Read Online Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan by Intrigue Romance - Free Book Online
Authors: Intrigue Romance
Ads: Link
from time to time.”
Jasmine rubbed at the heat in her midsection. “Married, separated, reunited, separated again, pregnant—wonder who the baby looks like?—and last I heard from Costello, thinking about filing for divorce.”
“The good lieutenant seems to have kept you better informed than the rest of us.”
“Than you, Rogan. You don’t invite gossip any more than you do admissions of love. Or in Carla’s case, lust, because I also heard she slept with one of the other cops at the safe house during our confinement.”
“Dukes?”
“Could be. I gather his wife has had—control issues. And more than a few affairs. From what Dukes and Boxman told me, I don’t envision a particularly pleasant woman.”
“I’ve met her.” He studied the street names. “Your vision’s dead-on.”
Jasmine regarded the shop they were passing. A hand-painted sign in the window boasted that all things raven, from lip balm to tattoos, were available inside.
Peering past Rogan down a misty side road, she let a shiver ripple through her. “Why do I feel like no matter where we go, how fast or how far, that we’re being watched?”
“Because we are.”
“Do you realize we haven’t seen a single person since we started down? It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday, the stores are open and the storm’s moved on. Whether visible or not, nine hundred and seventy-six souls live in Raven’s Cove. It stands to reason that more than one of them would be watching a pair of strangers navigate the stairs that appear to constitute the main sidewalk of their cliffside town. My question is, why aren’t we seeing any of them back? What?” she asked when he drew her to the left. “We’re not going all the way to the dock?”
“Not unless you want to buy lunch right off the boat. Police station’s on this street.”
“So you did accomplish something on your sojourn last night.”
“We’ll find out” was all he said.
Since pulling teeth wasn’t her best skill, she decided to wait him out. Or better yet, let Boxman do the extracting.
The police station possessed the air of a quaint New England shop. It sat slightly apart from its neighbors and had a waist-high fence surrounding it. Ravens perched on every third post. Most of them were fake. Two of them weren’t. Their black eyes trailed them through the gate and up five short stairs to the door.
“It’s like we’re passing through an Alfred Hitchcock movie,” Jasmine remarked. “No background music, only footsteps and the eerie rustle of feathers.”
A second later, Rogan opened the door, and the illusion vanished.
“I swear to heaven and hell, Wesley, I’d do better having old Rooney Blume for a deputy.”
The police chief, a solidly built man in his late fifties, pivoted away from a younger, beefier male currently hunched next to a dented filing cabinet.
“You told me not to let anyone in.” Wesley trained his eyes on the floor. “I did what you said and stayed put all night.”
“Sawing enough damn logs to build the new station house we need but I’ll never see, if you don’t start doing your damn job and stop making me look like a baboon with a gun. With you in a minute,” he fired over his shoulder at the new arrivals. “Now I want you to tell me what you did after—” Halting, he swung slowly on his heel to stare. Then held out his arms and gave an incredulous laugh. “Rogan? Is that you? My God, it is. Still alive and breathing without a respirator. Last time I saw you, four of us were taking on ten in a New York City alley. Three of us lived to limp away. Only one of the ten survived, and he had to be stretchered out.” He clapped Rogan soundly on both arms. “I never figured on seeing you again, and here you’ve turned up in my windy speck of a town.”
“He’s like a bad penny that way,” Jasmine remarked.
His brows lifting in speculation, the chief moved a finger between them. “You’re with him?” Then to Rogan. “She’s with
Jasmine rubbed at the heat in her midsection. “Married, separated, reunited, separated again, pregnant—wonder who the baby looks like?—and last I heard from Costello, thinking about filing for divorce.”
“The good lieutenant seems to have kept you better informed than the rest of us.”
“Than you, Rogan. You don’t invite gossip any more than you do admissions of love. Or in Carla’s case, lust, because I also heard she slept with one of the other cops at the safe house during our confinement.”
“Dukes?”
“Could be. I gather his wife has had—control issues. And more than a few affairs. From what Dukes and Boxman told me, I don’t envision a particularly pleasant woman.”
“I’ve met her.” He studied the street names. “Your vision’s dead-on.”
Jasmine regarded the shop they were passing. A hand-painted sign in the window boasted that all things raven, from lip balm to tattoos, were available inside.
Peering past Rogan down a misty side road, she let a shiver ripple through her. “Why do I feel like no matter where we go, how fast or how far, that we’re being watched?”
“Because we are.”
“Do you realize we haven’t seen a single person since we started down? It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday, the stores are open and the storm’s moved on. Whether visible or not, nine hundred and seventy-six souls live in Raven’s Cove. It stands to reason that more than one of them would be watching a pair of strangers navigate the stairs that appear to constitute the main sidewalk of their cliffside town. My question is, why aren’t we seeing any of them back? What?” she asked when he drew her to the left. “We’re not going all the way to the dock?”
“Not unless you want to buy lunch right off the boat. Police station’s on this street.”
“So you did accomplish something on your sojourn last night.”
“We’ll find out” was all he said.
Since pulling teeth wasn’t her best skill, she decided to wait him out. Or better yet, let Boxman do the extracting.
The police station possessed the air of a quaint New England shop. It sat slightly apart from its neighbors and had a waist-high fence surrounding it. Ravens perched on every third post. Most of them were fake. Two of them weren’t. Their black eyes trailed them through the gate and up five short stairs to the door.
“It’s like we’re passing through an Alfred Hitchcock movie,” Jasmine remarked. “No background music, only footsteps and the eerie rustle of feathers.”
A second later, Rogan opened the door, and the illusion vanished.
“I swear to heaven and hell, Wesley, I’d do better having old Rooney Blume for a deputy.”
The police chief, a solidly built man in his late fifties, pivoted away from a younger, beefier male currently hunched next to a dented filing cabinet.
“You told me not to let anyone in.” Wesley trained his eyes on the floor. “I did what you said and stayed put all night.”
“Sawing enough damn logs to build the new station house we need but I’ll never see, if you don’t start doing your damn job and stop making me look like a baboon with a gun. With you in a minute,” he fired over his shoulder at the new arrivals. “Now I want you to tell me what you did after—” Halting, he swung slowly on his heel to stare. Then held out his arms and gave an incredulous laugh. “Rogan? Is that you? My God, it is. Still alive and breathing without a respirator. Last time I saw you, four of us were taking on ten in a New York City alley. Three of us lived to limp away. Only one of the ten survived, and he had to be stretchered out.” He clapped Rogan soundly on both arms. “I never figured on seeing you again, and here you’ve turned up in my windy speck of a town.”
“He’s like a bad penny that way,” Jasmine remarked.
His brows lifting in speculation, the chief moved a finger between them. “You’re with him?” Then to Rogan. “She’s with
Similar Books
