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“On a bad day, there is always lipstick.” - Style Has No Size
This was the skeaviest bar Drea had ever been in. Cam needed to get off his damn phone so they could figure out how in the hell to fix this mess and get out of this place before Mr. Stoner Biker Dude took a real dislike to them.
Plus she really needed a stiff drink right about now and they were sitting on the bar in front of him. The Salty Dog may be a dive bar, but it didn’t look like the kind of place that watered down its drinks—thank God for small favors.
Finally, Cam pocketed his phone, grabbed the drinks, and crossed the bar to their booth. He slid in on the same side where she sat, effectively blocking both her escape and any chance of someone getting to her without going through him first.
A good two inches of air filled the space between her body and his, but it didn’t seem to matter. The heat from his body brushed against her skin, as tangible as a real touch. She hadn’t even taken her first sip of her Jack and Coke, but it didn’t matter. Whenever she was around him, she felt a little buzzed, no alcohol necessary. At least if she’d been drunk she could blame the booze for the direction of her thoughts.
He settled back into the booth, from all appearances totally clueless about the electricity jolting between them.
Determined to drown the attraction, she shot back a gulp of her drink. It burned down her throat and set her stomach whirling. She hadn’t been wrong. This bar was definitely not in the business of watering down its drinks. She blinked away the tears the drink caused and spied Cam’s phone on the table—now that brought her back to reality.
“Was that a good phone call or a bad phone call?” she asked, her voice more strained than normal.
One side of Cam’s mouth curled at the corner. “A little of both.”
“Rip off the bandage. Bad first.” Her muscles tensed as if to prepare herself for a physical blow.
He sighed and took a sip of his beer, conspicuously keeping his gaze pointed away from her. “They did a warp speed testing for cause of death. Turns out Natasha Orton was poisoned using the lipstick you applied.”
That bit of bad news extinguished any small sliver of hope that it had been a freak accident. The Jack and Coke sloshed around in her empty stomach, obviously working on a scorched earth policy.
He took a long drink from his beer, setting the glass down with a clink, and then continued. “It’s some kind of animal-based toxin you can order off the internet.”
He had to be calculating the odds. Hell, she would be.
A nervous twitch started in her thumb, jiggling the digit at triple speed. Caught between hopeless and totally pissed off, the negative energy pulsing through her had to escape somehow. But that didn’t mean she had to show it. Growing up different among the blue bloods of the Eastern Seaboard had taught her how to keep things buried way below the surface.
She grasped the pointed yellow umbrella in her drink tighter than needed and clinked the ice against the glass. “So are you going to ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
Okay, if he was going to play Captain Oblivious, then she’d put it right out there to shine in the sun. “If I’ve been online shopping for the latest poisons.”
He snorted. “No.”
“Don’t you want to know?” Not knowing would be a smart move for him, she couldn’t deny it. If he didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to hide her secret—if she’d done it.
“I already know.” Cam shrugged his wide shoulders. “You’re not the killing type.”
After her father had been arrested, the people who’d she’d known since pre-K had abandoned her in droves, figuring she was forever tainted. Her own mother, figuring their family was all cursed, had jumped off a bridge and left her only child alone.
Yet, here was Cam—a man she’d blown off for the past year as little more than a gigaho—quietly accepting her innocence without a fuss. It made the floor fall out from beneath her.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“No biggie.” He traced a line of condensation sliding down his beer glass. “Of course, now the cops want to talk to you even more than they did before. The only way out of this is to figure out who killed Natasha, what Diamond Tommy has to do with the murder, and how we can prove it.” Cam scrunched up his face and rubbed the back of his head as if he could push the answers out of his st
ubborn brain. “He wants you out of the picture, that’s for sure, but what motive would he have to be involved with killing a rich trophy wife?”
“Do psychopaths need a reason?” she asked, only half joking.
“Yeah, they do. And if we can figure out the why, we can figure out the who and clear your name. But to do that we need to stay under the radar.” He jerked his chin toward her purse on the table. “Let me have your phone.”
Playing with her phone was like playing with her emotions. She didn’t give access to either willingly. “Why?”
He narrowed his clear blue eyes at her.
