Page 10 of The Wedding Party

I draw in a breath and let it out. I’ve only worked with him for two years, but he’s got ten years of this job on me, and I’ve seen how he gets in his head and it ends no place good. But I also know what’s going on here. My father has been trying to get me to work with him for pretty much my entire career. “You aren’t roping me into working for my father, and yes, you can tell him I said that. You don’t need me to profile for you.”

“It’s a big case.”

“They all are,” I remind him.

“But this PI stuff actually pays big, and we don’t have rules.”

“Which might be why my father was hired to help, but it’ll also be why you get fired.”

“Or I quit and work for your father.”

“There’s a smart decision,” I say dryly.

“What if I said we have three people dead and a potential serial killer?”

“I’d say don’t get killed before I get back to work and can do it myself.”

“Come on, Castle.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snap.

“You call me Whit. I call you Castle. Castle.”

The doorbell rings again. “That’s my friend.” I glance at my watch. “Crap. I’m late. Go entertain her, but don’t flirt with her,” I warn because he’s the biggest flirt I’ve ever known. “Lana is her name, but not your game.” I shoo him away.

He gives me a two-finger salute. “Yes, Agent Castle.” He disappears into the hallway.

I start tossing things into my bag, no longer taking my normal care and time in all things that require preparation. Exactly seven minutes later, I’m lugging my bag down the stairs while Lana laughs at whatever Whit is saying to her. I leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs and head into the living room, where I find Lana batting her blue eyes at Whit.

“No,” I say. “He’s off limits. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.” I step between her and Whit, facing him. “Go home.”

“What about my case?”

“No,” I say. “And tell my father I know he took a bottle of my cherry wine the last time he was over. I want it back. They aren’t making it anymore.”

He stares down at me and smirks. “All right. I’ll email the file to you.” With that, he turns and heads for the door. I wait until he exits the house, and I turn to find Lana all wide-eyed and smiles.

“He’s interesting,” she says. “And I do like a man with muscles.”

“Oh, please. The man barely showers. Believe me, I know. I’ve done plenty of stakeouts with him.” I grab my bag. “Estes Park, here we come,” I say, and funny how a visit from Whit, which might as well have been my father, has me looking forward to the future, and a weekend, just one weekend, without a murder to solve. And yet, as we load into Lana’s BMW for that murder-free weekend, I’m thinking about the case Whit is working on. I’m thinking about murder.

Chapter Eight

I once read that control freaks don’t love heights. I’ve never considered myself a control freak, no matter what anyone else claims. This trip aims to prove me wrong.

Apparently, the town of under six thousand is at a ridiculously high altitude, and our path to the hotel is up and around a narrow, icy road with a drop-off on the passenger side—my side. In other words, Lana is driving, which I agree to but I also quickly change my mind.

I don’t trust anyone this much with my life. “Stop,” I order, about a fourth of the way up the snowy mountain. “I have to drive.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “This doesn’t bother me at all.”

Okay, I think. Whatever. “It bothers me.”

She laughs. “You don’t trust my driving?”

“To be frank, no.”

“I’m insulted!”