Dream of Danger. Maggie Shayne

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      “Dear Marianna, every single one of us has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. It’s called being human. For some reason we’ve all got this warped and twisted idea about death, that it’s the biggest tragedy ever and must be avoided at all costs, when instead it’s the natural transition into the most amazing existence imaginable. And then some. You might move into the afterlife from a dread disease, or you might step in front of a bus tomorrow. You might heal from whatever diagnosis you’ve been given and live to be a hundred and six. It happens every day. You also might make the most frightening experience of your life into the most deeply meaningful and spiritual part of your entire life. Ultimately, it’s up to you, and your higher self. Everything happens exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

      I blinked in shock. “Damn, you’re good.”

      She turned the computer toward me. “No, you are. That’s from The Truth About Death, Chapter two, ‘Terminal Illness.’ I’m just copying and pasting.”

      I saw that she’d opened the galley version of the three-year-old book. “I’m really very wise, huh?”

      “Mostly,” she said.

      “Then you should listen to me. There’s something off about Mel.”

      She closed her eyes. “I told you I didn’t want you to do that.”

      “Maybe if I spent more than ten seconds with him—”

      “I told you, you can meet him when he picks me up tonight.”

      “Okay.” I looked at my watch, sighed, pushed to my feet. “I have to go change. Myrtle has a date with the vet.”

      “‘Kay. I’ll have the fan mail dealt with by the time you get back. Ten pages after that.”

      “Yeah, yeah. Ten pages of regurgitated positive thinking before five.” I saluted her and looked around for my dog.

      She’d heard the word vet, and was hiding under the coffee table, as if I was still as blind as she was. Too bad, dog. I can see and you can’t. You’re freakin’ doomed. Then the phone rang. I still had a landline, because there were days when heavy rain or thick cloud cover would result in a weak or nonexistent cell signal.

      I ignored it, going to get Myrt’s goggles from the closet. She might hate the vet, but she loved riding in the car. If she smelled those goggles and her matching yellow scarf, she’d perk up.

      Amy got the phone, as I’d known she would. Then she said, “She’s on her way out, but I’ll see if I can catch her before she gets out of the driveway. Hold on.” Then she hit the phone’s handy mute button while I waited. “It’s him.”

      I blinked like a doe in headlights. We didn’t need to say who “him” was. There was only one him in my life. Mason. We’d been through hell together a month ago, nearly been killed. That was no way to start a relationship.

      But damn, the sex had been great.

      My cell rang. I pulled it out and looked at it. Mason. I rolled my eyes and took the call. “I thought you were on hold on my landline.”

      “And I thought you were already out the door. Ditching my calls, Rachel?”

      “No.” I shrugged. “I was deciding whether to ditch your call. There’s a difference. I have to go. Myrtle’s due at the vet.”

      “I need you,” he said.

      I gave my imagination permission to play with that for a minute. Then he added, “It’s about the case.”

      I sighed as he burst my bubble. “We’re already late for the vet. Besides, isn’t that case old news?”

      “Not to the review board. I need you to look over my statement about the extent of your involvement and sign off on it. Particularly since they might decide to come asking you about it.”

      “Shit,” I said.

      “I need to turn it in by noon.”

      It was nine forty-five. I had Myrt’s designer goggles dangling from one finger. Amy held out her hand. “I’ll take vet duty if I can borrow the Subaru.”

      “She’ll be scared if I don’t go with her.”

      “Yeah. Right up until I get her some McNuggets for the ride over. We’ll be fine. Myrtle loves me. Don’t you, Myrt?”

      Mason was still waiting for my answer. Myrt was still under the table, no longer hiding. Snoring instead. Bulldogs snore louder than most lumberjacks. Okay, I’m making that up. I’ve never heard a lumberjack snore, but I bet she’d beat them.

      “Wanna go for a ride in the car, Myrt?” Amy asked.

      Myrt opened her sightless eyes and lifted her head.

      “Well, come on, then,” Amy said.

      Myrtle scrambled over to Amy’s feet, where she did the wiggly butt happy dance.

      I could not argue with the evidence. Myrtle would be thrilled to go for a ride in the car with Amy, and I would be stuck in a meeting with the man I most wanted to bone, trying not to be blatantly obvious about it. “Bring me back a Happy Meal,” I said, then handed over the goggles and said to Mason, “Okay, I’ll do it. Where do you want to meet?”

      Chapter Two

      I walked into the little diner like a model walking into a shoot, slow motion, wind in my hair, sun glinting off my pearly whites. In my head, anyway. In real life I’m sure it was a lot less impressive, especially considering that the wind in my hair had turned into a wet November gust, and there was no longer any sun to glint off anything.

      It was mud season. October had been spectacular to my brand-new eyes. I’d devoured October. November was just brown. The trees were leafless. There was no snow yet. The ground was barren. Mud season came twice a year, I’d been told. It would return again in March.

      Then I saw him, and my mind went as barren as the surroundings. He was standing in front of a booth talking to a waitress when he looked up, met my eyes and smiled. Those sexy dimples flashed at me, and I almost threw up a little from the sheer nervous energy break dancing in my stomach. I know, stupid. I realized I was grinning like a loon and tried to stop, but it wasn’t possible, so I just hurried to the booth and slid into it before he could try to hug me. Because if he hugged me, I was going to go into convulsions or something.

      He stood there a second, then sighed and sat down. “Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you again. You look fantastic. How have you been?”

      I looked up, catching the edge of sarcasm in his voice. He had the prettiest brown eyes. Like melted chocolate, with those thick lashes you expect on a little boy, not a grown man. He could get any woman he wanted with lashes like that.

      “I’ve been good,” I said. “Busy.”

      “No more dreams?”

      “Not a one. I presume that means no more murders.”

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