The driver’s door was shoved open, and a pissed-off young man scrambled out. He stalked to the front door and hammered on it with a clenched fist.
“Conroy,” he yelled. “You worthless old bastard. What the fuck did you do?”
When no one answered, he stepped to the side and peered in through the window, hand cupped against the glass. Whatever he saw—or didn’t see—made him swear and kick the side of the house.
“He’s not there,” Ledger said as he stepped out into view.
The stranger jumped at Ledger’s voice and swung around to glare at him. He was almost ridiculously handsome, with scruffy brown hair and a square, strong-boned face. His eyes narrowed briefly, and then he visibly took a moment to adjust his manner. The anger was shoved back down until it was just a hard glint behind dark eyes, and he curled his mouth in an easy grin. Despite the fact that Ledger had seen it done better, he still felt the urge to relax into the charm. He resisted it.
If nothing else, his new visitor was way—well, a bit—too young for Ledger.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. He came down the steps and stopped on the last one. That made him about half an inch taller than Ledger. “Inside joke. You’re…?”
“Busy,” Ledger said. “And like I said, Bell’s not here.”
He turned and headed for the car. If Bell’s angry caller, whoever he was, wanted to continue the conversation, he could do it while admitting he was shorter than Ledger. The lights on the rental flashed as Ledger thumbed the fob. He stuffed the keys back in his pocket and hitched the box up as he reached out to unlatch the trunk.
“Let me.” The man stepped past Ledger to pop the latch, pushing it open with one arm and then holding it up as if it needed the brace. Or he didn’t want to let Ledger slam it closed again.
Ledger hesitated but then leaned in to dump the box in the back with the rest. He could smell the temper-warmed cologne on the man’s skin, a musky whiskey scent over good leather. Or, Ledger reminded the part of him that wanted to fall for the act, the man could just be a day drinker.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” the man said as Ledger straightened back up. He stuck his free hand out and let it hang there expectantly. “Wren Bones.”
That knocked Ledger off course. He pressed hold on the withering retort he’d been about to make and raised his eyebrows.
“Really?”
The man grinned and ducked his head. He gave up on the handshake and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.
“I get that a lot,” he said. “But, yeah. Handed to me at birth.”
Despite Ledger’s best intentions of staying uncharmed, his mouth had gone dry, and he could feel the flush spreading up his throat. There was a stack of report cards in the house—assuming Bell hadn’t burned them—that described him as “clever, but makes bad decisions.” He might have gotten older, but that hadn’t changed much.
Except that a one-night stand with a bad boy in leather was a bad decision, one he’d made before and would again. This was different. Ledger would need a thesaurus to find a word for how disastrous it would be to listen to anything from someone dumb enough, or bad enough, to do business with Bell Conroy.
“OK,” Ledger said. He turned around and leaned back against the car, the curve of the bumper warm against his thighs. “You can put a pin in the charm offensive, Mr. Bones.”
“Call me Bird. Everyone does.”
Bird Bones? Ledger couldn’t resist the automatic once-over from broad shoulders down to heavily-muscled thighs under taut, strategically-faded denim. He couldn’t see it. When he dragged his eye level back up to Wren’s face, he caught the smug smirk before it was tucked away.
“No,” he said. “Whatever your business with Bell, you’re about two weeks too late.”
That was how long the officer who contacted Ledger had said that Bell had been lying there dead, anyhow. Another reason Ledger wasn’t looking forward to the clear-out on the second floor.
Wren stared at Ledger for a second, as if that would help him judge Ledger’s truthfulness. Then he grimaced and stepped back from the car.
“You’re sure?” he said.
Ledger shrugged. “As far as me and the coroner go, sure,” he said. “So, if you want anything from him? Go to Hell. That’s the last forwarding address I have for him.”
Wren stared at Ledger. His jaw was clenched so tight that Ledger could feel a tension headache forming in sympathy. The whole “put a pin” in the charm offensive thing apparently meant that Wren’s temper got free rein instead.
“Fuck,” Wren spat out. He turned, hands clenched into fists, and stalked away. Then back. His shoulders were hunched up toward his ears, and he was still cursing under his breath. “Son-of-a-cheating-bitch. Goddamnit. What the fuck…”
He stopped suddenly, right in front of Ledger’s car. His chest rose and fell as he breathed raggedly, and then he punched the driver’s side window.
Ledger flinched and jumped up off his perch.
