Free Beckett's Convenient Bride by Dixie Browning Page A

usual parental admonishments. He was thirty-seven years old, for cripes sake. His mama was still calling to remind him of his dental checkup. At least she had been until she’d all but forgotten he was her son.
    Oh boy.
    Riffling through the phone book he found the number for the sheriff’s office and dialed. Kit’s wide, rainwater gray eyes watched his every move, full of curiosity and something else he put down to wariness. After identifying himself, he said, “About the body found out on—” He cocked an eyebrow toward Kit.
    â€œCypress Mill Road,” she supplied.
    â€œCypress Mill Road,” he repeated, “I’d like to come in and—” He frowned. “What d’you mean, what body? You didn’t get a call about a murder victim earlier today?”
    Kit moved closer, her breath feathering his neck. As much as he liked the attention, he needed to concentrate, and she wasn’t helping.
    â€œIt wasn’t a prank, dammit, it was a—”
    Glaring at Kit, he listened while the jerk on the other end read him the riot act, the gist of it being that no body had been found, and manpower had been wasted checking out a prank phone call.
    Kit grabbed his arm the instant he hung up the phone. “What?” she demanded.
    â€œThey say no body was found. Are you, uh, sure you saw something? You said yourself you thought it might have been a shadow.”
    Releasing his arm, she started pacing again, gesturing with her hands as if she were speaking aloud. He watched, fascinated, until she spun and glared at him as if he were somehow responsible for her predicament. “I know what shadows look like—they’re a balance of alizarin crimson and thalo green.”
    He didn’t say a word. The Martians had landed and his translator was AWOL.
    â€œThis was no blasted shadow, I’m telling you! That’s what I thought at first, too, but it wasn’t all that late, and besides, shadows don’t have holes in their forehead. Shadows don’t—” She shuddered. “Shadows don’t bleed from the nose. Darn it, I know what I saw!”
    â€œRight.” God, Martian or not, he was tempted to hold her—forget the sex—he just wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be just fine, not to sweat it. Funny thing was, he was beginning to think she might really have seen something. Otherwise, why would she have called the sheriff in the first place? Whatever else she was, Kit Dixon struck him as the kind of woman who didn’t like getting involved in anything rough.
    Trouble was, she was already involved right up to her pretty pink ears. Something had happened, because she was obviously scared, and he’d lay odds she didn’t scare easy.
    Which meant that they were both involved. Temporarily involved, he stipulated silently. He could hardly hand over the check and take off, not until he was sure she’d be all right. Because he was a cop, sworn to protect anddefend the innocent. Or maybe because he was a Beckett, and the men of his family believed in that old-fashioned thing called a code of honor.
    Pain in the arse, is what it was. “So here’s what we’ll do then,” he said, mentally laying out a plan as he spoke. “First thing tomorrow we’ll check out your car—that is, if you’re sure no one will bother it tonight.” He wasn’t about to go snooping around with a flashlight if there was the least possibility of a bomb.
    Not that he thought there was—there hadn’t been time. But if this turned out to be what he was beginning to suspect, it would pay to be cautious. Sooner or later the DEA would probably be involved, but it wasn’t his call to make.
    Her face was a shade or two paler than it had been a few minutes earlier. A handful of freckles stood out across her nose, making her look younger than he knew she was. According to the genealogist’s