Goes Down Easy. Alison Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ I’ll see what I can do about tightening it up before I head out.”

      “And when will that be?”

      “I was hoping for brunch, at least.” He wasn’t really, considering he was still burning up inside from the gumbo. He just wasn’t ready to leave. “And maybe more time with your aunt once the detective is through.”

      “I doubt she’ll be able to tell you anything useful. Her visions aren’t exactly newsreels.”

      “What are they?”

      Perry boosted herself up onto the stool at the cash register. “It’s hard to explain. Even to believers.”

      “The listening gene?” When she arched a brow, he went on. “I was there that day. It was handed out at the same time as the one for paying attention.”

      Her smile was slow to come but when it did, Jack felt as if he’d been poleaxed. It wasn’t even about her mouth—though she did have a great one that sent his mind south—as much as it was about her eyes.

      They were deep and dark, more black than brown, and they were sucking him down in a hurry. They were eyes he could drown in, dangerous and dazzling, which his experience told him meant deceptive as well.

      “In that case, all I can tell you is that she sees flashes,” she said, the smile fading. “Bits and pieces of clothing. Or a location. The last time she helped Book, she saw chickens.”

      O-kay. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of help.”

      “Oh, but it was,” she insisted, crossing one leg over the other. “The chickens she saw are only raised at two area farms. The police were able to close in quicker with that one bit of information added to what they already had.”

      Interesting. And legit enough that he could easily check it out. But he still wasn’t buying the ghost. “Close in quicker on what?” When she hesitated, he prodded her with, “What was the case?”

      She hopped down from the stool, turned to the counter and began to straighten the chains on a display of jeweled silver pendants. “It was infanticide, and it was ugly. If you want details, you’re going to have to check newspaper archives.”

      “I’ll do that.”

      “Fine. Just don’t say a word about it to Della. She doesn’t need to relive any of that.”

      The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I won’t. I promise. Pinky swear and everything.”

      Her hands stilled on the pendants, and it took a minute for her to respond. When she did, it was to turn slowly and face him, to wrap her arms around her middle, to take him in from head to toe—twice—and say, “I’m not so sure I want to make a pinky swear with you.”

      “Why not?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, drawing her gaze.

      Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With that hands-on thing you have going, I’m not sure you can keep it to just a pinky.”

      She believed in ghosts and psychics and whatever the hell rune stones were, but the idea of holding his hand was too much for her? He took one step forward, offered her his little finger without saying a word.

      He could tell by her hiss of breath that she was as bothered by his dare as by the thought of making physical contact, yet he was certain that what bothered her most of all was the quirk in her makeup that wouldn’t let her walk away.

      Thing was, it got to him, too—her hesitation, her unease—but in a way he’d bet cold hard cash was the polar opposite of hers. Even more so, however, he was caught off guard by her eyes and her mouth, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked him over with such intensity.

      She took a step toward him and lifted her hand, pinky extended. An inch and no more separated their fingers. At least an inch of actual, measurable space. What couldn’t be measured was everything else keeping them apart. The unspoken words and the private thoughts and the truth of this step they were taking.

      Then, before he could say anything or form another thought or even define what this particular truth was, she hooked him, her finger grabbing his and pulling tight. He grabbed harder, holding her there even when she gave a half-hearted tug for freedom.

      “See?” She glared. “I knew you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.”

      “Remind me again of the terms,” he said, close enough to see the spattering of freckles on her nose that she’d powdered away.

      Close enough to smell the herbs in her shampoo, the coffee she’d had in the kitchen, her skin. “I’ve totally forgotten what—”

      A loud crash came from the rear of the building—breaking glass, a thud—followed by Della’s sharp cry, the detective’s sharper curse and the whack of a door bouncing open on its hinges.

      Perry nearly took off Jack’s arm as she jerked her hand free from his and ran through the beaded curtain toward the kitchen.

      He was right behind, and he heard her gasp when she stopped. He also came close to mowing her down. His hands on her shoulders steadied them both as they stared at the scene that had her shaking.

      The back door stood wide open, the window shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor. Detective Franklin was nowhere to be seen, while Della was in the process of boosting herself up onto the counter beside the sink to rinse blood from her foot.

      “Oh, my God, Della.” Perry rushed forward, broken glass crunching beneath her ankle boots. “What happened? Where’s Book? Are you all right?”

      “There. On the floor.” Her hand shaking, Della pointed to the kitchen table. Jack saw what appeared to be a brick wrapped in newspaper. “Book said to leave it. He ran out to look for suspects.”

      “Why would anyone throw a brick through our window?” Perry’s voice vibrated with anger and righteous concern. “Let me look at your foot.”

      Della turned on the water, sucking in a breath. “I jumped to dodge the brick, lost my balance and misstepped. I’ll be fine. But I’m quite sure when Book unwraps it from the newspaper, we’ll find this morning’s headline inside.”

      “Someone is taking the story seriously,” Jack said, feeling powerless when he was used to being in charge. “Where’s your broom?”

      “The closet next to the pantry,” Perry said, waving him in that direction. “This is going to need stitches.”

      “Book said not to touch anything,” Della insisted, though that didn’t stop Jack.

      “He can sweep up the glass,” Book replied, coming back in through the door and snapping open his handkerchief. “I want to bag the brick and the paper in case we luck out and pick up any trace.”

      Trace? On something as innocuous as a broken window? Jack wondered how deeply the detective thought this case ran. Or if his attention was also personal.

      “You think someone involved in the kidnapping is trying to keep Della out of СКАЧАТЬ