The Girl Next Door (Shadow Agents #6)(2)
Author: Cynthia Eden

Just like Lockwood’s.

Even in the summer heat goose bumps rose on her arms.

“I need everything you’ve got on Lockwood, Gabby,” Lane told her, his voice grim. “Everything.”

But she could only shake her head. The body had been loaded into the coroner’s van. Uniforms began to walk back into the apartment building. “I don’t have anything to give you. He called me. Left a message for me to meet him at this address after midnight. He mentioned Kylie’s name and said he had more information for me.” She was trying to cooperate, didn’t Lane get that? “I’d just run a piece on the web, highlighting Kylie’s unsolved murder, so I figured that Lockwood had seen it and he had a lead to share with me.”

Once a month, she featured an unsolved crime in her column. Thanks to those features, she’d helped close three cold cases.

Lane should thank her for that help.

His glare said he wouldn’t be thanking her anytime soon.

“What if the killer had still been inside that apartment?” he demanded. “What if he’d come at you with that knife?”

She had mace in her bag. Not much as a weapon, but it was something. “No one was there when I arrived.”

“You sure about that?”

Pretty sure since she’d gone through every room in that place. “I—”

“Gabrielle?” A surprised voice. Male. Rough. Very distinct.

When a woman heard a voice like that—so deep and hard and rumbling—she didn’t forget it.

She fantasized about it. She enjoyed it.

She didn’t forget.

“What’s going on?” That voice continued, and then a warm, strong hand closed over her shoulder. “Is somebody hurt?”

She turned and faced the owner of that sexy voice—Cooper Marshall. Tall, gorgeous and with a smile that had made her heart skip a beat the first time she met him.

In other words—trouble.

“Someone’s dead,” Lane said before she could respond to Cooper. “And if Gabrielle doesn’t learn to be more careful, she could wind up the same way.”

Cooper’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Dead?”

“You need to clear out of here,” Lane said, speaking to her and giving another of his firm nods. Lane liked his firm nods. “There’s no way any civilians are going to get near that crime scene tonight.”

That was not what Gabrielle wanted to hear. She had definite plans to explore that apartment, because she suspected that Lockwood had been in possession of some evidence that she could use.

“Catch the train, Gabby,” Lane advised her as he turned away, “and call it a night.”

A police car pulled away.

Cooper kept holding her. His touch sure felt warm.

She glanced at him again. Cooper was wearing black—a black T-shirt and pants, and the guy actually seemed to blend with the night. For such a big guy, she’d found that he blended easily.

But then again, he’d told her that he was a P.I. Private investigators were supposed to be extremely good at blending.

“What did you stumble on this time?” Cooper asked her, the growl kicking up in his words.

“Oh, the usual.” She tried to keep the tremble from her voice. Failed. “A witness who was murdered before he could talk to me.”

Cooper swore.

Yes, yes, that was how she felt, too.

“Forget the train. I’ll take you home.” Then he was pulling her with him and away from the crowd that had gathered on the street. “I was on my way home when I saw the lights. I thought I’d stop by and see what was happening.” He spared her a glance. “A dead man, Gabrielle?”

Yes, well, finding Lockwood dead hadn’t exactly been on her agenda.

Cooper’s motorcycle waited at the side of the road. He climbed on then tossed her the helmet. “Just hold on tight, and I’ll have you home soon.”

She caught the helmet, but hesitated.

“What?” The light from the streetlamp fell on his face. It glinted off his dark blond hair and made him look even more handsome—and dangerous. “Don’t you trust me for a little ride? Come on, we’re neighbors. It’s not like the trip is out of my way.”

He was right. They were neighbors. They shared a brownstone—just the two of them.

When she’d moved in four months ago, she hadn’t been sure what to expect from her male neighbor. Her landlord had told her that Cooper regularly worked out of the country, that she probably wouldn’t hear a peep from him.

She’d heard some peeps. And so far, he hadn’t been out of the country.

On her first day in the apartment, she’d baked him chocolate chip cookies. She had a thing about baking—it soothed her. So she’d strolled down with her cookies to say hello.

She’d gotten a good look at him, standing in the doorway, tall and sexy, and she’d almost dropped those cookies.

“Gabrielle?”

She shoved on her helmet and climbed onto the motorcycle behind Cooper.

He laughed. “You’re going to have to sit a little closer than that. And put your arms around me.”

She’d put her arms behind herself and was currently gripping the back of the seat.

He revved the engine. The bike kicked to life and when it shot forward, her hands flew up and wrapped around Cooper.

She gripped him as tightly as she could.

All muscle.

She could feel his rock-hard abs beneath her hands. No big surprise. She’d heard him working out before. Boxing. The guy loved to punch.

She’d seen him sporting an assortment of bruises since she’d met him, so she figured he must do more than just hit his punching bag. The guy probably fought at a local ring. The image of Cooper, bare-chested, fighting…well, that was an image that had sure floated in her mind before.

The motorcycle zoomed through the city, flying through intersections, cutting closely around corners. At one point, Gabrielle had to squeeze her eyes shut because she was pretty certain they were going to crash and become nothing but a mangled pile of limbs.

“We’re here.”

Her eyes cracked open. Sure enough, they’d made it to the brownstone. Located off the main streets and nestled in one of the few, quiet corners of D.C., the brownstone stood with its porch lights blazing.

She loved that place.

“You can…um, release that grip on me now,” Cooper told her.

Gabrielle realized that her nails were digging into his shirt—into him. “Sorry,” she muttered and jumped from the bike. “I’m not exactly a motorcycle fan.”