Still Lake - Anne Stuart [23]
“Don’t you?”
“I’ve never cared much for adventure,” she said in a calm voice.
“When did she disappear? Before or after the killer got out of jail?”
She turned to face him. “You seem awfully interested in our old murders, Mr. Smith.”
He shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Curious enough to be reading a book called Encyclopedia of Serial Killers?” she shot back. “You’re as bad as my mother.”
“Your mother likes to read about serial killers? How very interesting.”
“She used to like true-crime books. Now she doesn’t read much of anything.” She rose from the table. “Those names should get you started. That is, if you’ve decided to stay.”
“Oh, I’ve decided. Nothing could make me leave here until I’m good and ready to go.”
It was far from the best news she’d ever heard. There also wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. “I need to get back to the inn,” she said.
“Of course you do. You’ve been very…neighborly.”
She didn’t glare at him, as much as she wanted to. She headed toward the door, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She paused. “I wouldn’t drink the water from the tap if I were you. Buy some bottled stuff at Audley’s. I think they get the water straight from the lake here.”
“I don’t mind a little gasoline.”
“That would be the least of your worries. I’d hate to think of how sick you’d be if you picked up something organic. Stomach bugs can be downright nasty around here.”
“Now, why do I have trouble believing you care?” he murmured.
“If you were doubled over in your bathroom you’d be out of reach of my sister, but I don’t think I could in good conscience let that happen,” she said in her coolest voice.
“It’s not your sister I’m interested in.”
She almost thought she’d misunderstood him. She stared at him across the room, but he didn’t even blink. Finally, she gave in to her cowardice, letting the screen door slam behind her as she made her escape down the path.
5
Why the hell had he said that? Griffin picked up the sheet of paper and squinted at the names, then took off his glasses to get a better look. Instead he found himself analyzing her handwriting. He would have thought she’d have a tight-fisted, crabbed style of writing. That, or something with too many curlicues and even smiley faces over the Is. Instead she had a bold, slashing script, a little hard to read, but strong. He glanced up at the screen door, half expecting her to still be there. She was long gone.
Not his type, he reminded himself. He liked his women skinny and sophisticated, with short skirts and long legs and no emotion. He wasn’t interested in a chintz-wearing domestic goddess who viewed him as the Big Bad Wolf come to chow down on her little sister. Particularly when Sophie Davis was much more succulent.
The thought was unbidden and quickly dismissed. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to spend thinking about getting beneath his neighbor’s flowered, ruffled skirts, even though he was obscurely tempted. He needed to find out what he wanted to know and then get the hell out of there. Telling her he was thinking of buying the Whitten place was just a bluff, to see her reaction. There was no way he’d tie himself to a town like Colby, not with his history. No matter how much it called to him. It was nostalgia, not destiny. Hell, he didn’t even believe in destiny, or much of anything at all.
In the meantime, though, he was going to have to make himself more comfortable, and getting rid of mouse turds and being able to make a decent cup of coffee were two major requirements. Not to mention making sure the roof didn’t fall in on him while he was lying in bed with…
Lying in bed alone, he reminded himself sharply.
Shit, maybe it was the air around Colby. Maybe he hadn’t just been a randy young drifter, maybe the air had an aphrodisiac quality. Because truth to tell, he’d been hard ever since he’d seen Sophie Davis look at his rumpled bed, and he knew better than that.
Get in, do the job and get out. It had always been his mantra in life, and this situation was no different.