tall stools on the near side provided a place for casual dining.
On the back wall, an old-fashioned stove, enameled in green, held a simmering pot of soup or stew or something that smelled delicious.
The area rug was green with roses woven into it in multiple hues of pink. A green, white and black border highlighted the center floral part. White beadboard lined the bottom three feet of the wall, matching the cabinets in the kitchen. Pink-striped wallpaper covered the walls of the living room while green and white tiles formed the counter and the backsplash.
An oak armoire was open and revealed a television in its upper section. A sofa in tan and green chenille, an easy chair in tan leather and an oak rocker with pink and green plaid cushions completed a cozy grouping. End tables and a sturdy coffee table were laden with potted plants and magazines about computers and gardening.
The coffee table was painted white, but the green paint from a former life was visible along the edges and legs, and before that, it might have been black. On the walls, family photographs were mixed in casual groupings with gilt-framed mirrors and dark wooden frames of still life paintings that could have come from an ancient attic. Off to one side—where a dining table should have been, he surmised—a quilt was rolled on a quilting frame, a needle with gold thread stuck in one of the squares of material as if the seamstress would be gone only a moment.
The effect of the furnishings was one of odds and ends put together in a charming fashion. For some reason, the place made him feel uneasy, as if he were an unwelcome intruder into her personal space.
“The bathroom is through there,” she said, gesturing toward a door.
Adam realized he’d been silent and staring for much longer than polite interest allowed. “What are the other doors?” he asked, indicating the rectangular hallway to the left of the living room. Three doors opened off it, the middle one being the bathroom she’d pointed to.
“Two bedrooms. I use one for an office.” She went into the kitchen and held up a coffeepot, giving him a questioning glance.
He nodded, and she poured them each a cup of coffee. She pushed one across the surface of the island in his direction. He stepped closer and leaned an elbow on the green and white tiles while he took a sip of the brew.
“This is good,” he said. “Strong and hot, just the way I like it.”
“I remember,” she said. “From the wedding.”
The Dalton family had come to LA so he could participate in his sister’s wedding. He’d walked Honey down the aisle and given her into Zack Dalton’s loving arms.
The emotion of the moment had surprised him. But then, his little sis was about the only thing in the world that he loved unconditionally and without reserve.
When Honey had been a baby, their father had been killed in a bar shoot-out. The quiet, gentle man hadn’t been involved but was just in the wrong place at the wrong moment when a couple of punks had run into each other and pulled their pieces, killing three bystanders. Then their mom had died when Honey was three and he was thirteen. They had gone to live with an aunt who hadn’t wanted them.
So much for his family ties.
Roni’s life hadn’t been all that easy, he admitted to himself, pulling out a stool and straddling it. She, too, had been orphaned when a freak avalanche had wiped out her family.
Luckily, her uncle, Nicholas Dalton of Seven Devils Ranch, located near a small town about an hour’s drive north of the city, had taken the kids in and given them a good home. A loving home. Yeah, she’d been lucky.
“So what are you doing in town?” she asked, direct and to the point, as usual.
He’d already considered and discarded several answers to this question. He’d decided on the truth. With her, it was the only way. “Working.”
“In Boise? Since when?”
Adam smiled in resignation. In a city of barely 200,000 population, he hadn’t really thought he could avoid her forever, especially since his sister was married to her cousin. But he’d hoped.
“Since last month. I’ve been in town two weeks. I’m on new assignment. Bank fraud division.”
“Bank fraud,” she repeated blankly.
He didn’t blame her for the incomprehension. He’d been undercover on a police corruption case when they’d met. The white-collar world of offshore corporations, wired money transfers and fake companies was far from rogue cops, drug-trafficking and extortion.
“I recently finished the course work for a degree in business,” he added as if this explained everything.
In a way it did. International crime being what it was, agents proficient in accounting and computer science were more valuable to the bureau on a day-to-day basis than sharpshooters and such.
“And?”
He shrugged. “And I’ve been assigned to this district to investigate corporate fraud.”
“Like, you hack into their computer systems and read their e-mails and see what the executive officers are up to?”
“Hardly,” he replied. “Banks are required by law to report movements of large sums of money under certain conditions—”
“Money laundering,” she interrupted.
“That might figure into it,” he admitted.
“Offshore corporations to hide debt,” she continued.
Her beautiful eyes gleamed with interest now. He suppressed a groan. He didn’t need her meddling any more than he needed the insistent hunger she induced in him. It echoed through him now, a primal drive that couldn’t be denied, although he tried to ignore it.
That kiss in March, when they’d both visited their mutual relatives, had been a mistake, a madness that had buzzed through him and shredded his good intentions, which were to avoid her as much as possible and never, ever so much as touch her hand. So here he was, in her charming home, yesterday’s kiss fresh in his mind.
What was that saying? Out of the frying pan and into the fire? Yeah, that was it.
“I can help,” she told him. “I’m really good with a computer. We could put a worm in their program—”
“I have plenty of expertise within the department to call on,” he informed her coolly. “If I need it.”
“Yes, I suppose you do,” she said, in as cool a tone as he’d used. She glanced at the wall clock. “It’s time for lunch. Do you want to join me? There’s plenty.”
He knew he shouldn’t. Common sense told him to leave and not look back. He should make it clear he wanted her to stay out of his life and his cases. Instead, he nodded.
“That smells incredibly good,” he said when she set a brimming bowl in front of him.
“Uncle Nick’s specialty.” Her smile was warm. “On Saturday, he’d throw all the leftovers in a pot and make ‘poor-man’s stew.’ With fresh bread, that was our dinner.”
