Jennifer Greene - Arizona Heat

“Why, sure. When I couldn’t get ahold of Case and started worrying he was missing, the first places I called were the hospitals—and then the law. Sheriff Simons and I are old phone pals. I called him at least a half dozen times from Minnesota.”

“And?”

“And...he was real sweet and real kind, but all those long-distance calls got me nowhere.” Kansas climbed into the passenger side of the Explorer and strapped herself in.

His Explorer was used to smelling like hay and vet medicines and a whole host of other natural, earthy smells. But his truck, for sure, had never been exposed to a blast of exuberantly sexy French perfume. Something about that audacious scent—or her—was developing a dangerous habit of arousing his hormones. But Pax consoled himself that at least she’d made no reference to the kiss the night before. Apparently they were both going to play this nice and comfortable and pretend it never happened—which was totally okay by him.

“The sheriff went so far as to drive out to Case’s place,” Kansas continued. “But when he didn’t find any sign of breaking in or a problem, he said that was the best he could do. There was no reason to think my brother was really missing. Case had a habit of taking off on any whim, and apparently everyone around here knew it. Unless I come up with some reason or proof that Case is in trouble, the sheriff just said he had no legal basis to do anything.”

“I told you the same thing yesterday,” Pax reminded her.

“Yeah, I know you did.” Blue eyes skimmed his face, then zipped away. “That’s exactly why I’m grateful that you believed me.”

“I don’t necessarily believe that your brother is in trouble,” he said, correcting her.

“He is.” Her voice had turned quiet. “And you must believe me to some extent, or you wouldn’t be here.”

That wasn’t precisely true. Pax checked the rearview mirror and backed out of the driveway. “Al loco y al aire, darles calle,” he murmured under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“It’s a common Spanish saying around here. Clear the way for madmen and the wind.” Pax didn’t mention that men usually pounced on that Southwestern proverb in reference to the insanity of arguing with a stubborn woman. If he hadn’t been afraid Kansas would take off on her own—and potentially risk running into trouble—he wouldn’t be here.

“Madmen...?” she repeated curiously.

“It’s nothing. Just a thought that crossed my mind.” He switched subjects quickly. “There’s a place at the far end of Sierra Vista. Just a bookstore, with a kind of deli and coffee shop attached. Doesn’t sound like anything, but somehow the kids have made it into a hangout spot. I know Case used to spend a lot of time there.”

“Great.”

Pax couldn’t swear that it would be “great”—or that Kansas would gain any helpful leads there about her brother. But it seemed a relatively safe place to start. His mind zipped back to the image of the datura plants at her place. It wasn’t a good omen, those plants. “Tell me about your brother,” Pax suggested.

“Tell you about Case? What do you want to know?” Adobe buildings with red-tiled roofs flashed by. The landscape was dominated by signs in Spanish and native cactus lying dusty in the sun. She kept looking out the window as if the view were as alien as a visit to the moon.

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