LITMIR.BIZ

      LINDA WINSTEAD JONES

      would rather write than do anything else. Since she cannot cook, gave up ironing many years ago and finds cleaning the house a complete waste of time, she has plenty of time to devote to her obsession for writing. Occasionally she’s tried to expand her horizons by taking classes. In the past she’s taken instruction on yoga, French (a dismal failure), Chinese cooking, cake decorating (food-related classes are always a good choice, even for someone who can’t cook), belly dancing (trust me, this was a long time ago) and, of course, creative writing.

      She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with her husband of more years than she’s willing to admit and the youngest of their three sons.

      She can be reached via www.eharlequin.com or her own Web site www.lindawinsteadjones.com.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      He’d known when the phone started ringing well before sunup that it was going to be a long, bad day. He’d been right. On occasion, he really hated being right. Here it was seventeen hours later, and the day dragged on.

      One last stop, and he could call it a night. Luther stepped from his car onto the downtown sidewalk. At this point in his career—in his life—nothing should surprise him. Little did. Except the worst and nasty surprises were few and far between. Luther stared at the building before him, wishing someone else had gotten that early morning phone call. He didn’t need this. He had a gut-deep feeling this weird case could be full of nasty little surprises.

      He was due for a vacation. In fact, he was past due. He had the trip planned, in his head, he just hadn’t gotten around to requesting the time off. Two weeks in Florida, sleeping all day and walking the beach at night. The sound of the surf, seafood and bikini-clad women. What else did a man need?

      But, no. Instead of those temptingly beautiful things, he had one dead body, heartburn from a too-quick, too-late barbecue supper, and a craving for a cigarette like he hadn’t had in months. He played with the cellophane-wrapped candy in his coat pocket, running a few pieces through his fingers. The candy had helped him quit smoking, but sometimes he felt like he’d traded one addiction for another. The February night air cut through his coat jacket, damp and chilling, making him long for Florida once again.

      Detective Luther Malone quit fiddling with the candy in his pocket and stood perfectly still on the sidewalk while he glared at the blue neon sign over the single, shuttered window of the redbrick nightclub in downtown Huntsville: Cleo’s. Muted piano music and a woman’s voice singing something old and bluesy drifted to his ears. It was the kind of music that would be very easy to go to sleep to, and since he’d been up since 4:00 a.m. he was momentarily tempted. It was now past nine at night, and this really could wait until tomorrow morning. He’d already spent all day filling out paperwork, combing the scene for clues and talking to the victim’s hysterical girlfriend and his neighbors. And now this. Yeah, tomorrow would work just fine.

      But why put off until tomorrow what you could screw up today? Besides, since this Cleo Tanner was a nightclub owner, the best time to catch her was likely at night. She probably wasn’t any more of a morning person than he was.

      He threw open the door and stepped inside. The club was small. Cozy was a kinder word, and it suited the warm and welcoming place. A long bar stretched along the wall to the left, and a number of small, randomly scattered tables and chairs, half filled even though this was a Monday night, were arranged in a haphazard kind of symmetry. At the rear of the room a small stage rose above the dimly lit crowd. A woman perched on a stool there and sang. He recognized the song now: “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” A piano and a piano player shared the stage with the singer, but as he watched and listened, the instrument and the longhaired musician faded into the background, necessary but insignificant.

      Luther stared, over heads and past hanging silk ferns, at the singer whose warm, husky voice had captivated the crowd. And him. It wasn’t just the voice that fascinated him, it was the whole, luscious package. Damn. Now, this was a woman. Grace was always trying to set him up with one sweet thing or another, certain he was not yet past saving,

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