"Merry Christmas."

"How long can you stay?"

"A couple of days." He glanced over toward the stove. "What's that

noise?"

"Oh, my cookies." She dashed over to turn off the timer and rescue them.

"I was thinking of you when I made these. And wishing you weren't so

far away." Turning, tray in hand, she looked at him. "I'll go back with

you if you want."

"You know I want." He ran a hand down her braid. "I also know that you

need time with your family. I'll be waiting for you when you get home."

"I love you." The words went through her heart to her mind so quickly it

stunned her. The tray clattered as she dropped it on the rangetop.

"Say it again."

His eyes were so dark and intense she lifted a hand to his cheek to

soothe. "I love you, Michael. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get

it out."

Saying nothing, he pulled her close and held her. For a moment,

everything he'd ever wanted was within the circle of his arms.

"I knew when I saw you in New York, at my showing. As soon as I saw

you, I knew." With a combination of relief and pleasure she turned her

face into his throat. "It scared me. It seems I've been scared for

years. Then when you walked in the door just now, it all fell into

place."

"You won't be able to shake me off now."

"Good." She tilted her head up to his. "How about a cookie?"

HE MADE EXCUSES. Michael didn't enjoy lying to Emma, but he felt it

best that the business that had brought him to London remain his for a

while longer. He found his British counterparts polite and tidy. He

also discovered that British red tape was every bit as convoluted as

American.

It took him two hours to be told he would have to come back the next day

for a look at the files.

It was time well spent. Emma was thrilled at the opportunity to show

him London, steering him from the Tower to Piccadilly, to the changing

of the guards to Westminster Abbey. Though he'd been easily persuaded

to stay in the McAvoys' home, he'd kept his hotel room. After the

frantic tour, they spent hours in bed.

The files were little help to him. A standard investigation had

ultimately ruled death by misadventure. Forensics had turned up no

prints other than Jane's, her former maid's, and those of the dealer who

had found the body. Both his and the maid's alibis were airtight. The

neighbors had nothing good to say about the deceased, but they hadn't

seen anything or anyone on the night of her death.

Michael skimmed through the police photographs. And people called him a

slob, he mused as he studied the filth in which Jane had lived and died.

Frustrated that the scene had long since been cleaned out, he went over

the pictures again with a magnifying gla.s.s.

Inspector Carlson, who had been in charge of the Palmer investigation,

looked on patiently.

"It was a bit of a sty," he pointed out. "Th be frank, I've never seen