CHAPTER ONE
“Western omelette, side of bacon, coffee,” Mark Kincaid said without looking up from his morning paper. He hadn’t slept the night before and he felt like roadkill. Of course he hadn’tbeensleeping since the shooting, so he should stop being surprised by the fact. Maybe one day he would get used to staring up at the ceiling for hours on end, tryingnotto relive the events that had nearly killed him.
“I don’t think so.”
At first he thought he’d imagined the soft voice, that the words were an editorial on his belief he might get used to not sleeping. Then he realized they’d come from the petite blonde standing next to his table.
He looked up at the waitress smiling at him. He didn’t smile in return. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. You can’t order that for breakfast. You get the same thing every day and it’s not healthy. Four eggs, ham, cheeseandbacon? It’s enough cholesterol to choke a horse.”
“Fortunately, I’m not a horse.”
Her smile widened. Humor danced in her eyes. “Good point, Detective. Okay, it’s enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a living human. How about some oatmeal? Studies have proven that regular consumption of oatmeal can actually lower cholesterol levels, sometimes significantly.”
Mark folded his paper and gave the waitress his full attention. She wore a white apron over a pale pink dress. Two butterfly clips held her short blond hair away from her face. She was pretty enough, he supposed, assuming a man was interested in that sort of thing. He was not.
He pushed his coffee cup closer to the edge of the table. She took the hint and filled it. He sipped the black liquid, nearly sighing when he felt it burn its way down his throat. Coffee improved his world view.
“Western omelette,” he said firmly. “Side of bacon.”
Her full lips pressed together. “How about a side of fruit, instead? It’s fresh.”
He stared at her, giving her the same look he’d used on the scum of the earth he’d encountered while he’d been a detective in New York. The waitress—Darcy her name tag read—should have run for cover. Instead she muttered something about some people being too stubborn for their own good and wrote on her pad.
“I have to tell you, I’m giving in against my better judgment,” she told him.
“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”
“Being right won’t help you if you’re dead.”
She sounded too damn cheerful by half.
“It’s a little early for such a philosophical discussion,” he said. “Why don’t you save it for the lunch crowd?”
She smiled. “Let me guess—you won’t be in for lunch today, right?”
He shrugged. Hedidhave plans elsewhere.
“I’ll put this right in,” she said, waving her pad, then turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.
Mark returned his attention to his paper, but the words didn’t make sense. Instead he found himself trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about Darcy the waitress. She was new in town. She’d shown up in the eight years he’d been gone. She was young, early twenties, attractive—not that he cared about that—and a born fusser. She bullied all her customers equally, touting the benefits of orange juice with its vitamin C, warning kids about cavities from sticky desserts and pushing salads instead of burgers. Everyone seemed to love the attention. Everyone but him.
Mark shook his head to clear it, then studied the paper in front of him. Gradually the room faded as he reviewed the scores from the previous day’s football games. Maybe this year the Dallas Cowboys were going to go all the way. Maybe—
A small plate appeared in front of him. Three slices of something strange lay nestled against each other.
He glanced at Darcy.
“Don’t bite my head off. It’s compliments of the house,” she said casually. “We’re considering switching suppliers for our baked goods. This is a sample of one of the new products. What do you think?”
The slices had come from a loaf of some kind. But the color was faintly…orange? “What is it?”
“Pumpkin bread.”
He pushed the plate away. “I don’t eat vegetables before noon.”
Darcy glared at him as if he’d just won first prize in a stupid contest. “There are green peppers in your omelette. Besides, pumpkins aren’t vegetables.”
