“Hey Addario.”

Rio lifted his head, wrenching his attention from the crime scene photos spread across his desk. The voice hailing him was thick, and raspy. The voice of someone who smoked multiple packs of cigarettes a day. Someone like Danny Fresno. Sure enough, Fresno’s thick body lumbered down the aisle, his heavy shoulders blocking the view behind him.

“What’s up?” Rio asked as Danny closed on his desk.

“You got time to look into a cold case? I’d do it myself, but I’m due in court.” Danny lurched to a halt next to Rio’s chair.

“What case?” He had enough on his docket to keep him busy for the next hundred years—give or take—but there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be put off for a few hours, or even a day or two.

“Suicide from sixteen years ago. The victim’s daughter claims she’s found new evidence proving that her mother didn’t kill herself,” Danny said laconically, obviously not giving a shit either way.

Danny was simply putting in his time until retirement, which was a good ten years in the future. Assuming, the four packs of Camels he smoked a day, and the extra sixty pounds he’d packed on, didn’t retire him early.

Rio pushed back his desk chair and stretched his tight shoulders and back. Hunched over that desk all day played hell with his muscles. “Who’s on the jacket?”

“Rachel Blaine. You gonna check into it? The daughter is waiting in the lobby.”

Rachel Blaine…Blaine…

Becca’s last name had been Blaine and her mother had committed suicide. Could it be? He did the math. Becca had been living with Adam’s family for four years by that summer twelve years ago, which would put her mother’s death around sixteen years in the past.

So yeah, this could be her mother’s case.

“What’s the name of the daughter?” Rio forced a casual tone.

“Rebecca Blaine. From Olympia. She says she found her mother’s diary and from the entries, there’s no way the woman killed herself.”

So it was Becca. And she was right around the corner and down the hall.

Rio sat perfectly still, his pulse and breathing accelerating as an exotic face with dark, slightly tilted eyes took shape in his mind. A flash fire of heat hit his blood, rippling out through his muscles, which infuriated him. Damnit, he was not still hung up on the woman. That entire fuck up had happened twelve years ago. He’d shaken that itch way before he’d left SEAL Team 7 and joined the San Diego police force.

This jolt to his nervous system was curiosity, that’s all. At one point, back in his twenties, Becca Blaine had been an obsession, a craving that had fucked with his head. It was natural to wonder how the years had treated her.

It was also natural, considering what a little troublemaker she’d been, for suspicion to rise. What was she up to? Knowing Becca, there had to be some deeper manipulation at work.

Maybe her sudden return had something to do with Adele’s upcoming wedding. It would be just like the selfish little bitch to stir the pot on the eve of her sister’s nuptials. There was nothing the Goddamn woman had enjoyed more than embroiling everyone surrounding her in mind-numbing drama.

At least he could put a stop to her interference this time. “You said she’s in the lobby?”

Danny took that to mean he’d stepped into the case. “Yeah. You gonna talk to her?”

“I’ll look into it,” Rio said, frustration rising at his increased heartrate, not to mention the tightening of his chest.

What the fuck…

This unexpected and unwelcome physical reaction did not bode well for their looming reunion. Anger stirred. He wasn’t going through this again—no way in hell. He wasn’t giving her the chance to dig her claws into him again, to mess with his head. But first things first, he’d listen to what she had to say and then send her packing.

“Show her to Interview One. I’ll talk to her there,” Rio said, turning back to his desk.

Normally, he’d interview her here. But he wanted a good look at her before he talked to her, and it wouldn’t hurt to let her cool her heels a bit.

“Interview One?” There was a question in Danny’s voice, but he shrugged and turned away, lumbering back down the aisle toward the waiting room.

