Page 18 of Deadly Secrets
Chapter Four
Roman watched Brooke screw up her face as she shielded it from the sun with one hand. “Are you sure they serve lunch here?”
The wayside cafe was made to look like a Wild Wild West outpost and was the only public place in the ten-mile area. “Gas, groceries, and the best homemade bread around,” Roman assured her.
Her color had returned to normal and she was steady on her feet again. Her little episode at the old crime scene left him wondering—had it been low blood sugar like she’d claimed, or something more?
Since she often worked in the blazing sun on archeological digs, he doubted it was heat stroke.
She sniffed the air and licked her lips. “Mmm. Homemade bread. I think I can smell it.”
The faint aroma of warm yeast and butter drifted on the light breeze to him too, and his stomach rumbled. “They have pastries as well.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated outside under a piñon tree, the dried out wood of the picnic table groaning under their combined weights. Roman popped the lid on both of their sodas, and watched as Brooke pinched off a piece of a brown sugar scone she’d said would be her dessert.
“Oh, my stars, this is delicious.” Her fingers snuck another corner from the scone. “Who knew you could find bakery goods in the middle of nowhere? And they’d be really good to boot?”
The cafe’s owner was a transplant from somewhere south of the border and had a keen knack for supplying locals with basic necessities, the occasional lost tourists with trinkets, and satisfying her own urge to operate a cafe. “The ice cream’s not bad either.”
“You come here often?” Brooke teased.
“Only when I’m trying to impress a woman.”
She seemed more at ease than she had since, well, forever. “Not a bad strategy with me. I don’t do fancy restaurants, but I’ll kill for a decent scone.”
He’d found one way to her heart. Or at least her stomach. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Her pretty eyes locked on his, and for a moment, he felt that nervousness she seemed to have around him surface. “Don’t do that,” she said, toying with the lid of her soda.
“Do what?”
“Smolder.”
He rested his elbows on the table, wishing that breeze would kick up again while they waited for their sandwiches. “Sorry?”
One of her fingers drew an air outline around his face. “You smolder, and do that thing with your voice, like every hero in every romance novel. Don’t do that to me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, you don’t. You’re a real-life hero. But you’re the kind of guy they write stories about. You’re just like Conrad Flynn inOperation Sheba. If I didn’t know better, I’d bet Misty Evans, the author, based him on you.”
She was so sincere, he couldn’t help but grin. “A romance novel hero, huh? Hmm. I’ve never been compared to one of those before. Let me guess, he has staggering good looks and a heart of gold.”
Thinking he mocked her, her eyes narrowed, looking almost silvery as the tree swayed in a sudden gust of breeze and a stripe of sunlight fell across her features. “Romance novels are my weakness. After years of reading academia tomes and journals, I occasionally need lighter fare. I like them. They have happy endings. And yes, Con is good-looking, although he doesn’t have blue eyes, his are brown.”
While he’d never admit it, he’d read one or two himself, sneaking them from his sisters when they were younger. The heroes were exactly the kind of men he’d wanted to be. The sex scenes weren’t bad either. He’d learned a few tips along the way. “I wasn’t judging your reading habits.”
“Of course you were. Everyone does.”
“Can we get back to the part where you’re comparing me to this Flynn character? Is he a pirate? A cop?”
She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “He’s a spy who fakes his death to save Julia, the woman he loves. She doesn’t know he’s still alive until he comes back to reveal there’s a mole inside the CIA and he thinks it’s her new boyfriend. He smolders at her all the time.”
“He lied to her about his death? Ouch.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But I assume this smoldering thing is one of the ways he wins her heart.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“And you think I’m doing that to you.”
