He saw her hands tremble before she locked them tighter on the cup. “You can’t always have what you want. I’ll bunk in your daughter’s room.”

“No!” After slamming the cup down, she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want you here.”

With studied calm, he set his mug next to hers. When he took her shoulders, his hands were firm, not gentle. When he spoke, his voice was brisk, not soothing. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not now, not until they find Jerry’s killer. You’re involved whether you like it or not. And so, damn it, am I.”

Her breath came quickly, too quickly, though she fought to steady it. “I wasn’t involved until you came back and started hounding me.”

He’d already wrestled with his conscience over that. Neither one of them could know if it were true. At the moment, he told himself it didn’t matter. “However you’re involved, you are. Whoever killed Jerry thinks you know something. You’ll have an easier time convincing me you don’t than you will them. It’s time you started thinking about cooperating with me.”

“How do I know you didn’t send him here to frighten me?”

His eyes stayed on hers, cool and unwavering. “You don’t. I could tell you that I don’t hire men to kill women, but you wouldn’t have to believe it. I could tell you I’m sorry.” For the first time, his tone gentled. He lifted a hand to brush the hair back from her face and his thumb slid lightly over her cheekbone. Like the conch shell, she seemed delicate, lovely and damaged. “And that I wish I could walk away, leave you alone, let both of us go back to the way things were a few weeks ago. But I can’t. We can’t. So we might as well help each other.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“I know. Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

She tried to back away. “You can’t stay here.”

“I am staying here. Tomorrow, I’m moving my things from the hotel.”

“I said—”

“I’ll rent the room,” he interrupted, turning away to rummage through the cupboards. “Your throat’s probably raw. This chicken soup should be the best thing.”

She snatched the can from his hand. “I can fix my own dinner, and you’re not renting a room.”

“I appreciate your generosity.” He took the can back from her. “But I’d rather keep it on a business level. Twenty dollars a week seems fair. You’d better take it, Liz,” he added before she could speak. “Because I’m staying, one way or the other. Sit down,” he said again and looked for a pot.