Rio took a few seconds to gather the crime scene photos into a tidy stack. Once they were collected, he shoved them back into their manila envelope. A minute ticked by. He tidied up the loose reports, stacking them neatly beside the file folders. An image took shape in his mind. Long black curls. Huge dark eyes. A luscious body with tempting curves in all the right places. For months, he’d obsessed over that body, those eyes, that hair…

Even now, unbidden, his heart pounded just a little too hard, his breathing just a little too fast. It had been twelve years since he’d walked away from her, but a piece of her had stuck with him. Burrowed into his subconscious like a porcupine quill into tender flesh.

He glanced at his wrist watch. Five minutes since Danny had left. They’d have reached interview one by now. He’d give her some time in there alone, long enough to set her nerves on edge and give him the upper hand.

He’d thought about her off and on over the years, something he’d long since accepted. She’d affected him like no woman before or since, which wasn’t something a man forgot.

But then she’d known how to play him back then, known what one sorrowful look from those huge, doe-vulnerable eyes had done to his heart and brain. Known that with the right expression and the right set of words, she could wrap him around those long pink fingernails of hers. Leash him. Override his common sense.

Hell, he’d almost fallen for that haunted, poor little me routine of hers too, almost believed in her integrity and soul—even though everyone he’d cared about had been shouting warnings about her.

She’d almost suckered him in, blinded and cuffed him.

Thank Christ for Adam. If Adam hadn’t finally shown him what a two-timing little bitch she’d been, he might have actually slipped his ring on her finger and walked away from ST7. He owed his onetime best friend a debt of gratitude he could never pay, for opening his eyes before it had been too late.

A memory exploded in his mind, going off like a flash bomb.

The strobe of party lights. The jumbled roar of laughter and conversation. A snug little corner. Thick black curls draped over broad shoulders. Another guy’s shoulders.

Rage stirred, he beat it back.

It had happened a long time ago.

At the ten-minute mark, he rose, and picked up one of the yellow legal pads sitting on his desk. After clipping a pen to the pad, he headed across the worn, wood floor toward Interview One.

Between the two interview rooms was a viewing station. He opened its heavy door and stepped inside. To the right and left, one-way windows allowed the person occupying the room a discreet view of the subject behind the glass. In this case, on the other side of the right window pane, sat Rebecca Blaine.

He studied the slender, dark haired woman sitting so still at the table. An odd moment of familiar unfamiliarity seized him. As though he could see the teenager superimposed upon this tranquil stranger. But there was so much about this woman that was…just…wrong.

The curves were gone. The breasts that had short circuited his brain and breathing were buried beneath a creamy blouse that buttoned all the way up to the hollow of her throat. Such a departure from the low-cut, thin shirts she used to wear. Her hair was still black, but short and straight. Her face was thinner. Her dark eyes flat and somber. But the biggest change, by far, was her stillness.

Her serenity.

Twelve years ago, she’d vibrated with intensity, as though her life force flowed so strong, skin and bone could barely contain it. That passion was gone. She looked muted, colorless.

Frozen.

Regret tightened his throat. He rubbed his aching chest and frowned. Why the hell did the changes in her bother him so much? She’d grown up, that was all. It happened to everyone. Adulthood, along with the responsibilities it carried, tended to burn away youthful passion.

His gaze tracked back to her composed face, and lingered on her sleek, midnight hair. The ache in his chest intensified. Her wild mess of black curls was gone. Her hair lay sleek and straight now, hitting just below her jaw.

A sudden memory hit. Inky black curls bouncing against a slender straight spine—lifting and falling with a rebellious flounce.

He’d been able to judge her mood by the lift and fall of those curls. A slow, sensual shimmy, or a sharp flip and fling. Those curls had broadcasted her emotions.

Scowling, he swept her face again. It was odd how familiar, yet unfamiliar she looked. He could see the old Becca in the contours of her face and the exotic tilt to her eyes, even in the way she tilted her head just slightly to the left.

To his frustration his skin tightened. His heart and respiration kicked up too, as an all too familiar pressure built below his belt.

Fuck.

