LITMIR.BIZ

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waxed paper. Who used waxed paper anymore?

      “Thanks.” He peeked inside and saw the whole-wheat roll, the half-pound of turkey, lettuce and tomatoes. When was the last time he’d had anything homemade? She wanted something. He wasn’t sure what—only that he wouldn’t like it. “To what do I owe this peace offering?”

      “No reason.” She shrugged, and he chuckled at the guilty blush flaming her cheeks. “I thought you might be hungry, that’s all.”

      “Have I told you you’re transparent?”

      She tucked a stray strand of frizz behind her ear. Not that it did any good. The curl sprang back free, framing her face with copper question marks. “I do believe you’ve mentioned it.”

      “So?” He hiked a foot to the picnic table’s bench, then peeled back the wax paper and bit into the sandwich.

      Bent over the stroller, she fiddled with Hannah’s purple fleece jacket. “You may be right.”

      He cupped a hand to his ear. “I don’t think I heard you. What did you say?”

      She righted her spine until it was broom-handle stiff. Her face was set with the cool disapproving lines he imagined she used on too-loud patrons at the library. “I said I think you may be right.”

      “No luck, huh?”

      Lips compressed into a thin line, she swiveled her head toward the center of town, barely visible between the ice-cream parlor and antique store. “Everyone I’ve talked to is playing mute. The one thing they’re willing to say is that Felicia loves Hannah and that it’s odd she would leave her behind.”

      “Unless it was to protect her.”

      “Maybe.” She peered at him, and the sad look in her eyes tugged a string he thought he’d cut long ago. He attacked the sandwich with gusto, waiting for her to get to the point.

      “I saw pictures of Felicia in an album in her apartment.” Rory toyed with the leather handle of her tapestry tote. “She’s on a motorcycle.”

      “Yeah, she rides a Vulcan. Metallic red with flames painted on the gas tank.” And a damn fine job he’d done keeping the thing in tune, considering the girl rode the hell out of the machine.

      “She didn’t take Hannah on it, did she?”

      Ah, propriety. “No, Mike gave her a big old Chrysler to cart Hannah around.”

      Rory’s frown deepened until it formed waves on her forehead. “Where is it?”

      Where was she going with this? “Haven’t seen it since she left.”

      “What about her motorcycle?”

      She handed him a napkin, and he wiped a run of tomato and mayonnaise that was dripping down his wrist. “Her bike’s been up on blocks all winter.”

      “Where?”

      “In the warehouse.” With his chin he pointed at the beige metal building behind the shop.

      “Are you sure?”

      “I can check.” He popped the last of the sandwich into his mouth.

      “Please.”

      He scrunched the wax paper and napkin and lobbed them into the trash can by the ice-cream parlor’s back door. “Rory?”

      Looking away, she shrugged. “She loves Hannah. If she was running, she’d take the motorcycle and leave the car for Hannah. Penny doesn’t have a car.”

      “Listen.” He angled her toward him and wished to hell he could shake off the odd feeling that was crawling through him like a ghost. “It doesn’t mean anything. I hadn’t gotten around to doing the spring service on her bike yet. With Hannah around, there wasn’t any hurry.”

      Rory nodded, but her eyes reflected a gut-wrenching stew of fear and sorrow. A silent oath scraped the back of his throat. He didn’t need this. Reality was that finding Felicia alive wasn’t too likely. Reality was that finding Felicia dead would seal his case—especially if he could tie Mike to her death. But Rory wasn’t ready to hear the possibility of her sister’s demise. Not yet. Not that he blamed her. If it was his sister, he’d hold on to hope. So he gave her a lifeline. “Mike’s hanging by a thread right now. And Felicia’s holding the scissors. If she’s smart, she’s just lying low until they can arrest Mike.”

      “What if he hurt her?”

      The amber of her eyes swirled with the stress she was working so hard to cap.

      “There’s no evidence of foul play.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and let his fingers juggle the loose change. “She didn’t strike me as stupid, just confused.”

      Rory nodded again and rolled the stroller back and forth. “I’d better get going. I need to do a few more things today.”

      “Don’t get yourself into any trouble.”

      She barked a dry laugh. “Kind of hard when no one is cooperating.”

      Her uppitiness dug into his skin like a swarm of black flies. “Maybe if you stopped looking down your nose at everyone.”

      Her chin jacked up. “I’m not looking down on anyone. I’m just asking questions.”

      “People usually need a little softening before you crack the whip on them.”

      “Ha, now look who’s passing judgment.”

      “It’s all a game of appearances, sweetheart.”

      She shook her head. The noon sun flamed through her hair, rippling through the question mark curls. “It’s not a game at all.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong. The stakes are high, but it’s still a game.”

      “What kind of sick game uses people as pawns?”

      “Life, sweetheart, life.” He stabbed a hand to the brick wall, effectively caging her between it and his body. His arm hid her outrage at his breach of her personal bubble, but anyone watching would think he’d scored a point. He lowered his head to inches from hers. Her cinnamon scent swirled in eddies toward him, tightening his gut. “Can you act at all?”

      “With my transparent face?” she scoffed. But his gaze fixed on the mad beating of pulse at her neck. “Not likely.”

      “Well, start practicing, sweetheart.” He kissed her then, hard and fast. Not because he wanted her, but because he was making a point to anyone who cared to watch. Except he’d miscalculated. Touching her was like striking a lit match against a gas-soaked rag. Unexpected heat ripped through him like wildfire, fast and frantic.

      Her hands clamped against his wrists and the ridges of her fingertips connected with each beat of his pulse. When was the last time he’d been so aware of anyone? This was all Falconer’s fault for making him responsible for her well-being.

      “Don’t do that again.” She speared him with a frosty gaze that contrasted with the heated flush of her cheeks and the molten gold of her eyes. Bedroom eyes. A shiver of anticipation torqued through him. He throttled back a curse. He was used to having women look at him with that kind of heat. This should not rattle him. “Ever.”

      She wasn’t his type. He went for tall, uncomplicated women who didn’t care for strings. And Rory came with a whole snarled ball of knotted strings. Way too complicated. But this wasn’t a relationship; it was a necessity if she was to navigate through gang territory without getting lost. Taking responsibility was a character flaw, and Falconer had gone and made him responsible for her hide.

      Keeping his hand solidly planted by her head, he down-shifted the rev of his pulse. “What do you know about the way gangs work?”

      Her eyes pinched, wary once more. “Not much.”

      “It’s a tough world you’re walking

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