Hour of the Lion by Cherise Sinclair (reading a book txt) 📕

A pity he wasn‘t skilled in the nuances of polite society. He leaned against the plate glass.

'You planning to break into the bookstore now? Continue your life of crime?'

'Listen, I wasn‘t breaking in. I rented that house, remember?'

He scratched his neck, worked up a befuddled look. 'Oh. I forgot.'

That might have been a curse she muttered under her breath before saying, 'Well, since you‘re here, I wanted to buy a book—and what kind of business name is this anyway? BOOKS.'

Alec grinned. 'Thorson, the owner, doesn‘t believe in fancying things up.'

'No shit.' She scowled. 'None of the lights are on inside. It‘s three o‘clock on a Saturday.

I‘ve heard of short business hours, but this is ridiculous.' The edge of annoyance in her voice was sharp as a blade.

'The owner‘s out of town for a couple weeks. Need a book, do you?'

'Well, duh,' she muttered. 'Yes. I like to read. Any suggestions?'

'Weeell,' Alec drawled, just to see sparks glint in those big brown eyes like solar flares that‘d fry anything in their path. The woman needed to mellow out a tad, or her pretty hair would turn gray. 'The library is open Monday through Friday.'

'That doesn‘t exactly help me today.'

'Baty‘s Grocery usually has a few books.'

'Five—count‘em—five paperbacks off the best-seller list, and I‘ve already read four and wouldn‘t read the last if you paid me.' She stopped and considered. 'Not even then.'

'Now, Seattle would have a dozen bookstores—'

'My Jeep‘s dead.'

'Not been a good day for you, has it?' he said, sympathetically.

'Hell, it‘s been a crappy week,' she exploded. Then she laughed—the first time—and his heart slammed right up against his ribcage. Damn, but there was something about her that yanked at him.

'The auto shop will have my car running by tomorrow.' She sighed. 'But I don‘t have a television or anything to read. I can survive without a TV, but no books? I may die.'

'Have a dead body cluttering up my streets? Can‘t be tolerated.' He could only wish that needy expression had been for his attention, dammit.

He moved to stand beside her, unsurprised when she unconsciously stiffened. The girl had rigid lines defining her personal space. Too rigid. Leaning forward, his shoulder rubbed pleasantly against hers as he pointed toward the end of Main, then up-slope to the Wild Hunt.

'My brother lives above his tavern and has several walls of books. If you sweet-talked him,'—

he fixed her with a stern look—'not, I add, like the poor effort you‘ve shown me so far, you might wangle a loan of a couple of books.'

'Thank you, Sheriff,' she said, surprised, but sincere. Then she smiled and added in a sultry, way too suggestive tone, 'I‘ll try my best to sweet-talk your brother.'

'Oh, hell,' he muttered. Why the hell had he scheduled an interview in five minutes?

Her laugh was low and throaty as amusement turned her copper-colored eyes to gold.

He was a dead man.

*

Vic stopped just inside the Wild Hunt Tavern to let her eyes adjust from the bright afternoon light. After a moment, she could see the round oak tables scattered across the wide room. An alcove off to the right contained a couple of pool tables and a jukebox with the usual garish lights. Two couches sat in front of a massive fireplace on the left wall. A long dark bar ran the length of the back with a mirror behind it. Automatically she catalogued escape routes: picture windows at front and sides, the back wall to the left had a doorway to the restrooms and kitchen and exit.

Not a bad place. No blood stains were visible on the dark hardwood floor, the jukebox was playing soft country music, and the smell of beer vied with the appealing scent of roasted peanuts.

Trying to ignore the ache in her knee, she strolled past a center table seating three rednecks, probably the drivers for the rigs taking up most of the parking lot. Two men were playing pool.

A young college-aged couple by the fireplace held hands and talked quietly, totally enmeshed in their own little world.

Vic frowned and checked the room again. Where was the sheriff‘s brother? Or a waitress at least. She slid onto a wooden bar seat. And waited a full minute. Then grabbed a handful of peanuts as a reward for being patient and all that shit. But she owed the deceptively easygoing sheriff a thank you for giving her an excuse to meet a local. It didn‘t usually take long to get to know who had information in a town, and who liked to talk. This was an excellent start.

As she cracked peanuts and practiced patience, two of the truckers tossed several dollar bills onto their table and left.

Vic drummed her fingers on the bar. Didn‘t anyone work in this joint?

Finally a youngster hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white apron worn over faded jeans. Sun-colored hair and a British Isle‘s complexion, and—Vic frowned—no way was this kid over twenty-one. The girl checked the room, stopping to talk with the people by the fireplace

The remaining trucker, a big man with a florid face, pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of effort. After a furtive glance at the underage waitress, he picked up the money left on the table and lurched toward the door.

The girl looked at the table, and her mouth dropped open. 'Hey! You took my tips!' She ran after the trucker and circled to stand in front of him, a chihuahua confronting a rottweiler.

He glared. 'Didn‘t do nothin‘.Get outta my way, kid.'

'Give me back my money.' Hands on hips, the girl had the bravado of a child who‘d never been seriously hurt.

That kid was about to learn a really hard lesson. Vic scowled as she eased off the bar stool and crossed the room. And how dumb was this? She hadn‘t even healed up from the last fight.

The bastard actually swung at the girl.

Almost too late, Vic slammed her