Free Deadly Gamble by Linda Lael Miller

seconds, and laid rubber for the 101, hauling north.
    My heart felt as though it had swelled to fill my whole torso, and my blood thundered in my ears like a steady thump on some huge drum.
    Geoff.
    Parent killer.
    Cat murderer.
    He hadn’t turned up at the casino by accident, that was too great a coincidence, so he must have deliberately followed me there. How long had he been watching me, keeping track of my movements? Did he know where I lived?
    Was I on his hit list? And if so, why? He’d already done his time. What did he have to fear from me?
    He killed Chester . The reminder boiled up out of my subconscious mind. What other reason could he have had, except pure meanness?
    My dinner scalded its way up into the back of my throat. I swallowed hard. I might have been scared shitless, but I wasn’t about to vomit in the Volvo. You can’t get the smell out.
    I got back to Cave Creek without incident, and for once, I was glad to see Tucker’s distinctive bike parked in the lot. I sat there in my car, with the engine running and the doors locked, and felt frantically around in the depths of my purse for my cell phone.
    It eluded me, so I upended the whole bag on the passenger seat, scrabbled through the usual purse detritus until I closed my hand over high-tech salvation, and speed-dialed Tucker’s number.
    â€œMojo?” he said, after three rings. I heard the sound of pool balls clicking, and the twang of some mournful tune playing on the jukebox.
    Thank God, I thought.
    I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, hyperventilating.
    Tucker tried again, this time with a note of urgency in his voice. “Mojo? Is that you? Where—? Damn it, say something.”
    â€œI saw him,” I ground out. Then I had to slap a hand over my mouth for a moment, because I was either going to puke or start screaming.
    â€œYou saw who ?”
    According to the Damn Fool’s Guide to English Grammar, he should have said “whom,” but this was no time to split hairs. The man was an ASU graduate, for God’s sake. If he hadn’t mastered the language by now, there was no point in correcting him.
    I spoke through parted fingers. “My b-brother.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had a brother,” Tucker mused. “Where are you?”
    I uncovered my mouth, but screaming and puking were still viable options. “In the parking lot,” I squeaked.
    â€œYou’re calling from the parking lot?”
    Screaming squeezed out puking and took a solid lead. “No, damn it! I’m calling from the freakin’ roof!”
    â€œChill,” Tucker said. “I’ll be right out.”
    I watched, still clutching the phone to my ear, as the side door swung open and Tucker ambled out of Bad-Ass Bert’s. He scanned the lot, got a fix on the Volvo, and sprinted in my direction.
    I rolled down the driver’s-side window about an inch.
    â€œHe might have followed me,” I whispered.
    Tucker braced his hands on the side of the Volvo and peered in at me. “Open the door, Mojo,” he said.
    â€œHe killed my cat,” I said. Not to mention my parents .
    â€œChrist,” Tucker snapped, and pulled at the door handle.
    I popped the locks, and he almost fell on his very attractive ass in the gravel.
    â€œI need help,” I told him.
    â€œThat’s for damn sure,” Tucker agreed. He sounded testy, but I could tell he was concerned by the way he kept sweeping the lot with his gaze. He reached into the car, unfastened the seat belt and tugged me out, onto my feet.
    I landed hard against his chest, and I’ll admit it, I clung for a couple of seconds.
    â€œI saw him,” I repeated.
    Tucker held me up with one arm, reached inside for my purse and car keys with the other. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs. Can you make it on your own, or should I carry you?”
    The offer was tempting, but I had a thing about