Flirting with Disaster. Victoria Dahl

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      “Well, it’ll be easy to spot strangers here on Spinster Row.”

      He frowned as he accepted the cup of tea and waved off the cream. “Thank you. Spinster Row?”

      She laughed, the sound natural and well used. “A joke. It’s just Isabelle and me on this part of the road. She’s unattached, and my relationship is complicated, starting with the fact that my girlfriend has been stationed in Guantánamo for two years and doesn’t seem inclined to come visit. But that’s more than you asked.”

      But not more than he wanted to know. “I met Ms. West a few minutes ago. An artist of some kind?”

      “A painter.”

      Maybe she really was a free-spirited libertarian who didn’t like government types. “So it’s just you two up here? No kids or live-in companions I should know about?”

      “It’s just us. I guess I shouldn’t tell a stranger that, even if he is a cop, but everyone else around here knows.”

      “I promise I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information,” he assured her. “I live alone myself. I understand the safety issues.”

      She laughed heartily at his wink.

      “And what do you do for a living, Ms. Washington?”

      “I’m a chef. Or I used to be, I suppose. Now I write cookbooks and while away my days here in my little place. It’s just me and the elk and a deep freezer full of test recipes. Oh! I’ve got just the thing for you. Beef Stroganoff. You look like a red-meat kind of boy, and you’re probably living off pizza on a job like this. Where are you from?” She hurried to the freezer and pulled out a paper-wrapped packet.

      Tom knew the polite thing would be to say no, and he really wasn’t supposed to accept gifts, but his stomach tightened at the thought of giving up a good meal. He was sleeping on a cot in the judge’s basement, and despite it being a rather luxurious basement, it wasn’t home.

      He gratefully took the frozen meal. “Thank you. That’s very generous. I’m over in Cheyenne.”

      “Are you single? Four hundred and fifty miles might be considered long distance in most states, but here in Wyoming, Cheyenne’s practically within dating range of Jackson. I’m not asking for myself, of course.” She looked purposefully in the direction of Isabelle West’s house.

      Tom smiled, hoping to charm her into giving up a little information about her neighbor. “Ms. West didn’t seem inclined to find out more about me.”

      “Oh, God, that’s just Isabelle. If she was working when you knocked on her door, you’re lucky she didn’t throw her brush at you.”

      Not exactly a recommendation for dating, but Tom didn’t mention that. “She did seem a bit antisocial.”

      “Don’t let her fool you. She’s a lot of fun, but she does value her alone time. Like most people up here, really.”

      “But not you?”

      She laughed again, shaking her head. “I can talk to anyone. For hours.”

      “Well, I’m afraid I have to move on before the sun sets.”

      “Fine, but stop by for dinner tomorrow. You protect me from that crazy Stevenson man, and I’ll feed you. Deal?”

      He stood and shook her hand. “Deal.” He’d take her up on dinner in case he had more questions about Isabelle West. And because it was only day two, and he was already sick of pizza. And his team.

      There were only five of them here, and his second-in-command was staying at a hotel across from the courthouse. They had a temporary office at the courthouse, but they were using the judge’s place as a base, so Tom had decided it was best for operations if he stayed on site. Good for operations, maybe, but not good for his mood. At least the room he was sleeping in had a door, and there was a kitchenette in the larger open area of the basement. He could microwave his beef Stroganoff and close his door while he looked into the mystery of the grumpy artist down the road. She probably wasn’t a threat, but he trusted his instincts enough to do a quick check.

      But first he had two more miles of forest to check out and a few motion-sensitive cameras to test. Duty before mysterious artist. Or beef Stroganoff, unfortunately.

CHAPTER TWO

      GOD, SHE HATED PEOPLE. Even living in a cabin in the Wyoming wilderness wasn’t far enough away to be rid of them. Here they were, seeping into her house through seams and crevices, like slime. Or sludge. Or a trail of annoying ants.

      Isabelle groaned and let her head fall back onto the office chair wedged into the corner of her small living room. Her neck hurt from hunching over the computer for too many hours. It wasn’t a natural fit for her. The only things she used her laptop for were ordering supplies, shopping for books and looking at gorgeous men online.

      But she’d spent last night and all of today clicking through link after link looking for a clue, any clue at all. She’d found nothing.

      Marshal Tom Duncan was exactly who he said he was. No surprise there. And there were some articles about Judge Chandler and the security issues surrounding the trial of a survivalist who’d killed two state troopers. His brother had been involved in the shoot-out and hadn’t been seen since, but he’d sent a threatening letter just a week ago.

      So there was a case in town that involved the marshals. There was a possible reason for Tom Duncan to be here. But she still wasn’t buying it. She knew how these people worked. He’d look into her life just for the fun of it. Just because he was in the neighborhood. And he wouldn’t give a damn about what it would do to her.

      She hadn’t worked at all today. She’d stood in front of her current project, the biggest painting of the commission, and she’d done nothing but stare. Her hands had failed her. Her father was in her head again. Him and all the dangerous, lying men he’d brought into her world.

      Now she was back at the computer, searching, searching. But there was nothing about her father there. Nothing but ancient newspaper articles and old court filings and everything she already knew. He’d thoroughly disappeared from the world. He hadn’t been seen in fourteen years. If they were after her again, it wasn’t because her father was back in the news.

      So...what if Tom Duncan wasn’t lying?

      “Right,” she huffed. They were always lying. All of them. She was vulnerable, so they’d play with her like a toy.

      But there were such things as coincidences. There was a tiny possibility that a US marshal had shown up on her doorstep, and it had nothing to do with her father being a federal fugitive and Isabelle being an impostor. If that was true, she had to play it cool. Cautious and careful, but cool.

      Isabelle stretched hard and pushed up from the chair. She’d found all she could online. Now she was chasing the same phantoms around and around. Tomorrow she’d paint even if she had to force it. But tonight she needed a shower. And a drink.

      Forty-five minutes later, she twisted up her damp hair, shrugged on a thick coat and grabbed two bottles of wine. One for СКАЧАТЬ