The attraction was still there. His libido still liked what it saw. He turned and headed across to the room next door. As he walked, he locked down the rev of his heart and surge of his blood. He wasn’t the easily manipulated, hormone driven boy he’d been back when they’d hooked up. He had some fucking self-control now.

She glanced up as he entered the interview room and studied him. No sudden recognition or surprise on her face, even though he hadn’t changed that much from the 22-year-old boy he’d been back when they’d hooked up. She had to have recognized him, which meant she’d already known he’d be the one taking her statement.

Had Adam told her he’d made detective in the SDPD? Until they’d drifted apart, the asshole had kept him updated about Becca’s life, whether he’d wanted the info or not.

“Rebecca.” He forced neutrality into his voice. Dropping his notepad onto the table, he pulled out one of the chairs opposite her.

“Rio.” Her tone was just as flat and polite as his.

Another surprise. Not only the tone, but the lack of accent. Eleven years ago, her voice had been thick with an Irish drawl, full of vibrancy, life and temper. The new Becca’s voice was flat, controlled, lifeless. He buried a kick of surprise and banished the questions. If he started digging into all these changes in her, he’d find himself dragged back into her favorite hobby—fucking with people’s minds.

“You knew I’d be looking into your request?” Rio asked, aware his voice had turned cold and hard. He made no effort to soften it.

“I suspected. The earlier detective mentioned he was passing mom’s case onto Dante Addario. There can’t be too many Dante Addario’s in San Diego.” Her voice, in contrast to his, remained flat, polite.

She didn’t ask how he’d ended up in the SDPD. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been on a month’s leave and four years into his first tour with SEAL Team 7. Maybe she already knew his life story thanks to the grapevine known as Adam Hart.

After all, he’d known via her brother that she’d slept her way through a variety of professors and TAs while at the university, graduating with a suspicious 4.0 GPA average…

A flush of anger heated him. He pushed it down and sat across from her, pulling the pen free from the paper. “What’s your contact number in case we need to reach you?” He wrote down the number she recited, dropped the pen on the pad and sat back in his chair. “You told Detective Fresno you had new information regarding your mother’s suicide?”

“That’s right. I found her journal.”

“You found her journal,” he repeated allowing disbelief to flatten his tone. “Now? After what? sixteen years?” What the fuck was her game? Rebecca Blaine always had a play in mind. A lesson burned into his memory all too clearly.

She pulled back slightly. Yep, she’d definitely picked up on his tone. And then she cocked her head and stared at him. For a moment, something lit up those dark, flat eyes. Something brittle and bitter.

“I found it two weeks ago in an antique desk I inherited from Harold Hopewell. The desk had been in the housekeeper’s quarters of his La Jolla Farms mansion back when my mother worked for him. She hid her diary in one of the secret compartments. I found it after the desk was delivered to my house.”

“You have proof of this?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice as controlled as her face.

An inheritance from Harold Hopewell would be easy to verify. “What exactly did you find in the diary to make you question your mother’s suicide?”

“I found a fetal ultrasound dated the morning of my mother’s death. She was pregnant. Which means there is no way she would have killed herself.” She straightened slightly and held his gaze without looking away.

Rio leaned back in his chair with a frown. He knew Rachel Blaine had committed suicide. Such incidents never stayed hidden for long. Not when the woman in question had once been the mistress of Aaron Hart, the Mayor of San Diego, and had borne him an illegitimate child. Their love child had been foisted on his wife and legitimate children after Rachel Blaine’s death. Rumor mills loved juicy gossip and that tale had made the round for years.

But he didn’t recall anything about Rachel Blaine being pregnant when she’d died. Christ knows the rumor mill wouldn’t have left that juicy detail out of the news feed. “Are you certain the ultrasound belonged to your mother?”

She didn’t drop her eyes. “I’m certain. There was a name on the back, in mom’s handwriting. Aaron Robert. Robert was mom’s dad’s name.” She paused a beat, before adding with slow deliberation. “As you know, Aaron was dad’s name.”

