Harvest’s early lunch crowd’s muffled chatter filtered up the stairs to Claire’s office on the second floor. The sound barely registered in her worried mind as she paced across the tiny space. Pulse pounding, she chewed on her bottom lip.
Time was running out. Anxiety twisted her gut as she squinted at her laptop’s clock. Her stomach dropped.
Eleven-thirty. Only thirty minutes left until the Voice of Doom’s deadline.
Her purple kitten heels clicked across the hardwood floor, keeping pace with her frantic thoughts. Her nails dug into her palms as she fought against the panic boiling up inside her. The phone and flash drive had to be somewhere in the restaurant. Twenty-eight minutes left until the call. She still had time to find them. What had she missed?
The investigators never found a phone or flash drive in the Dumpster or on the body. She’d gotten that tidbit of information from Hank when she brought him coffee this morning. He’d leveled a strange look at her when she’d asked about it and the truth had almost bubbled out. But a vision of Hank’s lifeless body pushed in with the garbage had stopped her cold. She’d deflected his curiosity by handing him a donut and skedaddled out of his office.
The poor girl had eaten here last night. Harvest was the only logical place the devices could be. She had to find them or the Voice of Doom would hurt her family. He’d already killed one person. Would a few more be all that difficult for him? Judging by the demented conversation they’d had last night, she guessed not.
Sitting down at her desk and letting her head fall to its solid surface, she rolled through the possibilities. She’d checked underneath all of the tables in the downstairs dining room. She’d sliced her hands through the booth seats’ crevices and recovered about four bucks in spare change, a dozen gum wrappers and way too many bits of unidentifiable crumbly stuff. Nothing had lain underneath the upended fake potted plants. She’d looked behind the photos of area farmers that lined the walls. Nada. Her search of the kitchen had left her empty-handed. All she’d discovered after practically dismantling the bar was that she needed to order vodka.
Easing her head up from the desk, she gnawed her raw bottom lip. Her frustration festered as she tried to unwind the mystery. No ideas magically appeared. She couldn’t envision any possible locations she hadn’t already checked twice. Discarding each idea as soon as it occurred, a desperate tension built up with no release in sight. She spun her chair around, faced the window and berated herself for her lack of insight.
Always more comfortable with anger than fear, she focused on that emotion as she sought to answer the riddle.
“Hey there, Munchkin. Mom says hi.”
In a single motion, she jumped up and whipped around. Her brother Chris leaned against the doorframe. The youngest and smallest of her three brothers, Chris stood six feet tall but compensated with a tall, black cowboy hat.
“No, Chris, you didn’t call Mom.” She groaned. “Why do all my brothers hate me?”
The last thing she needed was her mom to descend into this chaos. Glenda Layton would fuss and flutter around, pouring coffee for the deputies while whispering to Claire that none of this would have happened if she were married. Her mother meant well, but her constant harping for her children to get hitched and provide her with grandchildren drove them all nuts. Glenda wouldn’t let a little detail like a murderer on the loose distract her from her life’s mission. Claire was sure of it.
A look of mock innocence crossed Chris’ face. “Oh, we don’t hate you. We love to make your life hell. There’s a difference.”
Claire wanted to smack her head on the desk. Or, better yet, his head. “So what did she say?”
“Mom took it very well, I think. She said some words I didn’t even know she knew. She and Pop are steering the RV out of Texas and back home to support the sweet baby of the family. So, if Pop maintains his cruising speed of forty-five miles per hour, they should be here in about three years.” He didn’t even try to hide the grin.
His sarcasm made her laugh. Tension drained away and her shoulder muscles loosened. Maybe all she needed to do to find the phone and flash drive was stop searching for them. That always worked when it came to finding her car keys. A quick cup of java downstairs and the answer would magically burst out of her subconscious. It would work. It had to.
“That’s my Chris, always looking on the bright side. Come on, let’s go downstairs and get some coffee.”
“Yeah, about downstairs…” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the pine floor.
Her trouble meter flashed out a warning, sending heat streaming through her body. On edge, she gave her brother the stink eye. Chris’ tone meant it could be anything from a coyote trapped in the kitchen to an angry mob protesting in front of the restaurant. Either way, it was bad news and she’d have to take care of it pronto.
“There’s a dude downstairs sniffing around about what happened last night, and even if he is…”
Who in the hell would be digging up dirt? Sure, gossip was the lifeblood of a small town, but still, there was a dead girl involved and even the most callous rumormonger would wait a few days out of respect for the dead.
Maybe it wasn’t someone local. It could be a reporter. The girl could have been a student at Cather College. You had to be pretty well-to-do to afford the small, private school’s tuition. Maybe a reporter was hoping for a story that would boost his career to the big leagues.
A hot flash seared her skin. Maybe it was the Voice of Doom.
Panic danced on the edge of her thoughts. He’d said he’d call. Maybe the bastard had changed his mind? She opened her mouth to tell Chris, but a small voice warned her against it. What if it wasn’t the killer?
There was only one way to find out. Claire marched out the door, intent on protecting her family.
