Read Online Always Look Twice by Geralyn Dawson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geralyn Dawson
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disappearances.
‘‘Lord, help us all.’’ She tucked her cell phone in her purse and exited her rental car. Checking her watch, she saw that the viewing had begun forty minutes ago. A chilly wind whipped up the hem on her new navy coat and she scanned the area with a watchful gaze as she crossed the street to Devlin’s. She kept her hand perched on the opening of her shoulder bag, ready to plunge inside and grasp her SIG if need be.
Devlin’s Funeral Home was a converted Victorian mansion. Under other circumstances, Annabelle might have taken time to study the architecture. She had a thing for that era, from the style of the buildings with their gingerbread and dormer windows to the crocheted doilies on parlor chairs. It was a side of herself she kept hidden—soft and girly—but someday when the time was right, she’d have her Victorian on the hill with a picket fence and a dog and a swing set in the backyard.
Unless whoever was finishing off the Fixers got to her first.
Oh, jeez. She walked up the sidewalk and stepped onto the porch. At the door, she paused and drew a bracing breath. As much as she dreaded facing Mark, she couldn’t deny her gratitude that his broad shoulders could help carry some of this burden.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The foyer was filled with people dressed in dark suits and subdued dresses. Jeremy’s family and friends had come out in force. Annabelle glanced around the dimly lit room, anxiously looking for familiar faces.
There. Some of the tension inside her eased as she spied the two team members she had been able to reach. Tag Harrington stood talking to Noah Kincannon. Tag wore a sport coat and gray slacks; Noah a dark suit. Both men were tall with broad shoulders and military posture. Tag’s red hair had darkened over the years to a deep auburn. Noah’s hair was still dark brunet. They appeared handsome and somber and fit. They looked wonderfully alive.
That just left . . . she stiffened as she tangibly felt his gaze. ‘‘Mark.’’
He stood beside an open doorway, a little behind Frances Russo. He wore a charcoal Armani suit, a patterned tie, and dress shoes with a military shine. His eyes glittered like emeralds until their gazes met, at which point they went studiously blank. The knife he’d sunk into her heart months ago twisted a bit.
She gritted her teeth. She wanted more than anything to speak to Tag and Noah and delay approaching her ex, but good manners dictated that she pay her respects to Jeremy’s widow first. She took a step forward, then stopped when a gruff voice said, ‘‘Annabelle?’’
She noted the uniform right away, then the warm blue eyes that gleamed at her from beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Lines aged his face, but his steely jaw remained the same. ‘‘Colonel Warren!’’
‘‘Annabelle, it is you.’’ He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hard hug. ‘‘Good Lord, woman. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’’
‘‘You, too, Colonel,’’ she replied with a smile. She was surprised to see him. As the Fixers’ commanding officer, Colonel Greg Warren had been the driving force behind their missions, though his position preventedhim from being a true part of the team. She had left a message about Russo’s death with his assistant as a courtesy. She had never expected he would make the trip for the funeral, but she was thrilled that he had. He might have information about the trouble. Perhaps that was why he was here. ‘‘I guess you received my message?’’
‘‘I did. Such sad news. Russo was a good man. It’s always hard to lose a man, but to lose someone so young and in such an unfortunate manner . . . well . . .’’ He shook his head, then glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘‘There you are. Honey, I’m sure you remember my old friend and colleague Annabelle Monroe. Annabelle, my wife, Lala.’’
A wife? The last she knew, Colonel Warren had been a widower. Annabelle turned to
‘‘Lord, help us all.’’ She tucked her cell phone in her purse and exited her rental car. Checking her watch, she saw that the viewing had begun forty minutes ago. A chilly wind whipped up the hem on her new navy coat and she scanned the area with a watchful gaze as she crossed the street to Devlin’s. She kept her hand perched on the opening of her shoulder bag, ready to plunge inside and grasp her SIG if need be.
Devlin’s Funeral Home was a converted Victorian mansion. Under other circumstances, Annabelle might have taken time to study the architecture. She had a thing for that era, from the style of the buildings with their gingerbread and dormer windows to the crocheted doilies on parlor chairs. It was a side of herself she kept hidden—soft and girly—but someday when the time was right, she’d have her Victorian on the hill with a picket fence and a dog and a swing set in the backyard.
Unless whoever was finishing off the Fixers got to her first.
Oh, jeez. She walked up the sidewalk and stepped onto the porch. At the door, she paused and drew a bracing breath. As much as she dreaded facing Mark, she couldn’t deny her gratitude that his broad shoulders could help carry some of this burden.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The foyer was filled with people dressed in dark suits and subdued dresses. Jeremy’s family and friends had come out in force. Annabelle glanced around the dimly lit room, anxiously looking for familiar faces.
There. Some of the tension inside her eased as she spied the two team members she had been able to reach. Tag Harrington stood talking to Noah Kincannon. Tag wore a sport coat and gray slacks; Noah a dark suit. Both men were tall with broad shoulders and military posture. Tag’s red hair had darkened over the years to a deep auburn. Noah’s hair was still dark brunet. They appeared handsome and somber and fit. They looked wonderfully alive.
That just left . . . she stiffened as she tangibly felt his gaze. ‘‘Mark.’’
He stood beside an open doorway, a little behind Frances Russo. He wore a charcoal Armani suit, a patterned tie, and dress shoes with a military shine. His eyes glittered like emeralds until their gazes met, at which point they went studiously blank. The knife he’d sunk into her heart months ago twisted a bit.
She gritted her teeth. She wanted more than anything to speak to Tag and Noah and delay approaching her ex, but good manners dictated that she pay her respects to Jeremy’s widow first. She took a step forward, then stopped when a gruff voice said, ‘‘Annabelle?’’
She noted the uniform right away, then the warm blue eyes that gleamed at her from beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Lines aged his face, but his steely jaw remained the same. ‘‘Colonel Warren!’’
‘‘Annabelle, it is you.’’ He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hard hug. ‘‘Good Lord, woman. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’’
‘‘You, too, Colonel,’’ she replied with a smile. She was surprised to see him. As the Fixers’ commanding officer, Colonel Greg Warren had been the driving force behind their missions, though his position preventedhim from being a true part of the team. She had left a message about Russo’s death with his assistant as a courtesy. She had never expected he would make the trip for the funeral, but she was thrilled that he had. He might have information about the trouble. Perhaps that was why he was here. ‘‘I guess you received my message?’’
‘‘I did. Such sad news. Russo was a good man. It’s always hard to lose a man, but to lose someone so young and in such an unfortunate manner . . . well . . .’’ He shook his head, then glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘‘There you are. Honey, I’m sure you remember my old friend and colleague Annabelle Monroe. Annabelle, my wife, Lala.’’
A wife? The last she knew, Colonel Warren had been a widower. Annabelle turned to
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