Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
I glance at the table where Chance was seated on the end. He’s not there, but two handsome men—one dark, one blond—presumably his half-brothers, sit across from each other. A gorgeous and curvy dark-haired woman sits with them as well. Of course. She must be Sadie Hopkins, the brother of the victim in the murder I’m investigating.
My God, I’ve walked right into a family dynamic I never wanted.
All their eyes are trained on me as I make my way back to the table where Jarvis is perusing a menu. Yeah, they know there’s something between Chance and me. No, not present tense. Past. They can tell we have a history because there is no present with us. None. Especially not after that parking lot conversation.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asks.
“We need to go.” I loom over the table. I don’t want to sit because we’re not staying.
“I just got my drink.” He picks up a lowball glass of what looks like bourbon or scotch. “And I ordered an appetizer.”
I offer him a shrug. “Good enough. Then I’m leaving.”
“Marsh…”
I ignore him and keep walking until I’ve reached the entrance once again. I have no idea where Chance is, but I can’t risk running back into him in the parking lot once again. My rental car is there, but I can’t take it anyway or Jarvis won’t have a way to get back to the hotel. Since he drove, he has the keys.
Fuck it all.
I grab my phone and pull up the Uber app. Are there even any Uber drivers working this tiny town?
Thank God. There is a driver, and she’s only ten minutes away. I schedule a ride and then walk around to the other side of the building where I can keep my eye on the main road while steering clear of the lot.
Time crawls. Ten minutes may as well be ten hours.
I draw in a deep breath—
“Kitten.”
Damn, that voice. Deep and rich with just a touch of rasp. That voice that used to turn my legs into a quivering mess.
It still does.
Luckily I’m leaning against the building so I remain standing. I close my eyes. “Go away, Chance.”
Then a spark as his finger touches my cheek.
I startle, open my eyes. “Please. Don’t do this.”
“You’re going to have to tell me,” he says.
“Tell you what? To leave me alone? I think I made that pretty clear. I don’t owe you any explanation.”
“You do, kitten.” His voice is a deep rasp. Soft, missing that hard edge from just a few minutes ago. “You have to tell me why you left.”
He can’t be serious. He knows damned well why I left. “I don’t have to do anything except figure out who murdered that poor guy on your ranch. That’s it. And once I do that, I’m never setting foot in this town again.”
“Please…”
My phone buzzes. “My ride is here.”
I walk to the front of the restaurant and take a look at the blue Toyota Prius. I check the license plates against the app, and then I walk briskly toward the car and open the door to the back seat. “Are you Elaine?” I ask the middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat.
“I sure am. You must be Avery.”
“I am.” I slide into the seat and attempt to shut the door, but—
Chance has hold of it, and he’s stronger than I am.
My God, he was always so strong. Big and strong and protective…
“Avery. Don’t.”
“Let go of the door, Chance.”
“Please. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go. Just talk to me.”
“Absolutely not.” I summon every bit of strength I possess and yank the door closed. “Step on it,” I say to Elaine.
The next morning, after checking in briefly with Jarvis, I head to Union Prison to speak to Curt Hopkins, the victim’s father. After flashing my badge and surrendering my weapon, I’m led through security to talk to the captain of the guards, a burly older man who’s bald as a cue ball.
“I understand you’re with the FBI, ma’am,” he says to me.
“Yes I am, Captain”—I eye his name tag—”Fitzpatrick.”
“And you’re interested in seeing Curt Hopkins?”
“Yes. He may have evidence that is relative to a case I’m working on. He’s the father of the victim, Joseph Hopkins.”
“Hopkins is on work duty right now in the laundry. And visiting hours are on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”
“I understand, but I’m not visiting. I’m not his girlfriend, I’m the FBI. I can speak to him whenever I want.” I don’t have time for a delay. I’m here and I’m going to talk to the guy. “I’m on a tight schedule. I’m sure the laundry facility can get along without Mr. Hopkins for a few moments. This is official FBI business.”
Fitzpatrick’s jaw goes rigid. “Let me check with the warden.”
Red tape galore. I’m used to it. State-run prisons hate giving Feds any leeway at all. So I’ll jump through their hoops. I’ll do what I have to do to get this job done so I can get out of Montana and away from Chance Bridger—this time for good.