Free Vengeance to the Max by Jasmine Haynes Page B

town like Lines, finding Cordelia Starr was like looking for a grave in a cemetery when you didn’t have a name.
    “How ya doing?” Witt’s warm hand traced her spine, and she relished a lung full of his enticing aftershave. She wanted to chuck the whole project and beg him to take her back to his room. All that from a touch and a sniff. God, she had it bad. She’d do anything he wanted. She had done exactly what he wanted.
    Couldn’t let him know that. “No success. How about you?”
    “Got a few names still living in town. Enough to check out.”
    “Are you done?”
    “No.” He leaned over to read with her. Secluded in the rarely used fiche section, surrounded by book shelves and fiche viewers and cabinets, he trailed a hand along her side from her hip to her armpit, his fingers settling below her breast, just short of cupping it.
    “What are you doing?” Besides driving her crazy.
    “Helping you read.” A chuckle laced his voice.
    Helping? She couldn’t concentrate on a word in front of her with his hand resting up there and his hips so close down there. She hated a man that teased. All right, she loved a tease, but she hated having so little control over the heat in her cheeks and the state of her nipples. She wondered if they showed through the layers of turtleneck and sweatshirt, but refused to look.
    He read aloud, his breath against her ear. Bastard knew what he was doing to her pulse rate, too.
    “Calvin Hastings, sixty-eight, died Christmas Day at his home in Lines. He is survived by his loving daughters—”
    “The same guy must write them all. They’re exactly alike.”
    Witt went on, his hand slipping around her until his thumb lay between her breasts and his body rested flush against her back. “—survived by his loving daughters, Evelyn Hastings and Madeline Starr, and grandson Cameron.”
    They sucked in a breath at the same time.
    “Ohmygod,” Max whispered on the exhale.
    “Jesus H. Christ,” Witt snapped out, then, fast thinker that he was, added “Why doesn’t it mention the granddaughter, Cordelia?”
    “I’m sure Evelyn Hastings can tell us.”
    He pulled back. “I’ll look her up, see if she’s alive.”
    “You don’t need to.”
    “Think she’s dead?”
    “No, she certainly isn’t. If fact, she’s right over there.”
    Max turned and pointed to the woman with steel-wool hair, snub nose, and cat’s-eye glasses. Evelyn Hastings, as proclaimed by her shiny silver name tag, had shown Max to the fiche. Obvious now where that sense of familiarity had come from.
    Was it coincidence, divine intervention, the devil at work. Or Cameron playing God?

     

     

    Chapter Eight

     

     
    “What’s the big deal? Walk up and ask where her niece is.”
    “You think like a cop. This needs more finesse.”
    Witt’s brow creased as if she’d offended him. “Cops have finesse.”
    Max rolled her eyes. They stood within the small confines of the fiche viewing area, voices low, both gazes on the woman bustling behind the counter at the far end of the library. With the end of the school day, the place had filled up, the noise level rising with laughter, gossiping voices, and the almost constant shushing from the three librarians.
    “We’ll lose her,” Witt said close to her ear.
    “I can’t walk up and ask her where Cordelia is.” She’d work her way into it, make friends with the woman. She still had to tell her about Cameron since it was unlikely she knew of his death. After all, the only letter Max sent had been returned undelivered. First things first, and with that thought came the dread. How did you tell someone their nephew, brother, son, or husband was dead?
    “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She pushed Witt away with the flat of her hand on his hard stomach. She couldn’t think with him so close. Keeping her hand where it landed wasn’t such a hot idea either. Okay, it was too hot. God, she was losing control here.
    “I’m thinking, too,” he whispered,