Blood Moon

by Sandra Brown

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Suspense

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown returns with a sexy thriller where an unruly detective and an ­­­­ambitious tv show producer work against the clock to prevent another young woman from disappearing before the next blood moon—while trying to resist the attraction between them.

Detective John Bowie is one misstep away from being fired from the Auclair Police Department in coastal Louisiana. Recently divorced and slightly heavy-handed with his liquor, Bowie does all that he can to cope with the actions taken (or not taken) during the investigation of Crissy Mellin, a teenage girl who disappeared more than three years prior. But now, Crisis Point, a long-running true crime television series, is soon to air an episode documenting the unsolved Mellin case. Bowie has been instructed by his unscrupulous boss to keep to himself his grievances and criticisms over the mishandling of the investigation.
 
Beth Collins, a senior producer on Crisis Point, knows what classifies as a great story and when there’s something more to be told. After working on the show for seven years researching, fact checking, and editing dozens of episodes, Collins is convinced that Crissy Mellin’s disappearance was not an isolated incident. A string of disappearances of teenage girls in nearby areas have only one thing in common: They took place on the night of a blood moon. In a last-ditch effort to find out the truth, Beth leaves New York City for Louisiana to enlist Detective Bowie in helping her figure out what happened to Crissy and find the true culprit before he acts on the next blood moon—in four days’ time.
 
At the risk of their jobs and lives, Bowie and Collins band together to identify and capture a canny perpetrator, while fighting an irresistible spark between them that threatens to upend everything.

Release date: March 4, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

Saturday, March 8

The poignant lyrics of “Desperado” filtered through the cobwebs crocheted across the scratchy speaker in the ceiling.

The ballad seemed a fitting soundtrack for his entrance.

Two steps inside, he stopped and stood silhouetted in the wedge of midday sunlight that shrank as the tufted leather door swished closed behind him and returned the barroom to the simulated nighttime in seedy watering holes on every continent.

This one hunkered near the line that separated Larouche Parish from Terrebonne. Neither parish would be proud to claim it, but the liability fell to Terrebonne. There wasn’t a town close enough to have any significant attachment to the place, but it shared a zip code with Auclair.

He took off his sunglasses, folded the stems, and hooked one of them into the placket of his chambray shirt above the third pearl snap.

The bartender stopped thumbing through a magazine that appeared to have been thumbed through frequently, took his customer’s measure, then said, “Is it raining yet?”

“Not yet, but I wouldn’t bet against it by nightfall.” He walked over to the bar and mounted a stool.

“Cold beer?”

“Coke, please. Lots of ice.”

“Coming up.”

Then, from the outer reaches of the room: “Dude comes into a bar and orders a Coke. Ain’t that what Dairy Queens are for?” The remark elicited a round of guffaws.

The newcomer at the bar looked over his shoulder toward the row of billiard tables. The only one currently in use was lighted by a fixture suspended from the ceiling. It hung low above the felt and shed light on a grungy foursome.

The one who’d scoffed at him was propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, knee raised, left foot flat against the concrete blocks. He was grinding a matchstick between his teeth. Another was idly chalking a pool cue. The other two were leaning against the table, slurping from their bottles of beer.

All were eyeing the “dude” with insolent challenge.

But after being on the receiving end of a prolonged and unflinching stare, the spokesman of the four anchored the matchstick in the corner of his mouth beneath a droopy mustache, let his foot slide to the floor, pushed himself away from the wall, and said to the one preparing the cue, “You gonna shoot, or what?” Still muttering with amusement among themselves, they resumed their game.

The bartender, having watched the exchange with interest, opened a can of Coca-Cola and poured it over a glassful of ice. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Bartender, add that to my tab, please.”

She was seated in a dim corner booth, chosen because it had an unobstructed view of the entrance, allowing her to see him when he arrived, which she’d wished to do. She’d been early; he’d been right on time.

She’d observed everything that had transpired without having been observed herself. The bit he’d done with his sunglasses had looked casual enough, something one would naturally do when coming from daylight into a darker interior. But she deduced that it had also given him time to let his eyes adjust, take in the scene, and get an idea of the bar’s layout and what he was walking into. She’d escaped his notice only because her booth was in a section of the bar where only meager light relieved the gloom.

