he said.“Try me.”“My father told me. I don’t know how he knew,” he added. “But in addition to amazing psychic skills, he does have a number of friends in high places. Even in law enforcement. But he knew.” He stared at her hungrily.She stared back at him with uncertainty plain on her face. He was here. She’d grieved long and hard for him. But she didn’t—couldn’t—trust him. He’d walked out on her without a word three years ago.He sighed. “I can see the wheels going around in your mind. I almost know what you’re thinking. It’s going to take time for you to ever trust me again.” He gnawed on the tip of the earpiece of his sunglasses in deep thought. “Suppose we pretend we’ve just met. I’m a widower with a child. You’re an attractive museum curator. We’re working together on a case. No complications. No recriminations. We’re just friends.”She gave him a suspicious look. “Just friends? You bent me back over my desk in my own office!” she pointed out, trying to hide the heat that memory generated.
