Bounty Hunters: 03 Stay Hungry (35 page)

Angela and Jake laughed, grinning at each other. Jake watched Angela's eyes darken as she held on to his gaze. He hadn't pressed her since they'd returned home, but the way she'd been looking at him all day he was wondering if her head injury had healed enough she might want to make love later that night.

"And if he has an available brother he should be sent to me immediately," Marianna continued.

"I'm afraid I'm the last of the King sons who is still available."

Angela stood, her expression shifting from a broad grin to a hard glare as she moved in on Jake. He wasn't sure if choosing her overstuffed La-Z-Boy chair to sit in was such a wise idea when she stalked toward him, bending over as she grabbed the hair on the side of his head.

"Excuse me, mister," Angela whispered, her pretty eyes flashing as she stared at him. "You're not available."

Jake grinned, grabbing her and enjoying her squeal as he pulled her into his lap. "Are you asking for a commitment, sweetheart?"

Angela stilled and he adjusted her, cradling her against his chest as he placed his beer on the side table next to his chair. He took her beer from her, too, then brushed her hair from her face, watching her expression sober.

"Don't either of you dare ask me to leave the room," Marianna announced, remaining cuddled in the corner of the couch, grinning at both of them. "After what I've been through I am entitled to witness happiness and love at its best."

"Love?" Jake whispered, focusing on Angela.

She didn't try getting out of his lap and, in fact, relaxed further as she stared up at him, displaying the emotion he'd just suggested.

"Is that what we're feeling, sweetheart?" he asked, still murmuring, although he didn't care whether Angela's younger sister heard him or not.

"I think so, maybe," Angela said, her voice cracking. "I've never felt this before."

"Me, either," he told her, positive of his answer. But he knew what he felt for Angela was real. "I love you."

The way her face lit up, he thought for a moment she might leap at him and braced himself for the attack.

"Jake," she muttered, her voice cracking. "You live in California."

"I'm going to live wherever you live, lady," he said, not hesitating.

She let out a squeal so loud he actually missed the moment when she leapt at him, banging his nose when she wrapped her arms around him, laughing and crying at the same time.

"I love you, Jake King. I swear I've loved you since I first saw you."

"Same here, darling," he said, wrapping his arms around her as her hair fluttered over her face, barely allowing him to see Marianna clasp her hands and laugh behind them. He closed his eyes, holding the woman he loved. Jake finally knew what it felt like to believe there was only one woman on the planet, and it was the best damned feeling he'd ever felt in his life.

Read on for an excerpt from Lorie O'Clare's next book

RUN WILD

Coming soon from St. Martin's Paperbacks

"Cold-hearted city girl," Matilda muttered as she bustled down the stairs and returned to the kitchen. "Oh, Trent, there you are. Well, she's here. Can't say much about her, but she's checked in."

Trent Oakley helped himself to Matilda's coffee, then blew on the hot brew. "You can't say much about her?" He knew Matilda well enough to know the woman would have a lot to say about anyone, even if they'd just met.

Matilda pursed her lips, wiping her hands on her apron as her chin puckered into tiny dimples. "You know what the first thing is she says to me?"

"What's that?" Trent leaned against the wooden countertop on the large island in the middle of Matilda's large kitchen, getting comfortable.

"She informs me she isn't here for a week. She tells me as smooth as can be she's got an appointment tomorrow and will be leaving right after that. Heartless woman," Matilda muttered, turning her back on Trent as she began clattering pots in her large lower kitchen drawer until she found one large enough to boil a bag of potatoes. Hefting it to her kitchen sink, she turned on the water. "I showed her to the Emerald Room."

He wouldn't get her started. Matilda would offer good insight on Natasha King once the woman was settled. All Matilda would need was time spent with her, possibly over dinner, and Trent would have all the details on her that he couldn't find online. Matilda was a pro at getting people to talk, then forming strong opinions about them. With Matilda it was love or hate, no middle ground.

Trent didn't know enough about Natasha, yet. He'd done a background check on her. Natasha King lived in Los Angeles, had attended a two-year community college, lived in an apartment that was priced way too high, and had worked for her uncle, the renowned bounty hunter, Greg King, for three years now. Trent guessed Natasha's father was Greg's brother, which would undoubtedly make things a bit trickier. It wouldn't take him long, once he sat and visited with Natasha, to learn how well she, and possibly the rest of her family, upheld the law.

Trent knew a good-looking woman when he saw one, and Natasha blew any notions he had on beauty out of the water. From just her driver's license picture, it was obvious she was hot as hell. There weren't any other photographs of her online anywhere. Trent knew she was twenty-six years old, five feet, seven inches tall, and one hundred fifty pounds, although no one stated their true weight for their license. She had a sultry smile and smooth-looking tan skin that definitely wasn't the same shade as her eyes.