As he’d walked from the entrance over to the bar, his tread had been loose-limbed, his demeanor nonchalant. His exchange with the bartender, although not effusive, had been friendly enough. But it had taken nothing more than a look from him to squelch the derision of the men playing billiards.

At the time, he’d been facing away from her. But she knew that he must have fixed on them the calculating gaze that now zeroed in on her as he picked up his drink and walked over.

When he reached the booth, he tipped his head toward the vacant bench. “This seat taken?”

She shook her head.

He slid in across from her. They appraised each other with undisguised interest but without comment until he said, “Thanks for the Coke.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dunking the drinking straw in and out of her glass of club soda, she continued her assessment of him. He’d gone to no trouble whatsoever to impress her. He was unshaven and had bed head. His shirt was wrinkled and worn tail out.

His jeans were clean but faded, worn to near white at the knees. They had a hole in the left front pocket and stringy hems. They seemed to be one with him, fitting his form and sauntering tread too well to have been purchased that way, already fashionably distressed. The aging had come from actual wear. Years of it.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“No? Except for the getup, you’re exactly what I expected.”

“Based on what?”

“Your voice over the phone.”

“What about it?”

“Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

She stopped fiddling with the drinking straw and let it sink into the glass. Sitting back against the booth and crossing her arms, she subjected him to a lengthier and even more disapproving once-over that terminated on his implacable stare, from which she didn’t back down. “What did you mean by ‘except for the getup’?”

“The LSU ball cap? You’ve never worn it before. It doesn’t fit your head, it’s way too new, and it doesn’t go with your bespoke purse.” He glanced down at it lying beside her on the bench. “Between those two accessories, I’m betting the LV is more you.”

She didn’t acknowledge that he was right. “You’re not wearing a badge.”

He didn’t comment on what was obvious.

“Do you have a badge?” she asked.

“In a wallet.”

“Photo ID?”

“In a wallet.”

“On your person?”

“Yes.”

“Would you show them to me, please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Well…” He folded his arms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice. “First off, you asked me—no, instructed me—not to show up here looking like a cop. Wearing a badge sort of gives that away. And anyhow, I never wear my badge to be seen.

“Secondly, the pack of hyenas shooting stick? I know that the DEA is on their tail. Now, if they saw me flashing you a badge and ID, they’d peg me as some brand of law officer, and that would likely result in an outbreak of trouble. I know damn well they’re armed; I just don’t know what kind of firepower they’re carrying, and finding out could lead to bloodshed.

“Thirdly, the bartender has given up his MotorTrend to polish a shot glass. In a joint like this, that level of cleanliness is uncommon if not downright nonexistent. He’s pretending not to watch us, but he hasn’t missed a thing. I don’t know whose side he would be on if a gunfight erupted. If one did—and I can almost guarantee it—you could get hurt, and I would hate that.”

“Your conscience would never recover?”

“No, my career. For a while now, my superior has been looking for an excuse to fire me. If you, an innocent bystander, got injured or killed during a shootout initiated by me, it would be more excuse than he needed to give me the boot.

“All that to say that I’m going to keep my ID wallet in my pocket, my weapon under my shirttail, play it cool, and after we conclude this—whatever this is—I’ll be sure to get the license number of that redneck pickup parked out front, which I’m almost certain belongs to those fentanyl pushers and not to you, then notify the DEA where they’re hanging out.

“So, for everyone’s safety and well-being, let’s just go on pretending that this meeting is random, that you’re a neglected housewife who’s slumming in Auclair, Loooziana. You came in here trolling for an afternoon rodeo. I happened in, you looked me over, and figured I’d do.”

By the time he’d finished, she was seething, but she tried to appear as unfazed as possible. “Your back is to the bartender. How do you know what he’s doing?”

“He’s reflected in the blacked-out window behind your right shoulder. No, don’t turn to look. Trust me.” He picked up his glass and took a long drink, then barely smothered a burp.

She tamped down mounting irritation, which would get her nowhere with him. But she couldn’t resist saying, “I came here with an open mind, willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you actually are an arrogant prick, aren’t you?”

“Hey,” he said, looking affronted, “if you’re angling for a rodeo—”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Well, who invited who? For reasons still unknown, by the way.” His eyes skittered over her. “I do have the right woman, don’t I? If your name isn’t Beth Collins, then—”

“It is.”

