Page 5 of The Grave Robber

I decided to give him something to actually be offendedabout. “You were busy getting married. And then divorced. And then re-married.And then divorced. And then—”

“I get it,” he said, his tone razor-wire sharp. “Fucker.”

The redhead glanced our way and smiled.

“Like I said, I have a friend—”

“About time.” I raised my chin in greeting.

“She’s actually my partner’s daughter.”

Skintight Jimi Hendrix tee, camouflage shorts that leftlittle to the imagination, and army boots.

“She has a problem.”

I could definitely see myself standing at attention in frontof her. “Is it that you’re her friend?”

“It’s…well, it’s in your line of work.”

“Did I mention I’m on vacation?”

“I’m actually a little surprised you haven’t spotted heryet.”

That jerked me out of my lecherous thoughts. “Her?”

Please be the redhead.

Please be the redhead.

Please be the redhead.

“Everyone else in the bar has.” He pointed to the areabehind me.

I glanced over my shoulder, spotted a blonde sitting in thecorner booth, then turned toward her slowly, my jaw going slack as recognitionsent a shockwave rocketing through my body. “That’s her,” I said, disbeliefsoftening my voice. “That’s the undermedicated gas pump lady.”

I turned back to see Jason wearing that same shit-eating grin.“Yeah, I thought you might have been talking about her.”

“You knew I was talking about your partner’s daughter?”

“Not at first,” he said, offended.

“Wait, you have a partner?”

“The blond hair and black Chevy single cab clued me in.”

“When did you get a partner?”

“She’s been through a lot.”

I gave up trying to distract him and decided to take a moreproactive approach. “Does she always come unhinged that easily?”

He stared at me to make sure he had my attention, then saidagain, “She’s been through a lot.”

Fucking hell. I turned back to her. She sat in a cornerbooth bathed in sunlight, head down, nose buried in a book, impervious to thehustle and bustle around her. Men cast interested glances her way while theirdates glared.

Betty set a cup of hot tea on her table, a tell-tale stringand tag hanging over the side of the thick mug. She followed it with whatlooked like a pastry, as though the woman were sitting in a coffee shop and nota rowdy, testosterone-filled bar.

But it didn’t take long for me to glimpse a flaw in thepicturesque scene or notice her shaking hands. Her chewed nails. She set thebook down and picked up the tea, and I thought for a moment she might drop themug.

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