Page 103 of Family Jewels

I hadn’t been until he asked, but my stomach broadcast a loud growl at the reminder of food.

The grin he gave me wasn’t his bad-boy grin; this was more real. “I’ll make us sandwiches.”

I followed him into the fanciest kitchen I’d ever seen, full of natural wood cabinets with a shiny gloss, dark granite counters, and stainless steel appliances.

Definitelynot what I’d expected. This kitchen looked like it belonged to a chef.

He opened up the right side of the double-door refrigerator and pulled out packages of turkey, cheese, and a loaf of bread, all of which he arranged on the island.

“You shouldn’t keep bread in the fridge,” I said as I opened cabinets and found two plates.

He laughed. “Is that right?”

“It gets stale faster.”

I grabbed the bag and opened it, then pulled out four slices and put two on each plate.

“I can do it,” he said.

“We always work better as partners, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “We do.”

I looked up at him, but his face was devoid of expression. While I could see how his poker face would serve him well in his life as a criminal, I found it extremely frustrating. “How long did it take you to learn that?”

His brow wrinkled. “Learn what?”

“To hide what you’re feeling?”

His mouth quirked to one side. “I learned that skill long before I started my apprenticeship with J.R. Simmons.”

“From your father?”

He nodded.

James told me once that his father had been a cruel man who’d abused him, his younger brother, and their mother. His daddy was the one who’d given him the nickname Skeeter—an insult he’d worn as a symbol of his guilt. James thought he deserved it. He’d been forced to watch his father’s abuse, but had been too young to stop it. Ever since I’d learned the truth, I’d called him only by his given name.

“Where’s your mother now?”

“Dead.”

“And your father?”

“He got what he deserved.” He looked away, making it clear he had no intention of explaining the how of it. I suspected he might have had a hand in meting out that punishment.

“Does Scooter live with you?”

“No. He lives in town.”

I glanced around and wondered how many women he’d made sandwiches for in this kitchen. The thought made me queasy.

He arranged the plates in front of two stools on one side of the island, then grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge.

I slid onto one of the bar stools, and he sat down next to me. I took a bite, surprised by how hungry I actually was. Apparently negotiating with criminals worked up an appetite. I took in the fancy stainless steel appliances and asked him, “Do you cook much?”

He laughed. “No. I can feed myself the basics, but every Monday and Thursday Sandra leaves me something to heat in the oven, when she comes to clean.”

“Sandra?”

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