paid for it because now he was tired and the day had just begun. Finally he’d tried to get some shut-eye by using the oldest method known to the male persuasion, Mrs. Thumb and her Four Sisters, but while jacking off had relieved some pressure it was a far cry from being as satisfying as coming inside Jaclyn.

He dropped heavily into his chair and picked up the folder, wrenching his mind from the X-rated fantasies that kept popping into his head.

He knew what he’d find inside the folder, and still he hesitated for a split second before opening it. The tests would clear Jaclyn; if he’d had any doubt at all about that, last night would have cured him of it. His gut and his brain told him that she couldn’t have killed Carrie Edwards, so the hesitation worried him.

Maybe he was too certain. Maybe he’d broken his own rule and let his emotions cloud his mind. Maybe—oh, shit!—maybe she’d sneaked in under his guard and he was more than halfway to falling in love with her, like some stupid kid getting a crush in the matter of a few minutes. He was too old and too smart to let one night of great sex affect his thinking … well, maybe not all that smart, since like it or not, he was affected.

He couldn’t be falling for her like that. He wasn’t ready to give up the single life. He liked being single.

But … damn. Jaclyn. Long legs, classy, surprisingly funny in an off-the-wall kind of way that he never would have expected. Could he just walk away, give her up, not even try for something more?

Fuck, no. He was going after her with every ounce of determination he had, and as his mother would attest, when he set his mind to do something then, come hell or high water, he’d do it. He had a mountain to climb in convincing her to give him a chance, but he liked a challenge. And maybe the mountain wasn’t that high; he figured if she truly didn’t give a damn, she wouldn’t get so hot under the collar at him.

Deeply satisfied with his decision, he poured some coffee from the thermos into his cup, took a sip, then flipped the file open, leaned back, and began to read.

On television a person could walk into a room and start shedding telling skin cells that would conclusively tie them to the crime, but in real life it wasn’t so easy. The first page of the report recorded greater detail on the trace evidence that had been collected at the scene. The crime techs had found numerous carpet fibers that had clung to people’s shoes and been transferred to the reception hall floor. They’d also found dirt, grass, unidentified fibers, and hair … lots and lots of hair, a shitload of hair, from animals as well as humans. Evidently people had been sneaking their Fluffys and Fidos into receptions, which didn’t surprise him in the least. Cat and dog hair was to be expected. It was when the hair came from goats and other livestock that he began to go a little cross-eyed at the possible scenarios.

The gray hairs collected had come from seven different heads, according to the lab, which was really a surprisingly low number. Hundreds of people were in and out of that room on a regular basis, and while it was cleaned in between each event, a hair here and there wasn’t something a janitorial crew would notice. Not a single one of the gray hairs had a follicle attached, which meant that even if they had a sample to compare it to, a DNA match was out.

There were several pages in the report, and after scanning the first Eric started flipping through, searching for that one specific bit of evidence—or lack thereof—that he was most interested in. Four pages in, he found it.

No blood had been found on the clothes Jaclyn had worn Wednesday.

A rush of relief filled him. Eric didn’t think he could have felt any more relieved if the evidence had cleared him of suspicion of murder. When Sergeant Garvey and Lieutenant Neille got in they’d talk this over, but this pretty much took Jaclyn off the list of suspects, the way they’d thought it would. He’d give her the good news—

Whoa. Wait a minute.

She’d be glad to hear it, but she sure as hell wouldn’t be doing any celebrating with him. Instead, she’d probably let him have it with both barrels for doubting her in the first place. He hadn’t doubted her, but she wasn’t going to see it that way. She’d treat him to an I-told-you-so rebuke combined with a royal ass-chewing.

Besides, if Jaclyn was no longer a suspect he’d have a tougher time seeing her. She wouldn’t play nice—not that she’d played very nice last night, but that had been so much fun he didn’t mind. She could, and likely would, make his life hell. There were only so many photographs he could produce for her to look at.

And then she’d order him to leave her alone, and he’d have no choice but to do it. She could even demand that if she was required for any further investigation someone other than he do the questioning, which meant Garvey would be the one handling her from here on out, or maybe Franklin, when he got back from vacation.

Nope. Not going to happen.

A slow grin curved his mouth. There wasn’t any need to share this particular news with her right now. This was something that could wait for a couple of days, until she was past being furious with him. In the meantime, he’d be working to get back in her good graces.

He finished reading through the report, which was very thorough but not particularly helpful. Too many people had tromped and danced through that room. Besides, if it came down to it, any suspect could probably explain away his or her presence in the reception hall; after all, it was a public venue. There was no skin under the victim’s fingernails, no damning evidence on the body, so essentially he was back to square one. Ruling Jaclyn out as a suspect was the only significant result of the report.

But then there was the gray-haired man, driving a silver car, who might or might not be Senator Dennison. Even if Jaclyn picked his picture out of a stack, any good attorney could say she recognized him because his face was all over television these days, in his political ads.