Of course, Matilda wouldn't see her with the same eyes Trent would, which was why he valued the older woman's opinion and knew it would take little to get it out of her. Trent sipped his coffee, then took a bigger gulp and enjoyed its rich, smooth texture. It was already too cold in the mornings and not warming up much by afternoon, a sign of an early and hard winter around the corner. He put his cup on her counter as he watched Matilda move methodically in her kitchen.

"Good coffee," he muttered.

"Thank you." She started running a very sharp knife through potatoes.

Trent hadn't been able to stop the gossip from flowing once the newspaper reported the murder at Trinity Ranch. He knew almost everyone in Weaverville, having been born on his family's ranch north of town, but reporters flew in, camped out, and didn't give a rat's ass about his investigation, other than to question why he hadn't caught the murderer yet. Trent had his methods. This wasn't his first case and it wasn't the first time he'd dealt with snooping reporters.

When his father passed, no one had questioned Trent filling his shoes. He was elected as sheriff almost unanimously and learned, as his father had, to use gossip to his advantage instead of trying to keep a lid on it. There wasn't any reason to add to speculation, though, when he'd told Matilda to reserve a room for Natasha King. Matilda made her own assumptions when she believed Natasha would know any details about what had transpired over the past month.

There was a crunch of gravel alongside the house, and Matilda left her task of peeling and slicing potatoes as she scuttled through the doorway leading into the dining room. Long narrow windows lined the far wall and allowed her to see whoever might be driving to her back parking lot.

"Jerry Packard," she mumbled, immediately fussing with her hair. "You fill your Thermos with hot coffee before you leave, Sheriff," she said, waving her hand over her shoulder as she hurried into her outer office.

Trent didn't bother saying anything. Matilda and Jerry, the mailman, would stand out there at the counter and gossip a good thirty minutes. Natasha King couldn't have timed her arrival better.

Trent topped off his coffee and walked through the large, old house. Matilda did a wonderful job of keeping the place authentic-looking. The long, narrow windows in the dining and living room had thin, veneer curtains hanging, which allowed natural light to flood over shiny hardwood floors and antique furniture in both rooms.

An older couple, probably in their sixties, glanced up from the loveseat, where they sat glancing over brochures. Trent nodded, wondering how many guests Matilda had at the moment. He made a note to find out as he turned into the formal entryway and headed for the stairs.

Pearl's was a three-story house built in the late 1800s and on the National Registry of historic houses, as were many in Weaverville. The community was proud of their history and did a good job of preserving it. They also relied heavily on revenue from tourists who came here to escape fast-paced city life and stressful jobs.

More than once, Trent considered kicking the dust from the place off his boots and heading out for some of that big-city life. He wasn't sure what kept him here. He'd been sheriff for six years and, as far as anyone in town was concerned, would be until he retired, just like his father had been. Maybe it was his mother's blood. She had always yearned for big-city lights and fast-moving cars. Trent's father, Bill Oakley, had done his best to oblige Sharon Oakley. When Trent was ten, Sharon asked for a divorce. Bill never denied her anything, and he didn't fight the divorce. The only thing Sharon didn't get as she left town without turning back was custody of Trent.

There were times when Trent wondered how different his life would have been if he'd taken off when his father retired, after his third heart attack. He could have gone to college, seen the country, hit the road, and enjoyed his youth. But the town pressured him to fill the role of the new sheriff. Trent might have been able to ignore their persuasion, but it was hard as hell telling his father no when he pressured Trent as well. Three months after he was sworn in, his mother died of cancer. It had hit so hard and fast there was no saving her. His father passed away less than a year later.

After burying his father on their property next to his mother, Trent thought he'd remain sheriff a year or so, then take off for those big-city lights his mother had always talked about. Six years later he was still here, the longing to see the world not quite as strong. It was the same thing that had happened to his father. The land and mountains were part of him. It was more than just a job protecting them. When something like this went down, a murder on a ranch and a drifter disappearing at the same time, Trent had to set things back to right.

He climbed to the third floor where the Emerald Room was, breathing in the thick smell of flowers from bowls of dried petals Matilda had on practically every table in the house. Taking a sip of his coffee, he stared down the dust-free hallway. It was time to meet Miss Natasha King.

Did she agree to meet him because curiosity bested her? Was she sincerely concerned about her father? Or was it that she did know his whereabouts and felt a need to drive up here and do damage control?

She might be from L.A. and work for a prestigious bounty hunter, but she wouldn't be any better than he was. Trent knew how to play the simple, small-town lawman, though. He didn't have a problem with keeping it low key until he knew this woman's nature.

Trent knocked firmly on the door and waited, relaxing and holding his cup in one hand as he stared down the hallway. He focused on sounds on the other side of the door, though, and heard none. Not until the lock clicked. This house was sturdy enough to stand another hundred years. It didn't surprise him he wouldn't be able to hear anything going on behind a closed door. He glanced at the doorknob, watching it turn, then lifted his gaze as the door opened.

