Till Justice Is Served Read Free Page A

lock on the front door turned, and a second later, Erin stepped inside, followed by a well-dressed man. Jesus. She took his breath away.
    "Jeff," Erin said, smiling warmly. "You didn't have to wait here. I would've called."
    "I haven't been waiting. I've been getting help," Jeff said.
    She stopped halfway across the room. Had she sensed Rafe's presence? Her head snapped to the right, and her gaze settled on him. Her eyes, the color of a sparkling emerald, delivered an icy stare.
    "Come now, you remember Rafe Sirilli." Jeff slid his arm around her shoulders.
    "Everybody in town remembers Rafe." Her words, coated in sarcasm, pissed him off.
    She had no reason to be ticked at him. That she'd embarrassed the shit out of him was old news. A twelve-year-old scab, but who was counting?
    He stood, slapped his brightest smile on his face, then crossed the room. That same fragile scent he'd noticed in her office slammed into his senses.
    The urge not to stare was an internal battle. Her skin was flawless, as was her cupid's bow upper lip. Thick hair, pulled off her face and into a low ponytail, put the focus on her eyes. Her body had changed a great deal, too. Nice breasts filled out the YMCA T-shirt she wore. The nylon warm-up bottoms did little to hide the small waist or curve of her hips. She'd matured into a beautiful woman, but apparently, ice water still ran through her veins.
    "I doubt that everybody remembers me." He spoke the truth. After graduation, he couldn't wait to get to college. After Nick's funeral, Rafe hadn't come home much. He wasn't proud that he hadn't been back often. It had just worked out that way. "I'm surprised that you do."
    She raked her gaze over him, stopping for a minute on his long hair and two-day-old scruff. Would she still dislike the whiskers if he rubbed them along the inside of her thigh?
    Shit. He had been undercover far too long.
    He extended his hand, half-surprised when her palm met his. Her fingers were warm and soft against his palm. The suit that had walked in with her watched the exchange and then joined them.
    "Harold Penza. I knew your daddy. He was mighty proud of his boys." Penza's tone was that of a politician up for reelection. His posture, speech, and mannerisms projected authority. Even his shiny black shoes screamed money. This was a man accustomed to getting his own way.
    "Thank you." Rafe towered over him, but the man looked up and held his gaze. 
    "Hell of a guy, your dad. We need more like him in law enforcement. Are you planning on sticking around?" Harold asked.
    "No, sir. I don't plan on being in town for long."
    "Then why are you here?" Erin's right eyebrow rose.
    "I asked him to help." Jeff's Scottish lilt had thickened.
    "Without talking to me?" Her voice jumped up an octave.
    "Before you go off half-cocked, let me say this," Rafe said. "You don't have to like that I'm here. Doesn't mean I'm walking away if Jeff needs me." Persuading Rafe to back out now would be easy, but the words had to come from Jeff.
    Her gaze met and held his. If she was looking for reassurance, he didn't have it to give. Jeff thought she was innocent, but Rafe remembered the hot-tempered teenage girl whose tongue was sharper than her long fingernails. Was she capable of murder? Given the right circumstances, wasn't everyone?
    "Rafe and I are here to help," Jeff insisted to her.
    "You understand that if these two sit in on our discussion, I can't guarantee everything you say will remain private." Harold set his briefcase on the coffee table. The snaps opened with a crack, and everybody except Rafe jumped.
    Erin dropped to the couch as if surrendering. "For the record, I did not kill Penny. And before you ask, I was home alone last night."
    "Keep that information to yourself. If anyone else asks, tell them you've been instructed by council not to comment. All questions are to be directed to me." Harold removed a legal pad from his briefcase and made a couple of notes. "Remember, the burden of proof