Colby Rebuilt by Debra Webb

Author:Debra Webb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2007-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

“Thanks, man.”

Shane slapped the top of the car and it rolled away. Mary Jane’s gaze moved from the taillights disappearing down the street to the small house sitting on a postage stamp-size lawn.

Craftsman-style bungalow. The streetlamp on the corner chased the shadows from the yard onto the porch. The neighborhood was quiet save for a dog barking three houses away. Apparently their arrival had awakened him from his sleep.

There were about a dozen questions she wanted to ask as Shane ushered her up the walk to the steps, but she was too busy attempting to see the details through the darkness.

He unlocked the door, reached inside and flipped a switch, then waited for her to go inside first. Three steps and one deep breath later and she knew for sure she was in his home. It smelled like him, like leather and earthy spices.

The click of the latch and a chain sliding into place echoed behind her as he secured the door. She gasped as something brushed her leg. Then she smiled as a big gray cat rubbed against her again.

“That’s Gypsy,” he told her as he tossed the keys onto a table by the door.

Mary Jane crouched down to smooth her hand over the sleek fur. “Gypsy?”

“Yeah.” He shouldered out of his jacket, wincing twice as he did so. “She wanders like a tomcat. But she always comes back.”

Mary Jane scooped the cat into her arms, the sound of its rhythmic purring soothing. “Are we here to get you a change of clothes?” They really hadn’t talked much on the way over. She had assumed that he didn’t want to talk about the case in front of the driver. Her excuse was far more selfish—she’d been exhausted.

But—she turned all the way around to take a look at the living room—now that she was here she’d gotten her second wind, which was mainly boosted by her curiosity. How did a guy who rode a Harley live?

Things looked pretty normal so far. Comfortable sectional sofa in a deep forest green. Heavy wood tables and a massive television—one of the flat-panel types mounted on the wall. Probably surround sound and all that guy stuff.

“Why don’t I see what I can pull together in the kitchen?”

Her stomach rumbled at the suggestion. “I could eat,” she admitted. As if understanding that food was about to be prepared, Gypsy struggled to get free. Mary Jane set her down on the floor and then watched as she followed her master into the kitchen.

The kitchen was nearly as large as the living room. The cabinets and appliances circled the room, leaving a table and chairs as the centerpiece. More of that dark, heavy wood with a butcher block countertop. Neat, clean. She doubted he did a lot of cooking. In fact, he’d said something about his cupboards being bare most of the time, too.

She shoved her hair behind her ear, and something caught between her fingers. She peered at the object. Glass. Good grief. She hadn’t thought of checking her hair for debris.

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