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“Jeezus.” He threw himself off the mattress. In nothing but his navy-blue boxer briefs, he strode to the door and whipped it open.
A cute little redheaded girl stood on his doorstep wearing jeans, a T-shirt with yellow polka dots and ratty Converse sneakers.
Clay’s lip curled. “I don’t want your cookies.”
She blinked up at him, light green eyes wide. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Aren’t you a Girl Scout?”
She blinked. “I’m Lark.”
He stared at her. His head was killing him.
“That’s my name—Lark.”
“Okay?”
“I need your help.”
“Call 911.”
She huffed an exasperated sigh. “East Canon doesn’t have 911. We have Roberta.”
“What does Roberta stand for?”
She shoved a loose ginger curl off her forehead. “It’s not an acronym. She’s the woman who answers the phone at the police station. And you’re a cop. The newspaper said so.”
His eyes bulged. Who was this chick? And how did she know he was a former cop?
“Did you say it says so in the paper?”
She nodded, making that curl bounce over her forehead again.
He ground his molars. He was supposed to run an undercover secret task force and he’d already been outed by the local paper?
Clay sucked in a deep breath. That was another battle to fight. First, sleep. He needed sleep, and this person was standing between him and fifteen more hours with his pillow.
“Listen, Annie, you need to go. I only handle very specific types of cases.”
She gave a chuckle that sounded throaty and way more womanly than she looked. “Annie…funny. Like I haven’t been called that before. As for the specific types of cases…do you mean things like bombs?”
“Exactly.”
She bounced a little on her toes. “Perfect. I have one in my car. I can bring it in. Might take me a little bit because it’s freakin’heavy.” Her stare dropped over his bare chest to his briefs and then his muscled thighs. “You could put on pants.”
His mind was spinning from lack of sleep and a stimulant hangover. What was she even talking about? A bomb? Pants?
“Is this bothering you?” He gestured to his body.
She tipped her head. “You look like a silver fox. But…pants would be good.”
Silver fox? He issued a gruff mutter. “I’m only forty.”
She jerked her thumb toward her car. “Focus. Bomb. Remember?”
Clay looked past her at a small yellow car parked outside his rental home. Was this girl—woman, whatever she was—for real? She had a bomb in her car? The vehicle looked like one of those toys with spring-loaded wheels that you wound up by pulling it backward.
And despite the bomb and the early hour, she was this damn perky?
