Most Wanted Woman

“Josh McCall!” Deni squealed then engulfed the stranger in a hug and gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth. “It’s about time you came back to Sundown.”

Regan eased out a breath. The waitress’s familiarity with the man went far toward assuring her he wasn’t there at the devil’s bidding.

Still, she was positive he carried a badge. Knowing that kept the prickles of fear at the back of her neck. She knew better than anyone there was no one more capable of treachery than a cop.

With the jukebox now between selections, the crack and clatter of pool balls drifted from the back room. Regan rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease her tension and turned in time to see the man send Deni a grin that was all charm.

“Long time no see, angel face.” They stood close enough to the bar for Regan to hear his voice, which was as smooth as the move he made to extract himself from Deni’s embrace.

“I swear, Josh, it seems like an eternity since you’ve been here.” She tugged him the few remaining steps to the bar while giving him the once-over. “You look as good as always.”

“So do you.”

Deni slid a palm up and down his arm. “When’d you get to town?”

“Just now. I wasn’t sure what I’d find in the cabin’s pantry so I decided to stop here first.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Maybe you’ll stay in Sundown long enough this time for us to get together?”

When he eased a hip onto one of the bar stools, his gaze met Regan’s. For the space of a heartbeat, his eyes focused on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on an otherwise empty stage.

That one searing look, along with the whispers of awareness already stirring her senses, made Regan’s throat go even more dry.

He gave her the merest fraction of a nod, then shifted his attention back to Deni.

“I’ll be here about three weeks.”

Just then, Howie’s voice bellowed an order number through the open wall hatch between the kitchen and the bar.

“That’s my cue,” Deni said. “You want your regular for dinner, Josh?”

“You bet.”

While Deni sauntered toward the kitchen’s swinging door, Regan steeled her nerves and slid a napkin onto the bar. She couldn’t exactly ignore a customer.

“What can I get you?”

“Corona.” When he shifted on the stool, light fell on the thin scar winding out of his collar and up the right side of his neck. “I’m Josh McCall.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You’re new to Sundown.”

She turned to the cooler, met his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were intent on her face. Too intent. “Right.”

“Been here long?”

“A few months.” She retrieved a bottle, twisted off its cap.

“Have relatives around here?”

“No.” She topped the bottle with a lime wedge. “Do you?”

“More like extended family.” His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. “So, where’s home?”

What should have been a simple question was as loaded as a shotgun that had been primed and pumped. “Here. There. Everywhere. I’m a gypsy at heart.” Regan had rehearsed the response so many times it now sounded normal.

She settled the bottle onto the napkin, then wiped a cloth across the bar, its gleaming wood nearly black with age.

“Sounds like you’ve known Deni awhile,” she commented.

“My family owns a cabin here. We used to spend every summer in Sundown. Mostly now we make it here for holidays.” He took a long sip of his drink. “The South.”

“The South what?”

“You’ve spent time in the South. There’s a trace of it in your voice.”

Regan kept her face blank, her hands loose while her insides clenched. “I’ve been in that part of the country a few times,” she improvised. She’d practiced endless hours to lose her native Louisiana accent. The fact he’d pegged it within minutes had her nerves scrambling.

“What about you?” She placed a plastic bowl of unshelled peanuts beside the beer bottle. Despite her inner turmoil, her voice remained steady. “Where are you from?”

He eyed her while he snagged a peanut, cracked it. “Oklahoma City. Ever pass through on your way to here, there and everywhere?”

“No. Is your family’s cabin on the lake?”

“Yeah. It sits just to the west of your boss’s house.” He popped a peanut in his mouth, chased it with a swallow of beer. “You know it?”

“Yes.” Since just standing there had her wanting to jump out of her skin, she plunged her hands into the warm soapy water in the small metal sink and began washing glasses. “I wouldn’t call it a cabin. It’s one of the biggest houses on the lake. And sits on the lot with about the best view of the water.”

“Point taken.” He palmed more peanuts, began shelling them onto the cocktail napkin. “When my grandfather bought the land and built the house, he made sure the place was roomy enough for all his kids, then later the grandkids. The entire McCall clan’s descending here for the Fourth of July. I volunteered to come down ahead of time and make repairs.”

“The holiday’s weeks away. Is the house in bad shape?”

The shot glass she was currently rinsing had Regan glancing at the big bear of a man seated at one end of the bar. Seamus O’Toole owned several used car lots in Dallas and was an avid participant in Paradise Lake’s annual fishing derby. He’d been here an hour and already had empty shot glasses stacked in a pyramid before him.

“No, there’s just a lot of minor repairs that need to be done.”

McCall’s comment had her looking back at him. She saw that his gaze had followed hers to O’Toole.

“Maybe you’ll have time to get some fishing in,” she said.

“Maybe.” He glanced toward the kitchen door. “I spotted Etta’s car parked in the back. If she’s in the office slaving over the books, I’d like to stick my head in and tell her hello. Give her a kiss.”

“You’re a friendly neighbor.”

“More than. Etta’s like a second mom to me and my brothers and sisters.” He took another drink. “To tell you the truth, I’m crazy in love with your boss.”

Regan arched a brow. Etta Truelove was a vibrant sixty-something widow with ten grandchildren, two great-grandchildren and a fiancé. “Does Etta know how you feel about her?”