Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

"Sorry."

Not a Fifty Shades of Grey girl, it seemed.

She forgot her complaint. "You look like somebody, an actor."

Channing Tatum was the default. March was slimmer, about the same height, over six feet.

"I don't know."

Didn't matter, of course. Her point was to apologize for the jab about the scratches.

Accepted.

She dug into her purse for a brush and makeup, began reassembling. "The other night you didn't really tell me much about your job. Some nonprofit. A website? You do good things. I like that."

"Right. We raise awareness--and money--to benefit people in crises. Wars, natural disasters, famine, that sort of thing."

"You must be busy. There's so much terrible stuff going on."

"I'm on the road six days a week."

"What's the site?"

"It's called Hand to Heart." He rolled from the bed. Though not feeling particularly modest, he didn't want to walk around naked. He pulled on jeans and a polo shirt. Flipped open his computer and went to the home page.

Hand to Heart

Devoted to raising awareness of

humanitarian tragedies

around the world

How you can help...

"We don't take money ourselves. We just make people aware of needs for humanitarian aid and then they can click on a link to, say, tsunami relief or the nuclear disaster in Japan or gas victims in Syria. Make donations. My job is I travel around and meet with nonprofit groups, get press material and pictures of the disasters to put on our site. I vet the groups too. Some are scams."

"No!"

"Happens, yep."

"People can be such shits."

She closed the laptop.

"Not a bad job. You do good things for a living. And you get to stay in places like this."

"Sometimes." In fact, he wasn't comfortable in "places like this." Hyatt was good enough for him or even more modest motels. But his boss liked it here; Chris liked all the best places and so this was where March was put. Just like the clothes and accessories scattered about the room, the Canali suit, the Louis Vuitton shoes, the Coach briefcase, the Tiffany cuff links weren't his choice. His boss didn't get that some people did this job for reasons other than money.

Calista vanished into the bathroom to dress--the modesty bump was growing--and she emerged. Her hair was still damp but she'd rented a convertible from Hertz, and he supposed that, with the top down, the strands would be blow-dried by the time she got to whatever retirement home she was headed for. March's own manicured brown hair, thick as a pelt, irritatingly took ten minutes to bring to attention.

Calista kissed him, brief but not too brief; they both knew the rules. Lunchtime delight.

"You'll still be around for a couple of days, Mr. Humanitarian?"

"I will," March said.

"Good." This was delivered perky. Then she asked, genuinely curious, "So you having a successful trip?"