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was best to force a witness into
dumping her information all at once, kind of like purging the stomach of a
poisonous substance.
    Jason’s gut clenched as he yanked open the car door. When
Emma St. Clair had turned those teary blue eyes up at him, when she’d gripped
his arm as if he was the only floating debris in sight of where her ship had
just gone down, he’d forgotten all about questioning her. Instead, he’d wanted
to hold her, soothe her, protect her.
    Scowling again, he dropped into the sun-heated interior of
the Mustang and slammed the door. This proved one thing—he’d been a fool to
restrict himself from intimate female contact this past year. He should have
known that doing something so contrary to his own male nature would backfire in
a big way. He needed to get control of his urges. So she was pretty. So she was
soft and sweet-smelling. So were a lot of other women.
    Shoving the key into the ignition, Jason admitted to himself
that Emma St. Clair ranked way above “a lot of other women”. Even now, away
from her, he knew that those blue eyes had gotten to him. No matter how angry
he’d been when she’d left town two months ago, he would treat her gently when
they finally did get together this afternoon.
    And that bugged the hell out of him.

Chapter Four
     
    Although it was still early June, summer had taken dead aim
at the Texas coast. Escaping the bright heat, Emma stepped inside the cool,
marinara-scented interior of Rodolpho’s Restaurant. Relief shook her when she
saw her best friend seated at a table near the back and she quickened her step.
    She’d covered about half of the busy restaurant when Marta
Zamora rose from her seat and rushed forward. At the last instant, Marta slowed
and then tugged Emma into a hesitant hug.
    “I won’t break,” Emma said as her friend’s fingertips
fluttered against her back.
    “You already did.” Marta’s normally cool voice sounded thick
and she hugged Emma tighter before stepping back to give her an appraising
look. Concern slashed her dark, tapered eyebrows. “You look like hell.”
    Understanding her friend’s blunt style better than anyone,
Emma caught Marta’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “Hello and I’ve missed you
too.”
    “I only meant that you look tired.”
    Marta led Emma back to her table. Gesturing toward the
nearest chair, Marta returned to her own seat. A couple of hanging ivy plants
and a potted sentry palm gave the table a sense of seclusion that Emma
appreciated. She hadn’t decided yet if she would tell Marta what had happened.
If she did, she didn’t want anyone to overhear the crazy story.
    “I told Edgar not to push you your first week back,” Marta
said.
    “He didn’t.” Sitting, Emma chose a crispy breadstick from a
basket on the table. But instead of eating it, she drummed it against the
tablecloth to hide the quiver in her hands. She wasn’t tired. She was edgy. The
Campanero autopsy had gone on without further incident that morning but the
memory of the event preceding it clung to her. The elderly woman had seemed so
real and yet without substance. Emma could almost imagine she’d seen a ghost.
But that was impossible.
    For a moment, Emma considered the possibility that she might
be losing her mind. She wouldn’t be the first in her family. Great-Aunt
Victoria heard voices and saw people who weren’t there. Partly as a result of
that, she now lived in a nursing home. Such things could be inherited so Emma
couldn’t help wondering if what had happened today could have been a similar
psychotic episode. Maybe some mental screw had jarred loose during the
accident.
    Looking up from drumming the breadstick, Emma found Marta
watching her with a puzzled frown. She sighed. “I’m fine.”
    “Uh-huh. What’s that old saying about a long-tailed cat in a
room full of rocking chairs?” Leaning forward, Marta covered Emma’s free hand
with her own. “You’re jumpy. You should have taken more time off before