Rio tensed. Aaron Hart had been Adam’s and Adele’s father as well. Disgust crested. For the first time he could see the destructive bomb she was trying to drop on her siblings and stepmother.

Finding out that Aaron’s old mistress had been pregnant…again, after he’d sworn he’d broken off the affair—yeah, that was certain to stir up a barrage of ugly emotions and memories.

And right on the eve of Adele’s wedding.

His jaw tensed. “You’re saying your mother was pregnant with Aaron Hart’s kid.”

“That’s what the ultrasound says.”

Rio tapped the pen on the legal pad and scowled. “You got the ultrasound handy?”

She unzipped the middle pocket of the red purse sitting in her lap, and pulled out a thin square of white, which she slid across the table toward him.

Rio picked it up and studied the hazy image. The curled form of a fetus was plainly identifiable within the black and white haze, as was the time and date stamp in the right corner. He didn’t remember when Rachel Blaine had died, but the DOD would be in her case file. It would be easy enough to match the dates.

He turned the ultrasound over to study the letters scrawled across the back. Aaron Robert. But there was nothing to indicate when the name had been added to the back of the film. For all he knew, the name could have been added a couple of weeks ago, after Rebecca had inherited the desk and unearthed the journal. Assuming even that much of her story was true.

Rio looked back up and shrugged. “There’s no proof the ultrasound was your mother’s.”

Her dark eyebrows knit. “The name—”

“Is not proof. The name could have been added by anyone, at any time. All this ultrasound proves is that someone was pregnant at the time it was taken. It doesn’t prove that person was your mother.”

“I found it in my mother’s journal. It’s dated the day of her death. It carries the name my mother would have named a second child—a boy. And the handwriting on the back is my mom’s. None of that is relevant?” Becca asked, her face still and watchful.

Shrugging, he gave the film a push and sent it sliding across the table to her. “None of it’s proof. At least not strong enough proof to reopen your mother’s case.

She stared at him for a moment, that flat look harder than ever in her eyes. Dropping her gaze, she carefully picked the film up and slipped it back into her purse. Zipping the pocket up, she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

“I was surprised when I heard you made detective.” She lifted the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stared down at him. The flatness of her face gave way to contempt.

Don’t ask. Let it go. Let her go.

“A detective? Really? You? Really?” Pure sarcasm radiated in her voice. “The man always so willing to take other people’s opinions and accept them as his own. Why bother investigating, and drawing your own conclusions, when you can just sit back and let people tell you what to think?” Disgust sharpened her eyes. “But think about this. If I’m right and mom was pregnant when she died, then she didn’t kill herself. And considering she was found hanging by a rope twelve feet from the ceiling, it’s impossible to claim her death was an accident, which means she was murdered.” She caught and held his gaze, her eyes full of fury and disgust…and perhaps a hint of disappointment. “But go ahead. Parrot the status quo. I’ll find someone else, someone willing to put some actual effort into finding out what really happened to my mother.”

Keeping his face blank, even though irritation tightened his skin, he watched her march to the door. She didn’t wait around to see his reaction to her attack, another change from the girl he’d once known. In the past, she would have kept her eyes on his face, judging the effectiveness of her barbs.

Once the door closed behind her rigid spine, he swore softly and scrubbed a hand down his face.

He’d know soon enough whether there was anything to this claim of hers. Rachel Blaine’s autopsy report would indicate whether she’d been pregnant.

If she had been with child, DNA would have been taken from the fetus. Considering his prior relationship with the deceased, Aaron Hart would have been interviewed extensively. His DNA would have been tested against the child’s. If he’d been the father, the investigating officers would have checked his alibi, motives, financial records, dug into every aspect of his life. The fact Rachel Blaine’s death had been ruled suicide, meant they hadn’t found any evidence to support foul play.

But it wouldn’t take long to pull the file and do a quick assessment. He doubted there was anything concrete to Rebecca’s claim. But if there was, he’d find evidence of it. Because she was wrong.

He was a damn good detective.