Page 8 of The Death Dealer

Don’t turn! Don’t turn!

She turned.

He was lounging on the bench, with Kate Bateman’s book in hand, flipping pages as if fully engrossed.

“‘Hmm’? ‘Hmm,’ what? Why, ‘hmm’?” She didn’t bother hiding the suspicion in her voice. Surely his focus on the story was a ruse, right?

“Just that.Hmm.”

“One doesn’t ‘hmm’ for no reason, Mr. Blane. One?—”

“Trevor,” he said without looking up.

Flip.Another page. Another eyebrow lift. Another slight twitch of his lips.

Inside, she was squirming like an earthworm on steamy pavement after a soaking rain. “Mr. Bla?—”

“Trevor.”

Flip.A chuckle and, this time, a small smile.

“Mr. B… uh,Trevor,” she corrected when he cast her a sharp look. “Will you please put my book down and go away?”

A sparkle lit those startlingly blue eyes, and his smile widened into an engaging grin. “No.”

Irritated to the fullest, she stormed over and ripped the book from his hand. Or tried to. His grip was too strong, and after three useless yanks, she stopped their ridiculous tug-of-war. Stuck there, with her damp, dirty fingers smearing the ink of her favorite romance novel, and Trevor’s stupid, smirky face only inches from her heaving bosom… er,breasts… Soleil felt foolish.

Like one would a burning ember, she let go of the book and gripped her hands behind her back, sucking in a deep breath. The movement expanded her rib cage, shoved her boobs out, and drew his undivided attention to her peasant top… and what lay underneath.

All teasing left his face, and his suddenly hot gaze remained locked on her chest.

Uh-oh.

“What do you want?” she croaked.

He snorted a laugh. “That’s not a question I can easily answer.”

“Try.”

“I want to do my job and go home.” His sigh sounded regretful as he raised his gaze to meet hers.

Careful to hide her disappointment, she shrugged one shoulder. “Then go. No one wants you hanging around like a damned spook anyway.”

“No?” The smallest of smiles curled Trevor’s lips, and Soleil couldn’t stand the arrogance of it.

“No,” she snapped. “This is my sanctuary, Mr. Blane?—”

“Trevor.”

“—and I never asked you to invade it with your… your… your confident grin and your mocking eyes.” She folded her arms over her chest, managing not to wince when she smeared her white top with soil. Faced with Trevor, who was always pristine, Soleil felt frumpy. Reminding herself she could remove the stain with magic later, she lifted her chin and glared.

“Mocking eyes?” He laughed outright. “Your Ms. Bateman has filled your head with nonsense. Modern men aren’t the stuff of heroes.”

Soleil had never wanted to strike someone more. Or prove him wrong. She knew she could.

“You looklike you just won the blue ribbon at your local 4-H club,” Trevor said with a chuckle.

“I know I appear to be a country bumpkin in your eyes, but without horticulture, the world would die off.”

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