“Whew. I was about to get embarrassed.” With no attempt to suppress a grin, he slouched against the back of the booth.

To hell with irritation getting her nowhere. She let it show. “You’re enjoying yourself?”

“A little, yeah.”

“I assure you that this isn’t fun and games.”

“No?” He shrugged. “Okay. When are we going to get around to why you wanted to talk to me? I’ll admit to being curious. Especially now that I’ve seen you.”

She didn’t dare rise to that bait. “You came here out of curiosity alone, then?”

“Honestly? No. I figured I owed you the courtesy of showing up because you pronounced my name right. Not Bow-ie like the rock star. Boo-ie like the knife.”

“Well, Mr. Bowie like the knife, in all seriousness, thank you for agreeing to see me without an explanation and on short notice. Let’s start over, shall we?” She paused. He gestured for her to continue. “The matter is important, and I’m on a deadline.”

He lost the smirk and studied her for a moment. The intensity with which she’d spoken seemed to have penetrated and captured his interest. At least he no longer looked like it was putting a strain on him not to laugh at her.

“All right, Ms. Collins, I’m here. I came at your request like I told you I would. What’s this about?”

She forced her shoulders to relax, mostly because the bartender, who was in her line of sight, was observing them as he polished a shot glass. She forced herself to smile at the disheveled man sitting across from her, then coyly lowered her eyes, as though flirting. Under her breath, she said, “Yesterday, did you tell anyone in the police department that you’d spoken to me?”

“No.”

“Or that we were meeting today?”

“No.”

“When you left the police station to come here—”

“It’s my day off. I came straight from home.” After a beat, “Straight from bed.”

She knew he’d added that to see how she would react, so she didn’t react at all. “Did you tell anyone you were meeting with me? Your wife?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh.” Her surprised reaction to that was involuntary. “You did.”

“Not anymore.” His brows drew together to form a deep cleft between them. “How the hell—”

“I was given some background information on you.”

“By who?”

Whom, she thought. But she didn’t correct him or give him a direct answer. “I also did some research of my own.”

His stare practically pinned her to the back of the booth. Without looking away, he reached for his drink and took a swallow. When he set down his glass, he said, “What are you up to? We’re a mediocre department in a modest city. And that’s a generous description. If you’ve got trouble, why call us?”

“You. I called you.”

“What makes me special?”

She dampened her lips and lowered her voice. “The case of that young woman who vanished in November of 2022.”

He clenched his jaw. His gray eyes turned flinty. He assumed the menacing aspect of a cobra about to strike.

Even though she’d anticipated hostility, his reaction was acute and intimidating and caused her to lose her footing. “Her name—”

“I know her name.”

She glanced at the bartender, who was still polishing that damn glass. When she came back to John Bowie, she spoke sweetly through a phony smile. “Our observer may not be able to hear what you’re saying, but he’ll pick up on your angry tone as well as your body language, which is less than convincing that you’re hoping for a hookup.”

He blinked as though to reboot the law officer in himself. “The playacting is important?”

“Yes. For now.”

Taking her at her word, he relaxed his posture and leaned forward again. “Then I’d better up my game.” He reached across the table, took her hand, and stroked the palm of it with his thumb. “How’s this? Better?”

She curbed the impulse to jerk her hand away from his, resisted the implication of the stroking, and denied the flutter it caused beneath her navel. Instead, she gave him a demure smile and reclaimed her hand with feigned reluctance.

He drained his Coke and shook a pebble-size ice cube into his mouth. He crunched it while watching her with mistrustful intensity. “What does the Crissy Mellin case have to do with you?”

“It became a national news story.”

He snorted with bitterness. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You were deeply involved in the investigation.”

“I already know that.”

“Your name was frequently mentioned in the news coverage.”

“Again, something I know.”

“But you declined to be interviewed.”

“Not for the bloodsuckers’ lack of trying.”

She hesitated and took a breath. “Although you were never on camera, you were referenced and often quoted. A snippet here, a phrase there, and it soon became obvious that you were dissatisfied with your department’s handling of the investigation.” She paused, then asked, “Was your outspokenness the reason your superior has wanted to fire you?”

“That’s one reason.”

“There’s another?”

“My dick is bigger than his, and that galls him something terrible. Not that we’ve ever actually compared them, but, you know.”

