CHAPTER ONE
Asympathetic chill raced up Daphne Parks’s arms and down her chest as a gust of wind collided with the triple-paned windows at her side. Hoping the warmth of the cozy fire burning in a cast-iron stove behind her could persuade the goose bumps to recede, she leaned against the short back of the booth.
Through her sweater, the comforting heat pricked her skin, reminding her of the hot stone massages she’d booked for her and her sister, Callie, next week. She was already looking forward to it. Daphne was, that is. Callie would love it, too, but her younger-by-two-years sister had been living in places with cold winters for years. Presumably, she was used to it. Daphne, on the other hand—well, she lived in Paris where it rarely snowed. Not that she stuck around even when it did. As soon as the temperatures dropped into the thirties, she decamped and headed south, usually to Spain or southern Italy.
Despite this cagey relationship with winter, though, she still appreciated the beauty of Mystery Lake, California. The dramatic mountains, the agate lake, the charming historic town. Yes, Callie had landed somewhere special. That she and the boy—now man—she’d always loved had married was an addedbonus. Her happiness made Daphne happy, and Callie had never been happier.
Smiling at the thought of her sister and brother-in-law, she picked up her latte, curling her hands around the mug as the steam carried comforting scents to her nose. Neither Gabriel nor Callie was expecting her until the day after tomorrow, and both were out of town. Gabe up in Seattle delivering a car he and his brothers had restored. Callie at an undisclosed location, wrapping up a case. But bored with the gray skies of Paris and feeling the need to be physically closer to her sister, Daphne had booked a short-term rental and a first-class flight to LA. There were worse things than exploring Callie’s new home on her own for a few days.
Two men entered the diner, stomping the snow onto the mat at the door before stepping fully inside. Her gaze drifted over them, cataloging details, a habit of most writers. The one who entered first was a tall white man with dark eyes, a sharp nose of unfortunate size, and eyebrows that could use some plucking. He wore a hat, but she imagined his hair was on the darker end of the brown scale. Not bad-looking, but not particularly interesting either. He’d make a good tertiary character in one of her books.
The second arrival was a Black man. Two inches shorter than his companion, he clocked in at five foot eleven. He, too, wore a hat, but she suspected he was bald underneath, and his lean frame seemed at odds with his full, round face.
Both wore thick jackets and gloves. Local or not, their gear said they were familiar with cold and snowy conditions.
Getting caught staring at strangers was a hazard of being a writer, and she dropped her gaze to her notebook as the men headed her direction. Even with her head down, she couldn’t help tracking their progress across the diner, each footstep giving something away. The Black man walked with a limp,nothing pronounced, but a slight adjustment every time he put weight on his left foot. His leg moved smoothly, making her think the problem was in the foot rather than the limb.
The white man moved purposefully, as if marching to some order, his feet striking the ground with an aggressive precision. She’d wager former military of some sort. A man who held grudges. Against whom or for what, well, her imagination would fill in that blank later.
“Can I get you another?”
Daphne looked up at the waitress. Two dark braids hung over her shoulders, a nose ring glittered under the lights, the edges of a tattoo peeked out from beneath her rolled-up sleeves, and a pair of the bluest eyes Daphne had ever seen awaited her response.
“No, thank you,” Daphne replied. “I’ll finish this, then head out. Thank you, Kristen.”
Kristen’s eyes widened in surprise at the use of her name, then she smiled. She’d introduced herself when she brought the menu, but Daphne figured most patrons probably didn’t bother remembering.
“Any time. I hope you enjoyed it?” Kristen said, gathering Daphne’s plate that had, thirty minutes earlier, been filled with pancakes.
“Those are to die for,” she answered 100 percent honestly. “I’m only sad I didn’t find you the first day I arrived.”
A fond look crossed Kristen’s face. “They’re my grandmother’s recipe. I’m glad you like them. I’ll bring your check, but no rush. Enjoy your latte.”
Daphne thanked her again, then took a sip of her drink, her gaze drifting to the window. The diligent public works teams kept the streets and sidewalks clear of snow, but a pristine layer blanketed the roofs of the local businesses, giving them the look of iced gingerbread houses.Sparklingiced gingerbread houses,she amended, as a gust of wind sent a slew of icy flakes dancing, glittering, into the air.
The benches behind her creaked and scraped as the two men claimed the booth on the other side of the wood-burning stove. With only three other people in the diner—two at the counter and one hunched over a computer at a table—the sounds echoed across the space.
As they ordered coffee, Daphne contemplated her plan for the day. She’d already spent an afternoon exploring the town, poking into the locally owned shops and making a few purchases. Shecouldski. She was even decent at it. But the thought of bundling up and hitting the slopes held no appeal. Maybe she should visit the Presidential Library? No, not that either. Not out of lack of interest, but the fiancée of one of Gabe’s brothers worked there. Daphne didn’t want to meet anyone associated with the Falcon’s Rest motorcycle club—Gabe’s family—before seeing her sister. Callie wouldn’t care, but it felt wrong to Daphne.
Rotating her wrist, she glanced at her watch. Solidly late morning. The early lunch crew would start trickling into the diner soon. If the café she ate at yesterday was anything to go by, the crowd would be a mix of older people who had time for a leisurely lunch and young families up for a ski holiday.
She took the last sip of her latte, mentally preparing to bundle herself up for the trip outside. As a former model, changing into and out of clothes was second nature, but anticipating the sting of cold that would hit her face slowed her down. A balaclava would fix the problem, but she didn’t want to deal with the stares and wary looks. Being Black in a ski resort town was unusual enough.
A flash of red caught her attention as she reached for her scarf, and her gaze went back to the window. Half a block away, a man jogged casually down the street, the color ofhis eye-catching lightweight jacket a whimsical juxtaposition to the snow-covered roofs and the dark browns of the buildings. Although to give credit where credit was due, she’d call it a run rather than a jog. Despite the people ambling down the sidewalk slowing him down, she’d put him at about a six-minute-mile pace. Impressive.
So were his thighs. And his chest.
And his height. As a tall woman, she appreciated tall men. She’d dated men shorter than her many times. Even had a yearlong relationship with one in her late twenties. But shallow as it may be, she liked being with men who made her feel petite and fierce and feminine—not an easy feat when she stood at just under six feet.
His dark eyes remained fixed in front of him, almost meditatively, as he approached, the way people did when listening to music while exercising. Idly, she wondered what he had on his playlist.
“There he is. Right on schedule.”
Years of walking the runway kept her from reacting physically to the comment, but her ears perked up. The words, gravelly and low, made it hard to distinguish which of the two men sitting behind her spoke, but either way, she didn’t like the ominous pitch. Or the implication that they’d been following this man long enough to memorize his schedule. She’d had enough stalkers in her life to know nothing good came of that.
Leaning back a few inches, she canted her head to hear better as her eyes fixed on the man moving toward her window, his strides fluid and light for such a big man.
“She wants it done today,” the other man said. She needed to chase the runner down and warn him. Of what specifically, she didn’t know. But whatever those two were planning, it wasn’t a birthday party.
