She must have seen the murderer strike him, then leave. Why hadn't she raised the alarm? Some man called Hemmings had done that.

Something more than the obvious was afoot. He revisited the facts, but couldn't shake that conclusion.

A board in the hallway creaked. Lucifer listened. A minute later, the door to his room opened.

He remained relaxed on his side, lids lowered so he appeared asleep, but he could see through his lashes. He heard a soft click as the door shut, then footsteps padded across the floorboards; a pool of candlelight approached.

His guardian angel came into view. She was in her nightgown.

She halted six feet away, studying his face. One hand held the candlestick; the other rested between her breasts, anchoring her shawl. It was the first time he'd seen all of her; he didn't try to stop himself looking, noting, assessing. Her face was as he recalled, wide eyes, tapered chin, and sleek dark hair giving an impression of intelligence and feminine resolve. She was of average height, slender but not thin. Her breasts were full and high, nipples just discernible beneath the shawl's fringe. He couldn't judge her waist under the nightgown, but her hips were neatly rounded, her thighs sleek.

Her feet were bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.

While he'd studied her, she'd been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.

Lucifer bit back an urge to call to her. He wanted to thank her-she'd been a madonna of kindness and caring-but if he made a sound, he'd scare her out of her wits. He watched her stop by the sleeping woman; setting her candlestick down, she lifted a blanket, shook it out, then tucked it around the other woman. As she turned away, candle once more in hand, the soft light lit her smile.