The Arsonist. Mary Burton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ alley until it was almost too late.

      The driver hit the brakes and narrowly swerved around her as she looked up. Shocked, she stumbled back.

      Her heart hammering in her chest, she went from fear to anger in a split second. Without thinking, she flipped the Motorcycle Man the bird. “What is the matter with you, sport?”

      Motorcycle Man shoved up his visor. Electric blue eyes that held no hint of emotion stared at her.

      Suddenly, all her senses became very sharp. She was intensely aware of the hot June air and the sweat drizzling down her chest between her breasts.

      The jolt of desire surprised and irritated her. The guy had almost run her over. If she’d had any sense, she’d not have taken on a redneck biker in an alley. But her nerves were shot and her mouth worked faster than her brain. “Hey, mister, do you think you can be a little more careful?”

      “You’re the one that wasn’t watching where you were going.” His voice was hoarse, rusty and sent tremors down her spine.

      Still, Darcy marched toward him, pulling her trash can with her. The idea of coming home had frayed her nerves and she realized she was spoiling for a fight. “This is an alleyway! It’s not meant for high-speed chases. You could have flattened me like a pancake.”

      “You smell like smoke.”

      “What?”

      He looked around the alleyway. “What was burning?”

      She nodded her head toward the restaurant kitchen’s door. “A grease fire in the Varsity’s kitchen. It’s out now.”

      His gaze sharpened. “They had another one?”

      Another one? What was happening to that place? When she’d been kid growing up and working there, they’d never had any trouble. Family loyalty had her keeping those thoughts to herself. “Like I said, it’s under control.”

      His gloved leather hand tightened around the bike’s throttle. “So are you going to be okay, or do I have to call an ambulance?”

      His sarcasm grated her nerves. “I’ll probably have nightmares for a month.”

      Creases formed around his eyes, a sign he was grinning. “So are you the new waitress at the Varsity?”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Who else would be hauling around a trash can with the Varsity stenciled on it?”

      She glanced at the faded lettering. “Right.”

      “You don’t look like a waitress.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sounded bitchy—even to her own ears.

      “Right. Well, sorry for the scare.” He flipped his visor down. “Watch where you are walking. You might not be so lucky next time.”

      She gritted her teeth. “Drive more slowly!”

      Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “Try not to frighten the customers away.”

      The laughter in his voice irritated her. “I’m a good waitress.”

      “Right.” He revved the engine loudly and then slowly drove down the alley.

      Muttering an oath under her breath, Darcy started back toward the Varsity.

      She’d gone two feet when her high heel caught between cobblestones again and she stumbled. Gripping the handle of the trash can, she glanced back to make sure Motorcycle Man had left. He had.

      With as much dignity as she could muster, she brushed her bangs off her face, and dragging the trash can behind her, retreated back into the kitchen.

      Darcy shut the kitchen door and leaned against it. Closing her eyes, she let a sigh shudder through her body as she thought about Motorcycle Man’s laughing gaze. It seemed everyone had questioned her competency since she had arrived in Preston Springs.

      But she’d prove them all wrong—when she found Nero.

      Chapter 3

      Darcy spent the next half hour unpacking and changing into a cotton T-shirt, jeans and running shoes. She itched to go out for a long run before reviewing her notes on Nero, but it was already past three in the afternoon and the dinner crowd would be arriving at five o’clock.

      As she brushed her hair up into a ponytail, she glanced around her old bedroom. Her mother had taken down her posters and painted over the purple. Her brass daybed was still there, but the black-and-white comforter was gone and in its place a green quilt and lots of pillows. Her mother’s sewing machine sat in the corner next to a white glider and footstool.

      Her mother had done a good job of erasing any signs that her daughter had ever lived in this house. None of this would have bothered Darcy, if not for Trevor’s shrine in the diner.

      “And why do you care?” Darcy mumbled as she tightened the rubber band around the thick handful of hair. “This is just a temporary stop. Deal with it.”

      She started down the back staircase that led to the kitchen. As she approached the last step, she heard a man singing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” The voice was deep, the tone so off-key it made her smile.

      Darcy found a stocky man standing in front of the stove stirring a pot of chili. He wore a white cook’s uniform with the sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. A rawhide strip held back thinning gray hair in a tight ponytail.

      “Hey,” she said. Her mother had told her the tavern had a new cook. His name was George Paris.

      George didn’t look up. “What did you do to my kitchen?” Each word was coated in a thick Alabama accent.

      Darcy glanced around and seeing no signs of her mother assumed the comment was directed at her.

      “Saved it.”

      “It took me a half hour just to clean the flour out of the burner.”

      The chili smelled good and she remembered she’d not eaten since breakfast. “You’re lucky to have a burner or a job for that matter. If I hadn’t shown up, Mom would have torched the place.”

      Nodding thoughtfully, he tossed a handful of chili powder into the pot. If he’d worked here six months, he knew her mother could be a bit scattered at times. “Then I owe you my thanks. Unemployment doesn’t suit me so well.”

      She snagged an apple from a bowl of fruit on the island. “Me either.”

      He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mother said you are the new waitress.”

      “That’s right.” She bit into the apple.

      “You don’t look like your mother or Trevor.”

      The apple tasted tart. “I take after my father.”

      Eyeing СКАЧАТЬ