"Natasha King," he said and stared into eyes so bright and vibrant they reminded him of sunshine reflecting off a clear mountain lake. He wasn't sure who had decided to call them tan, but they were definitely wrong. Natasha's eyes were how he'd picture natural, raw gems, straight from the ground might look. Not the shiny, flashy color of gold worn in jewelry, but a more primitive, basic shade.

Her dark skin suggested a mixed background although he wouldn't begin to speculate on what nationalities. George King was definitely American so whatever mixed heritage was in her came from her mother. Long black hair tumbled over her shoulders and matched the color of her thick lashes, which currently hooded her gaze as she took him in as well.

"I'm Sheriff Trent Oakley," he offered. He noticed her grip on the door, and the wary look she gave him. He wasn't sure whether he'd compare her to a trapped animal, ready to run, or something more dangerous on the verge of attacking. "Call me Trent. Welcome to Weaverville."

"Thank you." She didn't have a problem taking in every inch of him, as if putting him to memory from his boots to the top of his head.

One thing was very clear. Natasha was more than distractingly beautiful. He noticed she wasn't wearing makeup, which in itself was refreshing to see. She didn't have on any jewelry he could see. She wore blue jeans that hugged her incredible figure and a plain T-shirt that ended at her waist. She might be trying, but Natasha King would never be able to pull off nondescript.

"Do you have a minute to talk?"

"I thought our meeting was tomorrow." Her voice was smooth, soft and alluring. There wasn't any hesitation, though, and, although she didn't open the door far enough for him to see beyond her into her room, there was no fear or wariness in her eyes.

"Just trying to be neighborly." Trent offered her a grin he'd been told more than once added to his bad-boy good looks. Not that he'd bought into much of what ladies he'd went to high school with suggested when he knew they either wanted to get laid, or had ideas of becoming a sheriff's wife. "You're a stranger in our town and we do our best to make anyone welcome," he added, though that was until they did someone, or something, wrong.

The smile didn't change Natasha's expression. "I think you're here to check me out."

"You're blunt." He liked that.

"I'm honest."

He'd be the judge of that.

* * *

Natasha returned outside the same way she'd been led upstairs. When she came to the door leading to the closed-in back porch where the high counter was and where Matilda had checked her in, she hesitated when she heard voices.

"It's got to be the only reason he brought her here, Mat," a man said.

"Well, you know it wasn't just for her good looks. The sheriff could have his pick of the county."

Matilda and the man laughed at her comment. Natasha froze, her hand on the door, wondering if they would say more. They had to be talking about her. He was the sheriff and how many other people had he brought here? She scowled, looking down, listening for something more revealing to be said.

"Do you think she knows about the murder?" the man asked.

"Of course she does. The sheriff said she didn't hesitate in coming here. He'll use her to flush out George King. You mark my words."

"Are you a private dick now?"

Matilda found that question very funny and broke out into a deep, gut-clenching laugh.

Natasha pushed the door open, knowing if she stood there a moment longer she'd hear something that would really piss her off, or she'd get busted. The sheriff was still here, waiting for her outside. If she took too long, he'd come looking for her. She didn't doubt he was a man on a mission and for some reason believed she could help him achieve his goal. She also didn't doubt what she'd just overheard was true, that he could have any woman in the area. Well, she wasn't from this area and men as good-looking as the sheriff, or at least close, had tried seducing her before. Natasha knew how to stay on her toes, remain alert, and see when someone acting friendly was doing just that--acting.

Matilda and a mailman held coffee cups and looked as if they could be posing for a postcard. They stopped talking, and the mailman held his cup poised in front of him, as if he were bringing it to his lips and seeing her made him forget what he was about to do.

"Hello," she said, nodding, then heading past them out the back door. She swore she heard her name whispered as she headed outside. Her skin crawled on the back of her neck and down her spine.

She'd overheard murder and her father's name, a subtle reminder no one here was her friend. As soon as possible, she needed to find out what the hell was going on. If that meant doing some acting as well, so be it. There was one person who would have all the facts, or at least more than anyone else in Weaverville, and he was watching her with brooding eyes when she stepped outside.

The crisp air was dropping in temperature quickly as the sun began setting. Natasha pushed the button on her key chain to unlock the Avalanche but focused on Trent Oakley. He leaned against the back of his black Suburban but pushed away and approached as she neared her uncle's truck.

Trent wore a button-down, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Natasha immediately noticed roped muscle stretching under skin that was sprinkled with coarse-looking, black hair. He wore a T-shirt under the flannel shirt, but she didn't miss how broad his shoulders were, or how he appeared not to have an ounce of fat on him. The mountain-man sheriff kept in shape. If she had to guess, she'd put him in his thirties somewhere, which begged the next question, why was he single?