Hour of the Lion, Cherise Sinclair [good story books to read TXT] 📗

expected her to wave his gesture away or name a monetary amount. But employment? He was trapped in a net of his own making. 'Let me think.'

She nodded and sipped her water peacefully, the least anxious job applicant he‘d ever seen.

He studied her for a minute, taking in the diminutive body—maybe five-four—trim, but shapely with especially fine breasts. Big eyes, long hair that made a man want to tangle his fingers in it, full lips...a lethal little package, in more ways than the trucker had discovered.

He opened a bottle of water for himself, buying time. Two problems arose. The first—the door to the forest tunnels was in the hallway. Would she notice shifters using it? Probably not.

She‘d spend most of her time in the main room, and the hall also held the restrooms and back exit so there was a reason for people being in that area.

Secondly, how would his shifter customers react to a human employee?

A handful of shifters—especially the older ones—hated humans. Unfortunately for them, unless they wanted to live completely isolated or in Elder Village without amenities, they had to rub shoulders with humans. He looked across the room to where Tom and Pedro were playing pool. They would be no problem. In fact, most of the Daonain wouldn‘t care what species the waitress was so long as the drinks arrived in an expeditious manner. They might even be pleased since he‘d been short-handed since Tiffany had returned to college last month.

For the human haters… It helped she was female. With the scarcity of female Daonain, women were revered, and that regard would likely be extended to this human.

'Miss Waverly,' he said, drawing her attention. 'I don‘t have any need for kitchen help.

However, although I already have a waitress, I could use a part-timer.' He hesitated and cautioned, 'The bar can occasionally get rather rough. Perhaps—'

'It sounds perfect.' She toasted him with her bottle. 'Waitress and bouncer combined in one.'

His jaw dropped. 'You do not understand. That was a warning.'

She tilted her head, and her lips quirked.

He brought to mind the efficient way she‘d dealt with the trucker. No noise during the altercation, no hysterics after. 'Indeed, what was I thinking? Your hours would be seven to eleven on Tuesday and Wednesday, four to two-thirty on Friday and Saturday. I pay standard wages; you keep all your tips.'

She held out her hand. 'Works for me.'

He took her hand, feeling the calluses on the delicate fingers. She was no stranger to work…or to fighting. 'Where did you learn to fight like that?'

'I studied martial arts for a while.'

'Apparently you were an excellent student. Yes, I believe we have an accord. You may start Friday.'

'Great. Now that‘s out of the way—is there any chance I can borrow a book?'

*

What an excellent day—some fun beat-up-the-bad-guy exercise, a new job, a good book.

With a wiggle of content, Vic settled herself in the comfortable swing on her front porch and picked up her paperback. A Clancy. Amazing how much the author knew, considering he‘d never done covert ops. Maybe she should take notes.

She put her good leg up on the railing with a grunt of pain and sat back carefully. Her ribs were fine until she moved, then it felt as if someone was shoving a buck knife into her side.

Oh, well. She had coffee steaming on the adjacent small table, a book, a comfy swing, and the sun was warm on her legs. The scent of damp grass mingled with a cool piney breeze off the looming mountain, and she didn‘t start work until tomorrow. Aside from the fact she had a battered body, had lied to her boss, still had to tell some old guy his grandkid was dead, and needed to investigate weird beastie things that looked the same as normal people, life was perfect.

Taking a sip of coffee, she swirled it in her mouth and hummed in pleasure. Coffee and chocolate—the inventor of mocha should be sainted.

As she tipped the cup up, movement in the big oak tree caught her attention, and she tensed, then relaxed. Not a sniper—branches weren‘t thick enough—but what was it? No flutter of wings, no bushy tail. Maybe a cat?

Keeping a wary eye on the tree, she set the swing to gently rocking and dropped the book into her lap. Despite all her preparation, she couldn‘t concentrate on reading. Too much hung over her head.

Could Lachlan‘s remains have been returned to his family? The local police and ambulance crews had been on-site, so she doubted Swane could spirit Lachlan‘s body away. The coffee turned bitter on her tongue as guilt slashed through her. You don"t abandon your teammates, dammit.

But she wasn‘t a Marine now. In black ops, there were no teammates.

Concentrate on finding Lachlan‘s grandfather. Surely the people here would talk about the kid, whether they thought he was missing or knew he was dead. So just listening might work, even if it took longer.

And what better place for gossip than a bar? She grinned. That had been righteous good luck, being in the right spot to play hero and score a job. It had been good luck for the little girl as well. Vic‘s gut tightened at how the trucker had swung at Jamie. I should have drop-kicked his balls over the nearest truck. Then again, his face had met the pavement hard enough to turn it into hamburger. That would have to do.

Forcing the tension out of her muscles, she tilted her head back. The puffy white clouds above were piling up against the mountains and growing darker. Probably would storm tonight.

Did werecats run around in the rain?

She sure didn‘t know. How the hell am I going to do this? Okay, she could track mountain lions in the woods, but when she found one, how could she tell if it was a shifter or a real cat?

She touched her still-tender shoulder and grimaced. Considering she‘d discovered, up close and personal, just how friendly mountain lions were when pissed