Dangerous Kiss

by Avery Flynn

  They swarmed around the Dumpster. Some stood and gawked. Others talked off to the side with Hank. The CSI-type guys laid down numbered cards and snapped photos. Yellow crime scene tape spanned the entrance to the parking lot, resting on top of the bushes and trussing up her Jeep like a macabre Christmas present.

  No way her Jeep was leaving the parking lot anytime soon. Great. How was she supposed to get home now?

  She didn’t want a deputy to give her a lift. She needed a friendly shoulder and a hug. Beth would come pick her up. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to call her best friend at two in the morning, or been on the receiving end of such a call.

  An invisible hand squeezed her brain like a sponge. Desperate for some aspirin to relieve her tension headache, she headed inside to raid Harvest’s first-aid kit.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand. Without even looking at the screen, she realized Beth’s best-friend-sixth-sense must have kicked in. Either that or she was up late listening to the police scanner again. She’d gotten the scanner for Beth last Christmas. The girl had been addicted to it ever since. She could picture her now, curled up with a romance novel showing a bare-chested man on the cover, her ever-constant cup of coffee on the bedside table and the police scanner buzzing in the background. The idea made her smile for the first time in hours.

  “Beth?”

  “Sure, let’s call me Beth,” said an unfamiliar male voice.

  Claire froze, ice-cold fear solidifying in her veins.

  “I can see you right now, so pretend you’re talking with Beth. That way none of the Barney Fifes end up with holes in their heads.”

  The deadly threat, delivered with a light touch, registered with finality. Her headache forgotten, she searched the crowd, looking for the Voice of Doom on the other end of the line. No one looked her way. No one held a phone. She spun on her heels and hurried toward Hank, toward help.

  “Oh, Sugarplum, where are you going? No one can help you,” the man taunted in his nasal tone. “And stop looking for me. People only see me when it’s too late.”

  The phone slipped in her clammy hands, so she tightened her grip. Petrified, she tried to speak but only a choked coughing sound came out.

  “Good girl. Now, I want her phone and flash drive. I want them immediately or you’ll pay like she did.”

  Her body went numb. The phone fell to the ground and bounced off the asphalt. Claire gaped at it for a moment, her mind blank. Acting on instinct, she swooped up her cell.

  Pressing the phone hard to her ear, she feared her shaking hands would drop it again. “Whose phone and flash drive?”

  “Why, the dead girl’s, of course, Ms. Klutz. I had hoped they were in her handbag, but I was wrong. I hate being wrong—it always means more work for me.”

  Desperate, she wished Hank would look at her. With this psycho’s eyes on her, she couldn’t wave her arms for help. She stared at the back of Hank’s head. Muscles tense, she willed him to turn around. No luck.

  “I don’t have them.” A tiny, naive part of her believed her pleading tone would work. He’d rescind his threat and life would go back to normal.

  “Too bad. I’d hoped to do this without it having to get all messy—for you, that is.”

  His words blasted her fragile hope to pieces. Her only alternative was to get help. Someone else had to notice her distress.

  “But you’re lucky. It’s late and I’m tired after, well, you know what I did tonight. Suffice it to say she had a lot more fight in her than expected.” He chuckled.

  At her wits end to find another way to gain someone’s attention, she raised her voice. “Who are you? How’d you get my number?”

  Engrossed in their jobs, no one glanced up. Defeated and alone in a parking lot filled with law enforcement, Claire sank down to the curb.

  “Silly girl, I can read. Your name is on the menu as owner and proprietor. It doesn’t take a genius to find a cellphone number. I love the Internet. Don’t you?” He paused as if expecting her to answer. When she didn’t, he carried on. “But, back to the matter at hand. I’ll give you until noon to find what I want. You’ll be hearing from me. And let’s just keep all of this to ourselves, shall we? I’d hate to have to find a Dumpster big enough for you and your whole family.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Two

  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 cont
rol.

  “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.

  Jake winked at the interfering old lady in the dining room and sat down at the bar. Man, that water had been cold, even if the woman spraying it had been on fire.

  What the hell had he been thinking, challenging her like that? He knew the rules. He had to win over the witnesses, gain their trust and charm them into telling him everything they knew. He’d just given the middle finger to every one of those requirements. What had this woman done to him?

  She’d walked in with flames shooting out of the ends of her auburn hair, chocolate-brown eyes blazing. Dressed in a dark purple dress that wrapped around her tight body, highlighting her large breasts. His body responded to the fierce pixie. Strongly. He couldn’t stop himself from stoking her inferno. Her heat had spread to him and turned any thought of his mission to ash.

  A more cautious man—his father would say a smarter man—would have handled her gently. But he hadn’t been able to do that. He’d had to push to see how hot she could burn.

  Pretty damn hot.

  Different time, different place and he’d let the fire run its course. But he couldn’t do that today. He looked down at the bulge in his jeans. Looks like his cock hadn’t gotten the message.

  He sat down on the bar stool, trying to unobtrusively adjust his jeans. He reached over to where he’d been sitting and grabbed the worn leather satchel lying on the bar and pulled out the case dossier. His father had e-mailed it from Absolute Security’s home office in Denver.

  That’s where Jake wished he was right now, waking up with the Rocky Mountains outside his window and a naked blonde in his bed, someone beautiful, tall and docile. Much more his type than Claire Layton.

  He flipped through the printouts. Kendall Burlington, the very rich and spoiled adopted daughter of Denver hedge fund manager Charles Burlington, was the victim. Claire, the county sheriff’s sister, had discovered Kendall’s body in a Dumpster.