You sure you don’t want me to come? I could bop over at lunchtime. Angie can handle the shop for an hour. I’ll bring you something to eat. Something loaded with fat and wasted calories.”
Angie could handle the shop, Laine considered. She was good and getting better. But Laine knew herself. She’d get more done if she worked alone without conversation or distraction.
“That’s okay. I’ll be all right once I get started. I’ll probably be in this afternoon.”
“Take a nap instead.”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to you later.” When she hung up, Laine stuck the little portable phone in the back pocket of her baggy jeans. She knew herself well enough to be sure she’d find half a dozen reasons to call the shop during the day. Might as well keep a phone handy.
But for now, she needed to focus on the matter at hand.
“ ‘Hide the pooch,’ ” she murmured. Since the only pooch she had was Henry, she had to assume Willy had been delirious. Whatever he’d come to tell her, to ask of her, to give her, hadn’t been done. He’d thought someone was after him, and unless he’d changed his ways, which was highly unlikely, he’d probably been right.
A cop, skip tracer, a partner in crime who hadn’t liked the cut? Any or all of the above was a possibility. But the state of her house told her the last option was the most likely.
Now whoever had been looking for him was looking at her.
She could tell Vince . . . what? Absolutely nothing. Everything she’d built here was dug into the foundation that she was Laine Tavish, a nice, ordinary woman with a nice, ordinary life with nice, ordinary parents who ran a barbecue place in New Mexico.
Elaine O’Hara, daughter of Big Jack of the charming and wily ways—and yard-long yellow sheet—didn’t fit into the pretty, pastoral landscape of Angel’s Gap. Nobody was going to come into Elaine O’Hara’s place to buy a tea-pot or a piecrust table.
Jack O’Hara’s daughter couldn’t be trusted.
Hell, she didn’t trust Jack O’Hara’s daughter herself. Big Jack’s daughter was the type who had drinks in a bar with a strange man and ended up knocking said man on his excellent ass with a steamy, soul-deep kiss. Jack’s daughter took big, bad chances that had big, bad consequences.
Laine Tavish lived normal, thought things through and didn’t make waves.
She’d let the O’Hara out for one brief evening, and look what it had gotten her. An exciting, sexy interlude, sure, and a hell of a mess at the end of it.
“It just goes to show,” she murmured to Henry, who demonstrated his accord by thumping his tail.
Time to put things back in order. She wasn’t giving up who she was, what she’d accomplished, what she planned to accomplish, because some second-rate thief believed she had part of his last take.
Had to be second-rate, she thought as she gathered up the loose stuffing from the once pretty silk throw pillows she’d picked out for the George II daybed. Uncle Willy never traveled in the big leagues. And neither, despite all his talk, all his dreams, had Big Jack.
So, they’d trashed her place, come up empty and took easily fenced items in lieu.
That, Laine thought, would be that.
Of course, they’d probably left prints all over the damn place. She rolled her eyes, sat on the floor and started stacking scattered paperwork. Dim bulbs were a specialty when Uncle Willy was involved in a job. It was likely whoever’d broken in, searched, stolen, would have a record. Vince would trace that, identify them, and it was well within the realm of possibility that they’d get picked up.
It was also in that realm that they’d be stupid enough to tell the cops why they broke in. If that came down, she’d claim mistaken identity.
She’d be shocked, outraged, baffled. Acting the part—whatever part was necessary—was second nature. There was enough of Big Jack in her veins that running a con wouldn’t be a stretch of her skills.
What was she doing now,
Angie could handle the shop, Laine considered. She was good and getting better. But Laine knew herself. She’d get more done if she worked alone without conversation or distraction.
“That’s okay. I’ll be all right once I get started. I’ll probably be in this afternoon.”
“Take a nap instead.”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to you later.” When she hung up, Laine stuck the little portable phone in the back pocket of her baggy jeans. She knew herself well enough to be sure she’d find half a dozen reasons to call the shop during the day. Might as well keep a phone handy.
But for now, she needed to focus on the matter at hand.
“ ‘Hide the pooch,’ ” she murmured. Since the only pooch she had was Henry, she had to assume Willy had been delirious. Whatever he’d come to tell her, to ask of her, to give her, hadn’t been done. He’d thought someone was after him, and unless he’d changed his ways, which was highly unlikely, he’d probably been right.
A cop, skip tracer, a partner in crime who hadn’t liked the cut? Any or all of the above was a possibility. But the state of her house told her the last option was the most likely.
Now whoever had been looking for him was looking at her.
She could tell Vince . . . what? Absolutely nothing. Everything she’d built here was dug into the foundation that she was Laine Tavish, a nice, ordinary woman with a nice, ordinary life with nice, ordinary parents who ran a barbecue place in New Mexico.
Elaine O’Hara, daughter of Big Jack of the charming and wily ways—and yard-long yellow sheet—didn’t fit into the pretty, pastoral landscape of Angel’s Gap. Nobody was going to come into Elaine O’Hara’s place to buy a tea-pot or a piecrust table.
Jack O’Hara’s daughter couldn’t be trusted.
Hell, she didn’t trust Jack O’Hara’s daughter herself. Big Jack’s daughter was the type who had drinks in a bar with a strange man and ended up knocking said man on his excellent ass with a steamy, soul-deep kiss. Jack’s daughter took big, bad chances that had big, bad consequences.
Laine Tavish lived normal, thought things through and didn’t make waves.
She’d let the O’Hara out for one brief evening, and look what it had gotten her. An exciting, sexy interlude, sure, and a hell of a mess at the end of it.
“It just goes to show,” she murmured to Henry, who demonstrated his accord by thumping his tail.
Time to put things back in order. She wasn’t giving up who she was, what she’d accomplished, what she planned to accomplish, because some second-rate thief believed she had part of his last take.
Had to be second-rate, she thought as she gathered up the loose stuffing from the once pretty silk throw pillows she’d picked out for the George II daybed. Uncle Willy never traveled in the big leagues. And neither, despite all his talk, all his dreams, had Big Jack.
So, they’d trashed her place, come up empty and took easily fenced items in lieu.
That, Laine thought, would be that.
Of course, they’d probably left prints all over the damn place. She rolled her eyes, sat on the floor and started stacking scattered paperwork. Dim bulbs were a specialty when Uncle Willy was involved in a job. It was likely whoever’d broken in, searched, stolen, would have a record. Vince would trace that, identify them, and it was well within the realm of possibility that they’d get picked up.
It was also in that realm that they’d be stupid enough to tell the cops why they broke in. If that came down, she’d claim mistaken identity.
She’d be shocked, outraged, baffled. Acting the part—whatever part was necessary—was second nature. There was enough of Big Jack in her veins that running a con wouldn’t be a stretch of her skills.
What was she doing now,
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