vegetables.“
„Caroline?“
Caroline turned in the doorway of the little kitchen, feeling another spurt of annoyance at the smug, knowing look on her best friend’s face. That was the problem with best friends. They always knew you way too well. „What?“
„Black suits you. And don’t forget to touch up your roots before work tomorrow.“
State Bureau of Investigation
Raleigh, North Carolina
Monday, March 5
7 P.M.
Special Agent Steven Thatcher of the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation had one hell of a headache. A consistent, nagging headache. She was named Aunt Helen. His mother’s sister. She meant well. She really did. And she hadn’t always been a headache. She was, in truth, his favorite aunt and he loved her dearly. When he was a redheaded freckle-faced boy of eight, she’d take him fishing. Damn, but that woman could cast like a pro. She balked at cleaning her own catch, but she made up for it by frying up whatever he cleaned. When he was a gangly, redheaded, pimply- and freckle-faced adolescent of thirteen, she taught him to dance and how to pin a corsage on a girl’s dress without practicing acupuncture or getting slapped in the face. When he was an awkward, nervous groom and father-to-be at eighteen, she tied his bow tie and told him he was doing the right thing. She’d cooed over and helped change the diapers of every one of his three boys.
And she’d held his hand when at thirty-three he put his wife in the ground. That was three years ago. She’d moved in with them before the boys’ tears were dry and taken care of them. She still took care of them all. Cooked, cleaned. Made sure the boys’ socks were bleached white and even matched. Made sure he didn’t wear a paisley tie with a herringbone jacket. Sang lullabies to his youngest son and tucked him into bed with a kiss and a bedtime story of faraway lands and dragons. She fished with his middle son and taught his oldest to dance and pin corsages on girls.
Yes, she was his favorite aunt. And he loved her dearly.
Yet she was the cause of the pain shooting behind his eyes at this very moment.
Because now, at thirty-six, with his red hair tamed to what Aunt Helen called strawberry blond, his freckles faded, and his ring finger bare, he was an available male and his children needed a mother. He should know. Aunt Helen said so. Daily. At this very moment, in fact. And she had just the right girl…. He rolled his eyes. She always had just the right girl.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t any use. The headache just stayed and stayed. Helen had the tenacity of that damn pink battery bunny. And the fact that what she wanted most was the very thing he’d vowed to avoid at all costs… Well, that would just be one more snag in the tangle of his life. Steven switched the phone to his other ear and grabbed the file he’d been reading when she called. „No, Helen. N-O. I do not want to go out with your friend’s niece’s cousin. I don’t care if she did win the local beauty pageant when she was seventeen. I don’t care if she’s so sweet that she makes Mother Teresa look like Hitler. The answer is still no.“
„She has her own bass boat,“ Helen wheedled. „With a depth finder. And a GPS.“
Steven sat up in his chair. „Really?“ He narrowed his eyes. „You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Helen?“ This might be an out with fringe benefits. A way to keep Helen off his back for a few months and squeeze in some legitimate recreation at the same time.
„Two hundred horses.“
Steven bit his lip. He hated Helen’s blind dates. Hated them. But, hell, the woman had a depth finder and a global positioning system and a boat with a two hundred-horse motor. How bad could she be? One, maybe two dates with the beauty queen and Helen would lay off the matchmaking, maybe until Fall if all the cards fell his way. „Okay, okay. Give me her number.“
„I thought the boat would do the
„Caroline?“
Caroline turned in the doorway of the little kitchen, feeling another spurt of annoyance at the smug, knowing look on her best friend’s face. That was the problem with best friends. They always knew you way too well. „What?“
„Black suits you. And don’t forget to touch up your roots before work tomorrow.“
State Bureau of Investigation
Raleigh, North Carolina
Monday, March 5
7 P.M.
Special Agent Steven Thatcher of the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation had one hell of a headache. A consistent, nagging headache. She was named Aunt Helen. His mother’s sister. She meant well. She really did. And she hadn’t always been a headache. She was, in truth, his favorite aunt and he loved her dearly. When he was a redheaded freckle-faced boy of eight, she’d take him fishing. Damn, but that woman could cast like a pro. She balked at cleaning her own catch, but she made up for it by frying up whatever he cleaned. When he was a gangly, redheaded, pimply- and freckle-faced adolescent of thirteen, she taught him to dance and how to pin a corsage on a girl’s dress without practicing acupuncture or getting slapped in the face. When he was an awkward, nervous groom and father-to-be at eighteen, she tied his bow tie and told him he was doing the right thing. She’d cooed over and helped change the diapers of every one of his three boys.
And she’d held his hand when at thirty-three he put his wife in the ground. That was three years ago. She’d moved in with them before the boys’ tears were dry and taken care of them. She still took care of them all. Cooked, cleaned. Made sure the boys’ socks were bleached white and even matched. Made sure he didn’t wear a paisley tie with a herringbone jacket. Sang lullabies to his youngest son and tucked him into bed with a kiss and a bedtime story of faraway lands and dragons. She fished with his middle son and taught his oldest to dance and pin corsages on girls.
Yes, she was his favorite aunt. And he loved her dearly.
Yet she was the cause of the pain shooting behind his eyes at this very moment.
Because now, at thirty-six, with his red hair tamed to what Aunt Helen called strawberry blond, his freckles faded, and his ring finger bare, he was an available male and his children needed a mother. He should know. Aunt Helen said so. Daily. At this very moment, in fact. And she had just the right girl…. He rolled his eyes. She always had just the right girl.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t any use. The headache just stayed and stayed. Helen had the tenacity of that damn pink battery bunny. And the fact that what she wanted most was the very thing he’d vowed to avoid at all costs… Well, that would just be one more snag in the tangle of his life. Steven switched the phone to his other ear and grabbed the file he’d been reading when she called. „No, Helen. N-O. I do not want to go out with your friend’s niece’s cousin. I don’t care if she did win the local beauty pageant when she was seventeen. I don’t care if she’s so sweet that she makes Mother Teresa look like Hitler. The answer is still no.“
„She has her own bass boat,“ Helen wheedled. „With a depth finder. And a GPS.“
Steven sat up in his chair. „Really?“ He narrowed his eyes. „You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Helen?“ This might be an out with fringe benefits. A way to keep Helen off his back for a few months and squeeze in some legitimate recreation at the same time.
„Two hundred horses.“
Steven bit his lip. He hated Helen’s blind dates. Hated them. But, hell, the woman had a depth finder and a global positioning system and a boat with a two hundred-horse motor. How bad could she be? One, maybe two dates with the beauty queen and Helen would lay off the matchmaking, maybe until Fall if all the cards fell his way. „Okay, okay. Give me her number.“
„I thought the boat would do the
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