Cassie Miles - Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride

Shane wasn’t a gourmet, but he’d heard of Cordon Bleu. “How come I didn’t know you had such a fancy background? And how did you wind up in London?”

“When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time overseas. My dad was stationed in Germany.”

He’d known that. “And your father passed away when you were just a kid.”

“Not much older than Benjy,” she said. “I barely remember him. My mom struggled for a couple of years before she remarried, and she worked in restaurants. That’s where I got my love of flavor and texture.” A tiny, nostalgic smile touched her mouth, and he was glad to see her calming down. “She died when I was a senior in high school. I had the choice of college or Cordon Bleu, and I wanted to cook.”

“You were looking for something,” he said.

“A taste.” Her finger traced her lower lip. “You know what it’s like when you bite into something really good? It’s pure joy. I love seeing other people experience that sensation when they’re eating something I created. Their eyes close. And they hum. Mmm.”

He liked seeing her with a smile on her face, but he couldn’t ignore the threats. “We’re way off track.”

“I know. And I’d rather not think about any of this. All I want is to get through the next couple of days.”

“Whoever slashed your wedding gown is sending you a message, and it’s not a love note. I hate to say this, Angela, but you’re in danger.”

She turned away from him, stared across the alley at a six-foot-tall redwood fence. Her slender arms wrapped protectively around her midsection as though she were physically holding herself together. “What if it was me?”

He didn’t understand what she was saying. “Explain.”

“I might have imagined the intruder last night. There’s really no proof that anyone was outside the house.”

Earlier this morning, he’d inspected the ground outside the windows and found no footprints. The only possible bit of evidence was that the screen on Benjy’s window was missing a couple of screws.

“What about the dress?” he said. “I’d call that proof.”

“Not if I did it myself.” Though the morning was warm, she shivered. “I’ve been an emotional basket case lately, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”

“Something to do with getting married,” he said.

When she looked at him, he saw a painful vulnerability in her eyes. Her mouth quivered. “I’m scared, Shane.”

“It’s okay.” He pulled her close, offering his shoulder to cry on. “Talk to me.”

“Being married to Tom was the best thing that ever happened to me, but it was a bumpy road. Right from the start.”

Shane knew his cousin’s flaws better than anyone. After his first tour of duty, Tom had a pretty serious case of posttraumatic stress disorder. And he was a recovering alcoholic. Before he and Angela got married, he quit drinking. She’d been good for him, helped him straighten out. “Tom wasn’t perfect. Nobody is.”

“This isn’t about Tom. It’s about me.” Her body tensed. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be married.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re a warm, loving woman. Look at what a great job you’ve done with Benjy.”

Without thinking, he dipped his head and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Her hair smelled of lilacs. When she smiled up at him, the gray-green of her eyes seemed as deep as a mountain glen. Holding her felt so damn good; he didn’t want to let her go. But Angela wasn’t his woman. She was about to be married to another man.

“Thanks, Shane. You always know what to say.”

He stepped away from her. “Let me do my job as an almost former deputy and investigate. I want to figure out who messed up your dress, and I’m starting here. At Waffles. Take me inside, and show me where you keep your knives.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you promise not to interrogate anybody?”

“Not unless they come at me with a loaded gun.”

He strode to the rear door of the restaurant and pulled it open. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen flowed around him in a wave of breakfast aromas—bacon, coffee and freshly baked muffins. The back door opened into a hallway between the walk-in refrigeration unit and the office, which was their first stop. The office space had two small desks— one for Angela and one for Yvonne Brighton, her partner. Two tall, metal file cabinets stood beside two lockers.

Angela opened the locker nearest the door.

“You don’t keep anything locked,” he said.

“Sometimes I do. At the end of the day.”

She removed a black cutlery bag from the lower shelf. When she opened it on the desk, he could see the empty slot where the boning knife should have fit with the rest of the set. Angela touched the space and looked up at him. “Now we know for sure. It’s my knife.”

It would have been simple for someone to slip inside the office and steal her knife. The friendly atmosphere of Old South Clarkson Street made for lousy investigating. “I might be able to get fingerprints off the handle.”

“Most people aren’t that dumb,” she said. “We keep a stock of throwaway gloves in the kitchen.”

Though he nodded in agreement, he figured he could stop by the PRESS offices later if he wanted to check for fingerprints. They had a forensics department and computer access that rivaled that of the Denver PD.

Angela’s partner popped into the office. Yvonne Brighton was a tall, big-boned woman who did a killer Julia Child impersonation. A lopsided navy-blue chef hat covered most of her curly brown hair. She gave them a toothy grin. “I thought I heard someone back here.”

She charged at Shane and enveloped him in a giant bear hug which he happily reciprocated. He liked Yvonne. She was funny and smart—too smart to put anything over on. Before she stepped away from him, she patted his shoulder holster and said, “Expecting trouble?”

“Shane has a new job.” Angela rushed to explain. “He’s working for a bodyguard company.”

His new employer was far more complex, but he didn’t correct her. “I’m moving to Denver.”

“Terrific!” Yvonne wiggled her eyebrows. “Or should I say très magnifique! Angela and I have somebody you really need to meet.”

“The French woman.” He gritted his teeth. What was it about a single man that turned women into matchmakers?

“Marie Devereaux. Very pretty. And an excellent baker. She’s doing the wedding cake, which means it’ll be beautiful and taste good, too. You’ll like her.”

“If you say so.”

“I most certainly do.”

Yvonne wasn’t shy about giving orders. When it came to managing the restaurant, she and Angela complemented each other perfectly. Angela provided the empathetic voice of reason, and Yvonne made sure things got done.

She sat in the swivel chair behind her desk. To Angela, she said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a break. Could you take care of the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I chat with the mountain man?”

“No problem.” Angela grabbed her knives and went toward the office door. “I feel guilty about not being here more often this week.”

When she left the office, Shane positioned himself in the doorway so he could keep an eye on her. Despite the cozy atmosphere of Waffles, he hadn’t forgotten the danger.

“We need to talk.” When Yvonne pulled off her chef’s hat and ruffled her hair, he noticed a few more strands of gray. He didn’t know Yvonne’s age, but she had two grown daughters. She exhaled a sigh. “I’m worried about Angela.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s been dragging in here like she’s half-dead. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair hanging limp. I’ve seen her hands trembling. And she must have lost ten pounds in the last two weeks.” Yvonne scowled. “It reminds me of how she fell apart after Tom’s death.”