Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride. Cassie Miles

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      That made sense. Orchids were hothouse flowers, expensive and delicate. Angela was a daisy person—cheerful and bright.

      “You got me off the subject,” he said. “We need to investigate, starting here at Waffles.”

      “Are you kidding? I’m not going to go marching into the restaurant and accuse my friends. These are people I work with, people I trust and care about.”

      “They’re also the most likely suspects. They have access to your knives. They know—as you do—that it’s easy to slip in and out of the dress shop through the back entrance.”

      She shook her head. “Nobody I know would be so mean.”

      “Let’s think this through.” He gently took the car keys from her hand. “When was the last time you used your knives?”

      When she shook her head, her high ponytail bounced. Sunlight picked out strands of gold in her soft brown hair. “I don’t remember.”

      “Think about it. Were you at Waffles yesterday?”

      “I came in early to help with the breakfast rush, but I didn’t unpack my knives. One of the waitresses was sick, and I filled in for her.”

      “And the day before?”

      He could see her calming down as she considered the facts. “I put in almost a full day, and I was in the kitchen. So I must have used my knives. Believe me, I would have noticed if one was missing. I’ve had that set for seven years.”

      Seven years ago was before they met, before she’d married his cousin. He’d never really thought about that time in her life. Her youth. Her childhood. “How old were you?”

      “Eighteen. I’d just graduated from the Cordon Bleu culinary school in London, and the knives were a present to myself—symbolic of my new career as a chef.”

      Shane wasn’t a gourmet, but he’d heard of Cordon Bleu. “How come I didn’t know you had such a fancy background? And how did you wind up in London?”

      “When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time overseas. My dad was stationed in Germany.”

      He’d known that. “And your father passed away when you were just a kid.”

      “Not much older than Benjy,” she said. “I barely remember him. My mom struggled for a couple of years before she remarried, and she worked in restaurants. That’s where I got my love of flavor and texture.” A tiny, nostalgic smile touched her mouth, and he was glad to see her calming down. “She died when I was a senior in high school. I had the choice of college or Cordon Bleu, and I wanted to cook.”

      “You were looking for something,” he said.

      “A taste.” Her finger traced her lower lip. “You know what it’s like when you bite into something really good? It’s pure joy. I love seeing other people experience that sensation when they’re eating something I created. Their eyes close. And they hum. Mmm.”

      He liked seeing her with a smile on her face, but he couldn’t ignore the threats. “We’re way off track.”

      “I know. And I’d rather not think about any of this. All I want is to get through the next couple of days.”

      “Whoever slashed your wedding gown is sending you a message, and it’s not a love note. I hate to say this, Angela, but you’re in danger.”

      She turned away from him, stared across the alley at a six-foot-tall redwood fence. Her slender arms wrapped protectively around her midsection as though she were physically holding herself together. “What if it was me?”

      He didn’t understand what she was saying. “Explain.”

      “I might have imagined the intruder last night. There’s really no proof that anyone was outside the house.”

      Earlier this morning, he’d inspected the ground outside the windows and found no footprints. The only possible bit of evidence was that the screen on Benjy’s window was missing a couple of screws.

      “What about the dress?” he said. “I’d call that proof.”

      “Not if I did it myself.” Though the morning was warm, she shivered. “I’ve been an emotional basket case lately, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”

      “Something to do with getting married,” he said.

      When she looked at him, he saw a painful vulnerability in her eyes. Her mouth quivered. “I’m scared, Shane.”

      “It’s okay.” He pulled her close, offering his shoulder to cry on. “Talk to me.”

      “Being married to Tom was the best thing that ever happened to me, but it was a bumpy road. Right from the start.”

      Shane knew his cousin’s flaws better than anyone. After his first tour of duty, Tom had a pretty serious case of posttraumatic stress disorder. And he was a recovering alcoholic. Before he and Angela got married, he quit drinking. She’d been good for him, helped him straighten out. “Tom wasn’t perfect. Nobody is.”

      “This isn’t about Tom. It’s about me.” Her body tensed. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be married.”

      “I don’t believe that. You’re a warm, loving woman. Look at what a great job you’ve done with Benjy.”

      Without thinking, he dipped his head and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Her hair smelled of lilacs. When she smiled up at him, the gray-green of her eyes seemed as deep as a mountain glen. Holding her felt so damn good; he didn’t want to let her go. But Angela wasn’t his woman. She was about to be married to another man.

      “Thanks, Shane. You always know what to say.”

      He stepped away from her. “Let me do my job as an almost former deputy and investigate. I want to figure out who messed up your dress, and I’m starting here. At Waffles. Take me inside, and show me where you keep your knives.”

      Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you promise not to interrogate anybody?”

      “Not unless they come at me with a loaded gun.”

      He strode to the rear door of the restaurant and pulled it open. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen flowed around him in a wave of breakfast aromas—bacon, coffee and freshly baked muffins. The back door opened into a hallway between the walk-in refrigeration unit and the office, which was their first stop. The office space had two small desks— one for Angela and one for Yvonne Brighton, her partner. Two tall, metal file cabinets stood beside two lockers.

      Angela opened the locker nearest the door.

      “You don’t keep anything locked,” he said.

      “Sometimes I do. At the end of the day.”

      She removed a black cutlery bag from the lower shelf. When she opened it on the desk, he could see the empty slot where the boning СКАЧАТЬ