Larger Than Life Alison Kent (read out loud books .TXT) 📖

hesitated, as if deciding how much to explain—and whether or not he deserved any explanation at all. "A long time ago I helped Candy out of a bad legal situation.-And now there's this rumor attached to me that I just can't shake."

He made the next logical leap. "About operating an underground shelter for runaway girls."

Neva sighed, glanced over. "She wasn't a runaway. She arrived a week ago looking for a job, and I gave her one even though I knew she wasn't being completely up front."

"She give the sheriff the same story she gave you?"

"No, because this time she told all of us why she showed up last week." Another pause. More teasing of the gold ribbon. "Seems her boyfriend stole money, a lot of money, that he thought belonged to his employer."

Mick's antennae twitched. "Thought?"

She nodded. "For one thing, the amount was too large to have come from the store where he works. Which isn't hard to believe at all. Earnestine Township has one of the lowest per capita incomes in the state. For another, the guys who tame after him had guns. The one who threatened Liberty wore dreadlocks and spoke with a patois." She snorted. "Obviously not locals."

Mick's insides clutched. A patois and dreadlocks. There was no way the man was anyone but Ezra Moore, the Spectra IT assassin who more than once had stepped into the Smithson Group's operations. His being here had to mean the money train was stoking up to pull out of New Mexico.

Jesus bloody hell.

"Anyway," Neva went on as Mick weighed his physical condition against the job he had to do and found the scales way off balance, "Liberty's been the one looking after FM since we got home."

At least the dog was still wearing his collar, and the flash cards were now safely tucked away. Mick flexed his fingers into FM's ruff. "Maybe I'd better run the mutt back by Ed's, make sure he's on the mend. Did you see that she gave him his meds?"

"Dear Lord. You're worse than Candy."

"What?" Mick grinned. "Suspicious natures 'r us?"

"Yes, exactly." She leaned her head back, closed her eyes. The setting sun cast a glow on the skin of her neck. "I know why Candy doesn't trust anyone but herself to get things clone, but feel free to tell me about your lack of faith in your lellow human beings."

He hadn't had faith in anyone for a very long time, but he wasn't about to share the war stories that were the reasons why. Instead he said, "What a way to talk to a guy who brought you Patsy Cline's fudge."

"I'm waiting here," she said, and when he looked over he saw that her eyes were still closed. And that her skin still looked like vanilla ice cream at dusk.

He swallowed and told her the first reasonable lie that came to mind. "Okay. It's like Ed. A case of the day job carrying over into the off-hours."

"What do you do?"

"Now? I'm an engineering project consultant." An easy answer. The same cover every member of SG-5 used. They were all legitimately employed by Smithson Engineering, Hank Smithson's firm.

She opened one eye, peeked over. "And that requires you be suspicious of others?"

This answer was harder, and he shook his head. "Harkens back to the pre-engineering days."

Ones he didn't talk about with anyone. Ones about which only Hank Smithson knew any details. And even then, Hank didn't know the full story. The truth of what it did to a man to spend his days looking at his fellow human beings from the other side of crosshairs.

Neva looked down, cradled the chocolate between her palms as if it were something precious. "And I suppose the knife and the gun have something to do with those days, as well."

"Nope," he lied. "Those are all about the here and now. If you don't believe me, my hunting lease papers are on the visor in the Rover."

"Then it's an interesting scenario we've got here, isn't it?" she mused, putting the swing into motion.

He tried not to groan as they moved. "How so?"

She stopped the swing, opened both eyes, turned her head, and caught him off guard with her bluntness. "You don't exactly buy that I'm not harboring runaways, and I don't buy for a minute that you're here hunting mule deer."

Anything he said, whether to affirm or deny, would only dig his grave deeper. And because this woman was no fool, he did neither. He simply watched the evening's dying light dicker in her eyes. "I'm not. Season doesn't open until fall."

She glared. "You know what I mean."

He stalled again. "I hear they're good eating."

"Venison? It's great."

"As good as chocolate?" he asked, continuing the change of subject.

"Are you kidding?" She smiled, her freckles dancing when her nose scrunched up in pleasure. "There's nothing as good as chocolate. Especially when we're talking about Patsy Cline's fudge."

He stared at the box she still held because staring into her eyes had become suddenly distracting. "I only bought the one, you know."

"What, you didn't believe the fine print?" She leaned over, pointed to the tiny gold ingredients label. "Single serving size."

This close, she reminded him of honey and sunshine, the coloring of her skin, the fire in her hair, her scent as fresh and natural as all outdoors. "Bloody hell. Read right over that part."

He sensed her smile as she reached for the loose end of the ribbon and pulled. The bow came free, and she lifted off the top of the box. "Mmm, Nothing in the world smells this good. Or melts in your mouth the way this does. It's like pure chocolate butter."

He reached for the box. "In that case, I'd better take it hack. It can't be good for your cholesterol."

"No, but right now it's perfect for my emotional well-being. In fact"—she held the box reverently—"I'd say it's just what the doctor ordered."

It really, really shouldn't have pleased him so much, her appreciation of his very small gift. "You want to pass