The upstairs dining room’s wall of windows had a great view of the revitalized downtown, including a 1940s-era movie theater. Usually Claire would slow down to admire the sight. Not today. She didn’t even pause when she whacked her hip on a table. Swallowing a yelp of pain, she quick-stepped down the wide staircase, rubbing her aching hip.
Chris followed a few steps behind. “Claire, this guy is—”
“I’m about to find out exactly who he is.”
A smattering of customers munched away at the round tables on the first floor. She didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Well, except for the sudden drop in conversation followed by an immediate rise in the whispering.
Yeah, finding a dead body in your Dumpster will make people do that.
“Where is he?” Claire asked no one in particular.
Celestine Arthur, one of the regulars, pointed a bony finger toward the bar off to the side of the dining room. A malicious glow lit up the old crone’s face.
“Enjoy the show, Celestine.” Claire marched toward the side room, Chris hot on her heels.
Suzie, the bartender, stood behind the bar polishing it. Today, she had only one customer.
Target acquired.
Claire zoned in on the guy facing her at the opposite end of the bar. Steam floated up from the dusky orange coffee cup he palmed in his large hands.
He took a slow sip and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Now that is a good cup of coffee, Suzie. Thank you.”
His low voice slid over Claire’s skin, caressing her hidden pleasure zones as strongly as if he had touched her. Unless he was a master at impersonations, there was no way last night’s nasal-toned threats had come from the fine male specimen relaxing at her bar.
He must have felt the weight of her gaze because he raised his head.
Her breath caught. Damn, he was magnificent. He had close-cropped dark, almost black hair. She’d bet today’s receipts that the small scar on his cheek was all that had kept his face from being plastered on billboards in Times Square. A small dimple in his chin punctuated his chiseled jaw. Only his full lips, almost feminine in appearance, balanced out the all-encompassing masculinity of the rest of his face.
He had trouble written all over him, the kind that made women of all ages yearn for a nearby bed. She licked her dry lips and stood as tall as she could.
As if accepting her positive appraisal as his due, he smirked and winked one of his slate-blue eyes at her. She snapped out of her trance. Pretty boys. They were all the same, self-centered jerks who looked like Apollo and acted like Hades. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
So he wasn’t the Voice of Doom. Who was he, and why was he in Harvest asking questions that were better left to law enforcement? Time to find out.
“I’m Claire Layton and I own Harvest. Is there something I can help you with?” Proud of her steady, almost neutral tone, she drummed her fingers on the gleaming bar.
The man sauntered over and stopped an inch shy of her toes. He was tall and so close. She inhaled his musky scent. His black shirt’s buttons, level with the tip of her nose, worked valiantly to hold the material together across his muscular chest. Part of her hoped they’d burst just so she’d get a peek at the treasure beneath.
She forced her gaze upward. Her feet ached to take a step back, or forward, but she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
“Who’re you and what do you think you’re doing in my restaurant?”
He laughed. Her nipples tightened at the warm, sensual sound. Her breath caught when he tweaked her on the nose.
“You’re a spitfire, aren’t you?” He chuckled, low and soft.
Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She couldn’t believe it. He’d tapped her on the nose as if she were a five-year-old girl or a dog. An indignant flush swept up from her toes.
She managed, just barely, not to kick him in the shin.
“I’m Jake Warrick with Absolute Security in Denver. You must be Claire Layton, the girl who finds dead bodies in her garbage.”
“Only one body, thank you very much.” The words flew out before she could formulate a witty response.
“Yes, Kendall Burlington. Her father hired me to act as the family’s eyes and ears during the investigation. They want to make sure everything stays on the up and up.”
Claire’s jaw jutted out at the insinuation about her brother’s law enforcement ethics. Hank was the most ethical man she knew. He’d lock up his own mother before he’d be part of a cover up.
“Oh you, you…”
That’s it.
Quick as lightning, her hand snaked across the bar. She snatched the water hose attached to the sink under the counter. With a flick of her wrist, she aimed the nozzle and let it rip.
The geyser soaked his shirt until it clung to his brawny chest.
Chris cut short her satisfaction, much to her dismay. Yanking the nozzle out of her grasp, he handed it to Suzie like a hot potato.
A wolf whistle blasted across the room.
“You better get that man a new shirt quick,” Celestine hollered from the dining room. “Before one of the old biddies out here gets a little too excited seeing all those muscles.”
Claire glanced over. Sure enough, Jake had peeled off his sopping-wet shirt. He did, indeed, have muscles on top of hard muscles. A dusting of dark hair covered his pecs. Her mutinous eyes followed the narrowing trail of hair until it dipped into the low-slung waistband of his jeans. She balled her hands to avoid reaching out and tracing the shadows on his six pack. Gritting her teeth, she forced her gaze to his face.
The bastard grinned at her. Her clit tingled in response.
Damn. Why did she always want the cocky jerks? There must be something wrong with her. She had to get out of here and give herself a chance to get her treacherous body under control.
“Chris, why don’t you come with me to get a shirt for Mr. Warrick? We wouldn’t want him to catch cold.”
She stomped toward the storeroom.
Did you miss part of Dangerous Kiss? Catch up here. xoxo, Avery
