Romancing the Gravestone (A Jane Ladling Mystery 1)

Half rebellious, half afraid of being ticketed for a cell phone violation, she whispered, “Repeat what you just told me, word for word. Leave nothing out. I think I’m missing some details.”

Her friend sighed. “Why don’t I stick to the highlights? An hour ago, a distraught Emma Miller knocked on my door. She said she got a call from someone on her way to work, and they told her I’d been asking questions about her. She demanded to know why. I demanded to know why she cared, and she stomped away.”

A quick double check. Okay, yes. Jane had logged the pertinent details. “That woman is so guilty.”

“Agreed. The answer doesn’t always need to be complicated. That’s what I always say, anyway.” A pause. “Are you about to see Conrad?” Fiona asked, her dead-serious tone replaced by amusement.

“In a matter of minutes.” She swiped her tongue over her lips. “In fact, I should go. Don’t want to be late.”

They hung up, and she stashed her phone but kept her trusty notebook and a pen in hand.

Jane slipped from her spot behind the plant and moved to the reception desk. Nervousness and excitement battled for domination in the arena of her mind. Soon, she would kick off Operation Killer Bait.

Mission Make the Cat Nabber Pay?

Ghost Tour Takedown?

Burial Bust?

Or maybe Gold Collar, the longshot of the batch?

Which codename would Conrad prefer? Or had he already selected one?

After she showed the receptionist her ID, she received a visitor’s badge and a wave toward the correct path.

A woman of importance, Jane held her head high, and okay, yes, she had a little hop in her step as she strolled the distance. She’d chosen a floral fit and flare with spaghetti straps that Grandma Lily had made for her. A special occasion dress. What was more special than planning to nab a killer who might also dabble in breaking and entering?

Finding Conrad’s door open, she sailed inside. He leaned against the corner of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. Had he been waiting (eagerly) for her?

Different parts of her fluttered. He looked good. Better than good. Dark hair in disarray, whiskey eyes more intoxicating than ever as they slid over her. A new five o’clock shadow dusted his jaw. Too distracted to shave this morning?

He’d already removed his jacket, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. The tattoos drew her gaze. She’d never let herself study them before. Today, she thought, why not? The most adorable stick figures and rainbows and weirdly shaped animals decorated his skin. The images reminded her of a child’s drawings. Were they?

Who had drawn them? What did the images mean to him?

“You’re late,” he said, his rich voice raising goose bumps along her arms.

Uh… “How?” She glanced at the clock hanging on his back wall. “I’m two minutes early.”

“Yes, but ten minutes early is the new on time, which makes you exactly eight minutes tardy.” He straightened and stalked to his chair. “We should get started.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “We should indeed.” She plopped into a chair, all but bouncing on the cushion.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” He extended the compliment while searing her with his gaze.

No longer an aloof special agent, Conrad made her toes curl. The tempting man who taught her self-defense, rushed to her cat’s rescue, called her sweetheart, and robbed her of breath.

She offered him a shy smile. Wait. Her? Shy? And beautiful? “Thank you.” Before she threw herself at him, she cleared her throat and flipped through the pages of her notepad as casually as possible. As if she received such overwhelming compliments every day.

“All right.” He braced, as if expecting some kind of blow. “Let’s get to business. The tour. You know we have the camera on Muffin’s marker. It is monitored twenty-four seven. There’s no need for a tour.”

“Actually, there is. Your camera has caught a big, fat nothing, I bet.”

He scowled. Translation: I hate when you’re right, Jane.

Hey. Speaking of Muffin. “What happened with the crowbar?”

“It is indeed the murder weapon.”

A grin spread. “It is? I did it, then? I found the most crucial piece of evidence in the entire case?”

He might have fought a smile. “The metal is splattered with Dr. Hotchkins’s blood and covered with his fingerprints.”

Someone pat her on the back. Jane was made for investigative work. “Any other fingerprints?”

“None.” He gripped a pen and tapped the edge against his desk. “I think I’ve made it clear I don’t want you to do the tour, Jane.”

“You have, yes, but it always sounds like a you problem,” she said, batting her lashes at him.

He pursed his lips. “But,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I can’t stop you from doing it. If you insist on putting yourself in the line of danger, I will insist on doing something as well.”