Page 1 of I’ll Be Watching You

Chapter One

Margo Angelhart

The first thing I noticed when I walked into my house Monday night was the amazing smell coming from the kitchen. Meat. Tomatoes. Basil. Garlic. My stomach let out an appreciative growl. I rarely ate Italian food even though I loved it. I come from an Irish Mexican family—we either ate meat and potatoes, or Mexican food. I didn’t think my parents even knew there were other cuisines.

I walked into the kitchen and breathed deeply. “You can break in and cook for me anytime.”

Cal Rafferty gave me his most charming grin and bowed. “At your service, milady. And, I have a key.” He winked.

Yes, I had given Cal a key a few weeks back when our relationship took a turn from fun and flirty to serious and sexy.

But still fun.

The stove was covered with bubbling pots and simmering sauces. I could cook, but most nights I didn’t bother. I had an uncle who owned a couple upscale Mexican restaurants and took over my grandmother’s food truck business when she retired, and cousins who owned a Mexican diner not far from my house. And my Aunt Rita—who couldn’t seem to adjust to having an empty nest—constantly overcooked, so I was often gifted with her leftovers. My freezer was packed with meals for one.

Yes, I had a boyfriend. And yes, that boyfriend cooked. Really well. Cal was a keeper.

“Smells amazing,” I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

He caught me by the waist, pressed me against the fridge, and kissed me for real.

“I could get used to this,” I murmured. “Good food. Hot guy.”

“As long as I’m the hot guy,” Cal said, giving my butt a quick pinch.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“Keeping you on your toes.” He kissed me again. “I’ve missed you.”

I melted a little. “Missed you too.”

We’d both been busy—me with a series of cases in my PI business, Cal working a long-running DEA op. Two months into dating and we still had to fight for time together.

He kissed me again. “I shouldn’t have put the pasta in yet. We could’ve . . . reacquainted.” He ran his hands up and down the sides of my body, then rested on my hips, his fingers splayed across my backside.

“I’m starving.” But I greatly enjoyed where his hands were heading.

“So am I.” He nipped at my neck, sucked gently on my earlobe.

I sighed and wrapped my arms around him. Cal really did everything right.

We’d met when I was investigating the overdose death of a teenager, which had overlapped with one of Cal’s cold cases. Love at first sight? Not quite. He’d been tailing me and I do not like being followed. But by the time we closed the case, the spark was undeniable.

And when we got to know each other, well . . . we were very compatible. In all the important ways.

Cal slipped my gun from the holster at the small of my back and set it on the counter. Then his hands slid down my pants and pulled me closer. Yeah, he’d missed me.

The timer dinged.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He shot me a seductive look, kissed me hard, then backed off. “Out of my sight before I ruin dinner.”

I grabbed a water bottle and retreated to the dining room. He’d already set the table: wine poured, salads plated, and a small, wrapped gift at my place. My stomach flipped.

It had been a long time since I felt this way about a man.

Tito, my four-month-old kitten, jumped onto the chair next to me and meowed. I reached over and scratched him between the ears while watching Cal strain the pasta.

I still couldn’t believe I let a ten-year-old talk me into having a cat. I liked cats, but I didn’t want one. Pets meant responsibility.