She kept her expression droll. “Ah, intentional vulgarity. Used in the hope that I’ll be offended, will snatch up my bespoke handbag, and storm out.”

“Don’t let me keep you, Ms. Collins.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bowie. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Brow still furrowed and stern, he leaned in farther and lowered his voice to a near growl. “I’m tired of this back-and-forth. Why did you invite me to this out-of-the-way, low-rent dive? In the middle of the afternoon. On my day off. Like I don’t have anything better to do than reminisce about something I’d rather eradicate from memory?”

His eyes narrowed and took a leisurely visual tour of her. When their eyes reconnected, he gave her a lazy smile. “Unless you really are hankering for a rodeo. Maybe with a man who has handcuffs, a badge, and a pistol? Is that it? That’s a big turn-on for some women. You’d be surprised by how many.”

“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised.”

“Then if that’s the case,” he drawled, “let’s move it along.”

Her cheeks went hot. She bit back an angry retort, reached for her glass, and took a sip from the straw. She returned the glass to the table with a thump. “I called because Crisis Point, the true crime network show for which I work as a producer, is soon to air an episode covering the Crissy Mellin case.”

His eyes took on that fearsome glint again as he hissed, “Son of a bitch. When the crew was down here filming, it created a big stir. But it’s been a while back. I hoped it had been deep-sixed.”

“No.”

“And you’re one of them?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Bye-bye.”

Before he could scoot to the edge of the booth, her hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, anchoring it to the tabletop. “You were the only key player on that case who refused to cooperate with our production team. You took no one’s call, and when someone did get through, you hung up on them the moment they identified themselves.

“You were unshakable against our senior host, renowned for his persistence and powers of persuasion. You wouldn’t grant him an interview or even a private conversation. He’s the one who told me that you were an arrogant prick.” Her heart was thumping. She took another breath. “I reached out in the desperate hope that you would talk to me.”

He looked down at her hand, which was clutching his arm just below the rolled cuff of his sleeve. “I don’t want to arm-wrestle you. Especially with an audience. Let go.”

“Hear me out.”

“Let. Go.”

“Please, Mr. Bowie. It would be a terrible mistake for you not to discuss—”

“My terrible mistake was being lured by an urgent and sexy female voice on the phone. Gotta hand it to you. You laid an enticing trap.”

“Give me two minutes.”

“Thanks again for the Coke.”

He moved to leave. She gripped his arm tighter. “Two minutes.”

A hard shake of his head. “I’m out of here.”

“Thirty seconds. Please. Thirty seconds and you won’t have wasted the trip out here.” When she sensed his hesitation, she squeezed his arm. “Half a minute. Please.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought on it, then said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She exhaled and whispered, “It’s going to happen again.”



Another?”

As the bartender came out from behind the bar and made his way over to them, John had seen his reflection in the blackened window. But Beth Collins, entirely caught up in their conversation, seemed to have been unaware of his approach until he spoke, and then she flinched.

John leaned away from her, smiled up at the bartender, and reached for the fresh drink. “Thanks, man. How’d you guess?”

“Well, from the look of things, one wasn’t gettin’ it done.” A chuckle rumbled from his barrel chest. “What about you, sweetheart? Something stronger this round?”

She tensed in reaction to being addressed as “sweetheart” but responded with a smile and a cool, “No thank you.” Like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“In fact…” She opened her pricey purse and took out a twenty-dollar bill, as though she’d planned to have it at the ready rather than pay with a credit card. “This should cover our drinks. Keep the change.”

“’ppreciate it.” The bartender took the bill from her, and, as he lumbered away, socked John on the shoulder, saying under his breath, “Good luck, buddy.”

When he was out of earshot, she asked, “Do you think he’ll remember me?”

Was she kidding? If she’d been wearing a diamond tiara in place of the baseball cap, she couldn’t have looked more conspicuous in this setting. Despite the cap and plain white t-shirt, everything about her screamed class.

True, he’d only seen her from the waist up, but the t-shirt was made of stretchy stuff, and if the bottom half of her came even close to being as shapely as the top, he was thinking that an hour or two rodeo in a hasty-tasty motel wouldn’t be a bad way to play out the rest of the afternoon.

So long as they didn’t converse.

In answer to her question, he said, “Yeah, I think he’ll remember you. Why is that a problem? Does it throw a wrench into your sabotage scheme?”

