sweetheart.
D amn woman.
Killian Shawnessy’s patience ran out at exactly 5:52 p.m. He’d already given up the idea of fishing today. The lake had turned choppy, and storm clouds were swelling on the horizon. It was also so blasted hot and humid he thought he was in a steam bath instead of a Texas mountain cabin.
Leaning against the cabin porch rail, he tossed back the last of a cold beer, wiped at the sweat on his brow, then frowned darkly at a clump of tall cattails on the other side of the lake where the fool woman was hiding.
He had no idea who the Peeping Thomasina was, or why she’d been watching him with binoculars for the past three hours. It was possible that Jordan had sent someone; Ian wouldn’t put it past the woman, even though she’d sworn not to bother him for two weeks if he took the Cairo assignment.
But a promise didn’t mean a rat’s behind to his boss, Ian knew. In the first two days alone, she’d already called four times. Yesterday Ian had simply unplugged the phone.
Which might explain the woman watching him, he thought with a scowl.
He’d only caught a glimpse of her when he’d checked her out with his own binoculars from inside the house. Slender, blond, on the tall side, maybe around five foot eight or nine. Dressed in boots and khakis and definitely inexperienced in the art of surveillance.
She wouldn’t last long out there. Between the heat and the humidity and the approaching storm, she’d be gone within the hour. If she wasn’t, the mosquitoes would be coming out for supper and they’d simply carry her off.
He didn’t much give a damn. He still had eleven blissful days that he didn’t have to report or answer to anyone. He’d come back to his hometown of Wolf River to see Nick Santos get married, and that was what he intended to do.
That was all he intended to do, other than fish, consume beer and watch spiders build webs.
A slight movement in the cattails caught his attention. Maybe Jordan needed a message sent back to her, Ian thought with a frown. And maybe this woman was the one to carry it.
At the first low rumble of thunder, Cara Sinclair knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t bad enough that it was so hot and humid her eyeballs were melting. Now it had to go and rain, too. And based on the size of the black clouds crowding the once-blue sky, and the smell of the storm in the air, it was going to be a whopper.
Great, just great. She lowered her binoculars and wiped at the sheet of moisture on her forehead, then blinked to clear her eyes. So much for the glamorous job of a private investigator.
Not that she was into glamour; she would hardly be lying in a thicket of cattails wearing camouflage overalls if elegance and high fashion were her style. Big diamonds and fancy clothes were for the uptown debutantes of Philadelphia society, not for a girl from a small town like Bloomfield County. She’d take a baseball game over the ballet anyday, Cara thought, lifting the binoculars once again.
Now where had Mr. Killian Shawnessy disappeared to?
Focusing the binoculars, she scanned the porch he’d been sitting on for most of the afternoon. He must have gone back into the cabin, probably for another beer, Cara decided. It was certainly hot enough, and though she’d never acquired the taste herself, on a day like today, anything cold and bubbly would be welcome. She stared at the lake, fantasized about jumping into the cool water, then sighed and concentrated on the job at hand.
At least if she had to lie in these rough, itchy weeds in this miserable gray heat and watch someone, she had a good subject. Killian Shawnessy definitely fit into the category of superhunk. Tall, thick black hair, strong square jaw. A face that was a combination of construction-workerrugged and magazine-cover handsome. Those long legs of his filled out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business; that broad chest and muscular arms under the chambray shirt he wore were enough to make a girl’s heart skip a beat or two in appreciation. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she’d bet her brand-new-not-even-paid-for-yet 500 mm zoom lens that they were brown. Dark brown.
Not that she intended to get close enough to find out. Not yet, anyway. For now she simply needed to take a few pictures and watch him for a couple of days, then report back to Margaret.
And based on how friendly and talkative the people of Wolf River were, she’d have plenty to report.
Tracy Simpson, a fence-post-thin brunette working the cash register at the Stop N Shop in town, had turned into a regular Chatty Cathy this morning when Cara casually mentioned the name Killian Shawnessy.
“You know Ian?” Surprise lifted Tracy’s heavily lined eyebrows.
Cara shrugged and started to browse through a display of paperbacks beside the counter. “A friend of a friend. Said if I was passing through here to say hi.”
“Must be your lucky day,” Tracy said with amazement. “Ian’s been gone nearly fourteen years, but showed up three days ago. Is that a coincidence or what?”
“Incredible.” Cara could hardly tell the woman she’d followed Ian here from Washington, D.C. “Back to visit his folks?”
“Ian’s got no folks, unless you count Esther Matthews. She was his foster ma for a spell, but she passed on a couple years back. Ian’s here for Nick Santos and Maggie Smith’s wedding next week.”
“Nick Santos?” Cara glanced up from the mystery novel she’d been eyeing. “That wouldn’t be the Nick Santos, would it, as in Three-Time National Champion Motorcycle Racer?”
“One and the same,” Tracy chirped brightly. “Don’t that beat all, a celebrity like Nick Santos living right here in Wolf River?”
It sure did, Cara thought, and added the mystery novel to the bottled water and chocolate bar she’d already set on the counter. She’d been a Nick Santos fan ever since her brother Gabe had taken her to her first race when she was seventeen. More than one woman’s heart had been broken when Santos retired from racing.
Miniature silver cowboy boots dangled at Tracy’s ears as she rang up the order. “Nick and Lucas Blackhawk were the closest thing to a family that Ian ever got, him being abandoned as a baby and all. Those three boys were tight as Old Lady Appleby’s hair bun. Hey, you want some dried apricots? We got them on special today. Two packages for a dollar.”
“Sure, I’ll take four.” Anything to keep the woman talking. Especially about Ian. “You say Ian was abandoned?”
“Right on the church steps, was the story I heard growing up. But then, there were lots of stories about Ian Shawnessy, especially when he got old enough to buckle his own belt.” Tracy gave a wicked wink. “If you know what I mean.”
Cara had a pretty good idea, but she’d rather not go there. “So he’s staying with Nick until the wedding?” she asked nonchalantly, sliding a box of cheese crackers across the counter.
“Shoot, no. He’s got himself holed up in one of Harper Whitman’s rental cabins up at Silver Tree Lake. He came in here three days ago and bought
