If You Hear Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (2 page)

“… there.…”

He stood over her, studied her hair.

The gleaming blond strands were shorn now to chin length, perfectly straight, even as could be.

Her eyes, sightless and fixed, stared overhead.

That blank look on her face irritated him, but he wasn’t surprised. He had seen this coming, after all. Something about the way she had reacted, the way she’d screamed.

The life had gone out of his girl and once that fight was gone …

Well. That was just how it was.

Carefully gathering up the hair, he selected what he wanted and then bagged up the rest, adding it to the pack he’d carry out of here. Later. Few things still that he had to handle.

He studied her body, the long slim lines of it, her limbs pale and flaccid now, the softly rounded swell of her belly. Nice, full breasts … he did like a good pair of tits on a woman. The dull gleam of gold at her throat from the necklace she wore. Strong, sleek shoulders.

Stooping down beside her, he hefted her lifeless body in his arms.

What he needed to do now wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he wouldn’t do it here.

“So what do you think it was?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” A sigh slipped past Lena’s lips as she turned to face her best friend. Just talking to Roslyn Jennings made her feel better. And slightly silly. It had probably been nothing. Nothing … although it had bothered her dog something awful. “It sure as hell had Puck freaked out, though.”

“You sound a little freaked out, too.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

Although, really, freaked out didn’t quite touch it.

Grimacing, Lena forced herself to focus. Should pay more attention to what she was doing or she was going to end up slicing up her fingers as well as the potatoes. It wouldn’t do the Inn’s reputation any good if word got out that the chef was adding body parts to the dishes, she thought morbidly.

For some reason, that thought sent a shiver down her spine.

“It sure doesn’t sound like Puck. I mean, that’s not like him. He loves his walks, right?”

“Yep. He does. And you’re right … this isn’t like him.” She couldn’t recall him ever acting quite like that before. He was a good dog, protective, loving … a friend.

“Let’s talk about this noise you heard. If we can figure out what it was, maybe we can figure out what had Puck so freaked out. It probably had something to do with the noise, right? I mean, it makes sense.”

“I can’t place it. Weird grunting. Kind of muffled.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but do you think maybe you heard somebody going at it?” Roslyn’s voice was a mixture of skepticism and interest.

“Going at it?” Lena asked, blankly. “Going at what?”

For about two seconds, Roz was silent. Then she burst into laughter. “Oh, sweetie, it’s been way too long since you’ve gotten laid. Sex, girl. Do you remember what sex is?”

“Yes. Vaguely.” Scowling, she went at the potatoes with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. Oh, yes, she remembered sex. It had been close to a year since she’d gotten any, and before that? It had been college.

But, yes, she remembered sex.

“So, you think maybe a couple of people were out there screwing? Although, hell, if some guy is going to talk me into stripping nekkid in the great outdoors, it had better be good sex. Bug bites. Ticks. Poison ivy.”

“Sunburn,” Lena offered helpfully. Perpetually pale, she had to slather down with SPF 60 just for a jaunt to the mailbox. Well, maybe not that bad. But still.

“Sunburned hoo-haa. Heh. Doesn’t sound like fun, does it? Although if the guy is good … but you were in the woods, right? So scratch the sunburned hoo-haa. So, what do you think … could you have just heard some private moments?”

“You’re a pervert, you know that?” Lena grinned at her best friend. Then she shrugged. “And … I don’t know. I really don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that Puck didn’t want to be there—that’s just not like him.”

The dog at Lena’s feet shifted. She rinsed her hands and then crouched down in front of him, stroking his head. “It’s okay, pal. I understand.”

He licked her chin and she stood up.

As she turned to wash her hands again, she heard the telltale whisper of the cookie jar. Smiling, she said, “If you eat all of those, you’re out of luck until next week. I am not whipping up another batch tomorrow. You’re stuck with whatever you bought from the store. With that wedding you’ve got planned, Jake and I are going to be busy enough as it is.”

Jake was the other chef here at Running Brook. They split the week, Jake working Monday through Wednesday and Lena working Thursday through Saturday—they traded off on Sundays, but with the wedding they had going on tomorrow, they both needed to be here.

“That wedding,” Roz muttered around a mouthful of cookie. “Hell, that wedding is why I need the cookie—and store-bought isn’t going to hold me right now, sweetie. I need the real stuff. Good stuff. Shit. If I thought I could get away with it, I would have a White Russian or three to go along with the cookie.”

“No drinking on the job. Not even for the owner.”
Lena smirked. “Hell, you’re the one who had to go and decide to start doing these boutique weddings. You all but have a welcome mat out … ‘Bridezillas accepted and welcomed.’ ” Shoving off the counter, she joined Roz at the island. “Gimme one of those before you eat them all.”

Roz pushed a cookie into her hand and Lena bit down. Mouth full of macadamias, white chocolate, and cranberries, she made her way to the coffeepot. “Since you can’t have a White Russian, you want some coffee?”

“No.” Roslyn sighed. “The last thing I need right now is coffee. I’m supposed to be meeting the bride and her mom in a half hour to discuss the floral arrangements.”

In the middle of getting a clean mug from the cabinet, Lena frowned. “Discuss the floral arrangements … the wedding is tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Which is why I need cookies.” She huffed out a breath. “Damn. I really do need that White Russian, you know. But I’ll have to settle for the cookies.”

Lena smiled as her friend went for another one. That emergency stash wasn’t going to last the day, much less the weekend. She thought through her schedule and decided she might try to make up another batch. She could probably find the time. It sounded like Roz would probably need it. They were all going to need it, probably.

“Does she want to change the floral arrangements or what?”