“It’s not a scheme.”

He gave her a look.

She set both hands flat on the table and leaned across it. “Didn’t you understand what I said?”

“I understood perfectly. I also understand that this was an ambush. I hate myself for falling for it, but now I’m leaving.”

He glanced behind him toward the four at the billiard table and saw right through their seeming disregard of them. Of her in particular. He muttered a curse under his breath and sighed as he came back around. “Tuck that damn purse under your arm. Tight. Don’t make eye contact. Got it? Not with anybody. And don’t even think of arguing with me about this.”

He scooted out of the booth, reached down and took her by the elbow, and, when she was standing, steered her toward the exit. The bartender sent him a wink and a thumbs-up.

As they walked past the grungy group, the mustachioed one with the attitude and a matchstick in his mouth flipped him the bird. John ignored it, pulled open the heavy door, and guided the woman outside.

Rain clouds were gathering, so, although the temperature was seasonally cool, the atmosphere was damp with the promise of precipitation.

She worked her elbow free of his grasp and pointed toward a black sedan. “Figured,” he said.

Besides his SUV and the sedan, the only other vehicle on the gravel lot was a pickup truck with a bashed-in grill and two bullet holes in its rusty rear fender. He walked Beth Collins over to the sedan.

After she unlocked it with a fob, he reached around and opened the driver’s door for her. “Nice wheels. All the extra options.”

“I don’t know what half of them are for. It’s a rental I picked up at the airport.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“You flew in from New York?” That was an easy deduction. The show she worked for broadcast from there.

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound like New York.”

“I grew up in this area. Straight out of LSU I moved up there.”

“Where you trained to trick people into clandestine meetings. Or did you need training for that? Did the television network teach you how to do it effectively, or did it come naturally to you?”

Looking perturbed, she turned her head aside to watch an eighteen-wheeler on the highway blow past. Coming back to him, she said, “Mr. Bowie—or should I call you Detective Bowie?”

“How about John?”

Without calling him anything, she said, “I came down here specifically to talk to you.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Because I’m not talking. Tell your slick host that calling me an arrogant prick gives pricks a bad name. Tell your bosses that I was rude, lewd, misogynistic. Tack on whatever unflattering adjectives you want. I don’t give a damn about their opinion of me. In fact, the lower it is, the better I like it.”

To her credit, she kept her cool. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to hear why I think that what happened to Crissy Mellin will happen again, that there’ll be another victim?”

“Of course it’ll happen. A hundred times. A thousand times. Regrettable. Sad. Tragic. Violence against women is a malignancy eating away at the fabric of most so-called civilized cultures. But those crimes will be somebody else’s problem. Not mine.”

“But it will be your problem. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

If the bartender hadn’t interrupted, he might have asked her to elaborate, or at least asked, What the hell? But he’d lost the opportunity, and he was now glad he had, because he wasn’t stupid.

He’d spent the past three and a half years since the Mellin case walking a razor’s edge, trying to avoid embroilment of any kind. If he gave an ounce of credence to what Beth Collins had said and pursued it by even one baby step, it could easily tip the scales of the balancing act he had going with Thomas P. Barker, his boss and nemesis. Their antagonistic relationship was none of her business, and filling her in on it could stimulate further conversation, which he would avoid as fervently as he would avoid leprosy. But despite what he’d said about his disregard for the opinion of others, he didn’t want her to leave remembering John Bowie as a complete and utter asshole.

He shifted his weight, crunching the gravel beneath his boots. “Listen, Ms. Collins—”

Rather than listen, she interrupted. “The upcoming episode establishes that Crissy Mellin’s abductor is dead.”

“He fucking is. I cut his body down.”

“What if that young man wasn’t the culprit?”

“Oh. I see where you’re going. We got the wrong guy.” He scoffed. “The one we found hanging in his jail cell.”

“Yes, that one.”

“And the real bogeyman is still out there?”

“It’s possible.”

“Uh-huh.”

Agitated, she said, “How can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be so blasé. I just told you something that should rattle you. You’ve dismissed it out of hand. Like this isn’t extraordinary. Like it happens to you on a daily basis.”

