Then when she’d finally stopped by a strip mall, he could have sworn he caught her glaring at him in her rearview mirror. He wasn’t great at lip-reading but he knew whatever she’d mouthed wasn’t very ladylike.

All things total, this didn’t exactly fit his first impression of her. This woman was starting to cause him concern.

As he pulled in behind her Honda, his lights still flashing, he cut the siren and sat watching her cautiously. Just when he thought nothing she could do would surprise him, she began to beat her fist on the steering wheel.

Then her eyes met his in her rearview mirror again. No mistaking it. The woman was glaring angrily at him. He shook his head. This was not the way to react to being pulled over by a cop. He ought to know.

His radio crackled. “I got that name on the phone number you gave me, Jack. Listed to Liz Jones.”

He wondered what his Girl Next Door was doing with the murdered woman’s phone number. It kept getting more and more curious by the moment.

“Run me a plate, would you?” He read the numbers off the license on the Honda in front of him and waited.

“Karen Anne Sutton.”

He wrote down her address and phone number, then he opened his door and cautiously walked toward her car.

She rolled down her window with the same kind of anger he’d seen in her rearview mirror.

“Goin’ a little fast, weren’t you?” he asked.

“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” she demanded.

“Pulled you over for speeding?” Jack stared at her. Her eyes weren’t brown. But a combination of blues and greens flecked with gold. Hazel, he supposed, but at the moment, they were more blue. An electric blue that hurled flaming arrows. At least he’d gotten the freckles right. A sprinkling of them ran across the high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, standing out against her pale skin. The freckles picked up the golden brown of her hair, which had now pretty much escaped from the ponytail. Even disheveled she looked good. Wholesome. Just not quite so innocent as he’d first thought.

“Speeding?” she cried.

“Speeding and failing to slow down and pull over after an officer of the law both flashed his lights and siren for you to do so,” he added.

“I wasn’t speeding,” she snapped. “I was chasing a killer. Well, a possible killer.”

“I guess I didn’t see the distinction,” he said carefully. “I thought cops chased possible killers. May I see your driver’s license and car registration, please?”

She made no move for her purse. “I was trying to get his license-plate number. He was driving a larger, newer model, dark-colored sedan with a dented left rear fender. Well? Aren’t you going to do something?”

He shifted his gaze to the highway. Cars breezed past. Some large, dark-colored, newer model American cars. Some dented. If she had been chasing someone, he was gone. And if she hadn’t—

Jack looked down at her, afraid to take his eyes off her for long for fear of what she’d do next. “Your driver’s license and car registration, please?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Those expressive eyes blinked, still hot with anger. She started to reach for her purse but stopped in midmotion and blinked again, as if seeing him for the first time, really seeing him.

It was one of the few times he wished he looked a little more like a cop. Instead he was dressed a lot like her. Faded hockey jersey, worn jeans, Top-Siders. No socks. Definitely should have taken off the baseball cap, though.

Indecision and alarm flashed over her features. She glanced back at his Jeep, the light on top still flashing. She wasn’t buying that he was a cop. Why wasn’t he surprised? Par for the morning.

As he dug his badge from his jeans pocket, he noted that all four doors of her car were locked and she’d left her engine running. Worse, she looked ready to run again herself. He just wondered what she was running from. Or chasing.

He held the badge up and watched her study it intently.

“And you are—?” she asked, pointing out his lack of a name tag.

“Detective Jack Adams. Now may I see your license and registration?”

She flashed him a smile about as genuine as Naugahyde. “Of course, officer.”

He watched her rummage in her purse. She was all nerves and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pulled a pistol out of her bag. He wondered if the nerves were her way of showing anger. Or fear? Either could make her dangerous.

With a start, he caught a glimpse of a spray can in her purse. Then her fingers were grasping it and as if in slow motion, he watched her pull it out. He stepped back, now fully expecting the worst. Pepper spray.

That’s when he spotted a blue dress in the passenger seat. A dress with what appeared to be a huge bloodstain.

“Drop that and step out of the car,” he ordered, automatically reaching for his weapon.

THE ORDER came out of the blue. Karen turned, her gaze rocketing up to his. Only he wasn’t looking at her but past her to— Karen groaned. That damned dress! That dress was going to be the death of her.

“Drop the spray and get out of the car,” he ordered again. “Now!”

She dropped the can of spot remover Howie had given her. It tumbled to the floor. “All right, all right,” she said quickly, trying to calm him before he did something crazy like shoot her. You never knew with these cop types. “It isn’t what you think.”

“It never is,” he said coldly. “Step out of the car slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

This wasn’t happening. Earlier she’d thought he hadn’t looked much like a cop. Not with his head of thick, unruly sandy-blond hair under his baseball cap and those big brown eyes and that slight crook in his nose in that otherwise boyish face. Not to even mention the way he was dressed.

But he looked like a cop now. And he definitely sounded like one.

Carefully, she opened her door and stepped out very deliberately. Judging from his body language, she’d be wise not to make a wrong move.

“It isn’t blood,” she said, adding a feeble, terrified chuckle. “It’s wine. Red wine. My date spilled it on my dress last night at the restaurant and I should have put cold water on it right away but—” She was babbling, sounding all the more guilty when she wasn’t guilty of anything but stupidity. Unfortunately, she suspected a lot of people went to prison for that very crime.

“And I suppose that wasn’t a can of pepper spray you were pulling out of your purse, either,” he said.

Pepper spray? “No,” she groaned, realizing what he’d thought. “It’s spot remover.”

“Put your hands on top of the car, legs out,” he ordered.

Oh, not “Assume the Position!” This would be funny if it wasn’t so not funny. She did as she was told. She could feel the chilly Montana air under her T-shirt. Why hadn’t she taken the time to put a bra on? She tried to concentrate on Talley’s fried pies waiting for her at home. Even the thought of Howie waiting for her seemed like good news right now.

The detective moved in behind her. She felt her face flush with embarrassment as she waited expectantly for the feel of his hands. He skimmed his palms down her legs, over her butt, between her legs, then around in front. Of course her nipples were hard as pebbles by then.

All she could think about was her mother. Pamela Sutton, a staunch Republican, City Garden Club member and bridge player, would be horrified—not that her daughter had been arrested for suspicion of who knew what—but the fact that her normally sensible only off-spring hadn’t been wearing a bra at the time of arrest. And at Karen’s age!

Karen closed her eyes as Detective Jack Adams’s hands brushed over her. She hated to think that this was the most intimate she’d been with a man in—how long?

“Don’t move.”

She opened her eyes as the cop sidled around beside her and, keeping his gaze glued to her, reached into the Honda to pull out the dress. That rotten-luck sale dress.