Roz groaned. There was a weird thunk, followed by her friend’s muffled voice. “I don’t know. She just wanted to discuss the flowers. She had some concerns.” There were two more thunks.

“Well, banging your head on the counter isn’t going to do much good … unless you hit it hard enough to knock yourself out. Otherwise, all it’s going to do is give you a headache.”

“I’ve already got a headache,” Roz muttered.

“Look, if she does have the idea of changing the arrangements around, explain to her that the florist here closes at noon on Fridays. Somebody will have already made sure the orders are covered, but changing the orders would just be too difficult, and it could be too chancy to try someplace outside of town. If you lay it on thick enough, she’s not going to want to risk it.”

“Hmmm. Good point.” The stool scraped against the tile floor as Roz stood up. “I knew there was a reason I hired you.”

“You hired me for my cookies,” Lena said, her voice dry.

“Another reason, then.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, no more cookies. I’m going to check on a few things before I go talk to my … client.”

“Good luck. But do me a favor … if she decides she needs a last-minute menu change? Stonewall her. I don’t care how, and I don’t care what you say. Stonewall her.”

“This woman can’t be stonewalled.” Roz sighed. “I think she might just
be
Stonewall. His reincarnation or something. You can’t stonewall a Stonewall, right?”

“Figure a way out.” There was no way she was doing a last-minute menu change.

August 2010

T
HE LATE SUMMER SUN BEAT DOWN ON HIS BACK AS
E
ZRA
King hauled a two-by-four up onto the deck. Hot as a bitch outside, miserable hot, edging close to ninety degrees, but he didn’t let it slow him down.

Nope, he was going to get this damn deck built before fall. He wanted it done so he could spend the cool—assuming it cooled off—fall nights out on the deck, staring into nothingness while he contemplated the best way to waste the rest of his life.

“Anything other than carpentry,” he muttered. “Anything.”

Once he got through the damned, do-it-yourself hell that was this house, he was done with hammers. At least that was what he told himself. Part of him enjoyed it, though. It was kind of cool, watching something unfold in front of you, something that started with just a bare wisp of an idea. Hard work, money, and sweat was all it took to make that idea into reality.

Ezra had been raised to appreciate the value of hard work—he’d hated it at the time, but now it served him well. Nothing worth having came for free. A guy wants something, he works for it or pays for it. Otherwise, he doesn’t get it—doesn’t deserve it. That was life.

Like this deck. Ezra wanted it, he wanted it done his way, and he didn’t want to pay somebody else to do it for him—he might have some money tucked away, but if he wanted it to last, he had to be careful. So here he was, doing it himself. But damn, he’d be glad when it was done.

Around lunchtime, he stopped, but only because his stomach was growling so loud he could hear it over the hammer. After a messy BLT and half a pitcher of iced tea, he headed back outside and once more fell into a rhythm, hammering nails into the wood, fetching another, and another.

He lost track of time, his mind blanking out on him.

Stripped down to a pair of low-slung khaki shorts and tennis shoes, he worked. A red bandanna held his sweat-dampened brown hair back from his face and sunglasses hid green eyes.

He had a pretty face, a fact he’d been told more than once in his life. Back in school, he’d gotten into more than a few fights because of it. It was just a face, his dad’s face, with his mom’s green eyes.

Having that face was both a curse and blessing, as far as he saw it. Girls had been flirting with him for as long as he could remember, even before he was old enough to really understand what flirting was. As he got older and started school, all the pretty little girls who flirted with him ended up catching the attention of the boys in his grade and more than once, that had gotten him into trouble.

Eventually, he got to the point where he enjoyed all the flirting enough to ignore the teasing that was directed his way. At least, most of the time.

In his junior year of high school, he got into a fight with one of the other players on the basketball team. His nose was broken in that fight and he was also forced to quit the team after his folks got the call from school.
It had seemed harsh at the time, but looking back, he was glad he had parents who loved him enough to be strict, who loved him enough to enforce their rules, even when it hurt.

To his mother’s dismay and his own delight, his nose hadn’t healed perfectly straight. That slight crook to his nose made his face just a little less pretty.

Over the years, Ezra hadn’t changed much. The dimples in his cheeks had deepened to slashes. He shaved in the morning, but come late afternoon, that five o’clock shadow made its appearance. He was still long and lean, although he’d finally put some weight on in college, thanks to lifting weights.

Now, those muscles were warm and loose. Even the screwed-up muscles in his right thigh. He’d taken a bullet in that leg six months earlier, which was why he was living out here in Ash, Kentucky. He’d walked away from his job, from his badge, and he didn’t think he wanted to go back.

He knew his leg would hurt like a bitch later once the muscles tightened up on him. It would be hell come nightfall. But he’d deal with it then.

The deck was shaping up pretty damn good, he had to admit.

He took another short break around three when he heard the familiar rumble of a jeep. The rural mail carrier had bills for him and a box. As the jeep headed off, Ezra jammed the bills in his back pocket and tore into the box—books … and hot damn, one of them was a book he’d spent the past few months trying to track down.

Ezra didn’t open it, though. He was tempted, but he made himself tuck the book back into the box. For now. If he started reading now, he wasn’t going to finish anything else but the book today and damn it, he wanted to get more done on the deck.

After stowing the mail in the kitchen and refilling his
thermos with iced tea, he headed back outside, going through the side door.

He heard the purr of an engine and glanced up toward the highway in front of his house. The sight of the long, black stretch limo made him pause.

Scowling, he unscrewed his thermos and drinking, watched the limo until the gleaming black car disappeared around a curve.

He knew where it was going—Running Brook Inn. When he had visited Ash as a kid, the big old house had been run-down and just this side of ugly. After the owner had died, one of the heirs had the brilliant idea to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, and the idea took off.