“It does. We and every law enforcement agency in the world get dozens of crank calls every day. Crazies call with conspiracy theories or to report—”

“Never mind.” She turned her back to him and climbed into the car. “I began with you because you were quoted in one article as saying that the investigation was handled ‘hastily.’ Apparently, during the years since, you’ve had a change of heart. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She reached out to pull the door closed.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Knowing that he would probably kick himself later for what he was about to do, he grabbed the door above the window and held on. They played tug-of-war with it. He outlasted her and continued to hold the door open while she glared up at him from the driver’s seat.

She placed the heel of her hand over the horn icon on the steering wheel. “Let go of the door or I’ll lay down on this.”

He hitched his head toward the building behind him. “The scumbags come to your rescue, and after they vanquish me, what then? You’re left alone with them to have their wicked way with you? I don’t think so.”

She expelled a breath. “Please let go.”

“Why the subterfuge?” Asked out of context, the question got her attention. She stopped trying to close the door.

“What?”

“When you called yesterday, why didn’t you tell me straight off you were from that show?”

“You would have hung up on me.”

Correct answer. But as she’d said it, her gaze had shifted from looking directly at him to the third snap of his shirt. He spotted a lie. At least a half lie. “And?”

She didn’t say anything.

He lowered his pitch and volume. “And?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. Her shoulders slumped, her head dropped forward. The baseball cap fell off, and handfuls of streaky blond hair tumbled down around her head. With irritation, she tossed the cap onto the passenger seat and raked her hair back off her face using all ten fingers.

“I’m not representing the network or the show,” she said. “I came of my own accord and at my own expense.” She gave a soft laugh of chagrin as she looked up at him. “Please forgive me for wasting your time. Enjoy what’s left of your day off.” She tugged on the car door again.

He was about to release it, walk away, go home, turn on ESPN, crack a beer, and do exactly as she had suggested: enjoy what was left of his day off.

But in a split second of remarkably messed-up judgment, he changed his mind and held on to the door. “What makes you think he’s out there waiting to strike again?”

Now looking him straight in the eye, she said, “The blood moon.”

She held his gaze for a beat or two, then succeeded in pulling the door shut.

Mystified and annoyed, John watched her back the sedan out and jounce over the rutted parking lot to the two-lane highway. Several vehicles went past before she was able to turn left into the eastbound lane. While she’d waited for a clearing, he’d been able to get to his phone and take a picture of the rear license plate.

His impulse was to follow her. Common sense blared, Have you lost your freakin’ mind?

He watched until her car disappeared around a bend, then walked slowly over to his SUV. He opened the driver’s door but remained standing in the wedge, taking a moment to process everything that had happened since he’d walked into the bar.

No, even before that. Yesterday’s phone conversation with her had felt covert from the start, like she needed to speak in a half whisper, like she had something to hide. Or was… apprehensive. Scared? Guilty? Hell if he knew. But he’d wondered.

It had nagged him enough that he’d kept their appointment this afternoon. He’d arrived at this most unlikely of places curious, but also with a jaundiced eye. For the first five minutes, he had been amused, just as she’d called him on.

But now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that even if she was wrong, she believed it: “It’s going to happen again.”

Irritably, he swatted at mosquitoes that dared to light on him when he was this pissed off. First of all, he was angry at her for the intrusion. He didn’t need anything upsetting the rickety apple cart that was his present and future life.

Then he was mad at himself for being such a chump, driving all the way out here to meet the woman with the sexy phone voice and now standing here trying to keep mosquitoes from sucking him dry, mulling over her certainty that all was not right with how the Crissy Mellin case had been resolved.

He’d wanted like hell to accept the official sign-off of that investigation. He’d wanted to embrace it, then bury it deep, expunge it from his mind, rule it forever over and done with. Finis.

More than three years’ distance from it, he’d been this close to coming to terms with it. Now… her. Her of the just-got-laid hair. She’d refreshed his memory, resurrected doubts, awakened an obsession that had the potential to wreck every aspect of his life all over again, turning lousy into lousier.

No way in hell, lady. No matter how delectable your lips.

All the while his anger had been mounting toward Beth Collins, he’d been staring hard at the entrance to the beer joint. “Screw it,” he said, and underscored that by slamming the door of his SUV. He stalked over to the padded door, pulled it open, and went inside.

The barkeeper looked up from his magazine and gave him a lupine smile. “Struck out, huh?”

Without replying or breaking stride, John wal