She wasn’t wearing a bra under her dress; in fact, he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. He was tired, but not that tired. “What else did he tell you?” he said, trying not to give away that she could probably get pretty much whatever she wanted from him.

Agnes sighed. “His name is Three Wheels Thibault, and his grandpa, Four Wheels, who used to work for the mob, sent him to get the dog. The kid last night, Two Wheels, was his cousin who always picked on him. He says he hurt his ankle when you dropped him in the basement and he was going to sue you but I talked him out of it. I think he’s bluffing.”

“What’s his favorite color?” Shane said.

“Blue,” Agnes said.

He shook his head. “You sure you’re okay?”

“No. People keep trying to kill me.”

“And I keep stopping them,” Shane said.

“And don’t think I’m not grateful,” Agnes said. “You’re getting a really nice breakfast tomorrow.”

“Make enough for Carpenter,” he said. Agnes blinked. “Really?”

“That a problem?”

“No,” Agnes said, her brow furrowing as she thought about it. “No. He seems like a good guy. I mean, his skill set is upsetting, but so is yours, and I’m for you. People are trying to kill me and you’re saving me, so I’m definitely for you.”

Shane nodded. “All right, then.”

“So come help me get the pillows,” Agnes said. “Do not shoot Three Wheels. Save yourself for Grandpa Four Wheels, who sent both boys.”

“I’m not going to shoot Three Wheels,” Shane said, exasperated. “What do you think I am?”

“A hitman,” Agnes said. Shane nodded. “Good call.”

Agnes wrapped her arms around herself. “You could have lied to me, you know.”

“I’m guessing that’s when you pick up the meat fork,” Shane said, and pointed her toward the bedroom.

“I’m giving up meat forks,” Agnes said, and she sounded as though she meant every word of it.

“We’ll see,” Shane said.


Half an hour later, Agnes lay curled into an insomniac fetal position on her back porch under a sheet, trying to take stock. The man she’d planned on marrying was not only married to another woman, he was trying to cheat her out of her house with the other woman, and she’d almost killed him in retaliation. The Southern-Italian wedding of the season that she’d planned with meticulous care was now going to be a flamingo-themed pink-fest. Two different men had shown up with guns and pointed them at her tonight, for reasons that appeared to involve her dog, and one of them had definitely intended to kill her. A man the size of a truck had just removed a body from her kitchen. An underage kid named after a tricycle was trapped in her basement, because the hitman she’d just had angry sex with wanted to talk to him in the morning. And her column still wasn’t done.

She was definitely turning over a new leaf. Her next fiancé was going to be a nice, steady, nice, regular nice guy, a non-lethal, non-lying nice guy. A good guy.

Agnes shifted on Shane’s air mattress. She was definitely not sleeping with the hitman again. That was just insane. The whole concept of “messy breakup” alone could-

“You sure you’re okay?” Shane said, half asleep beside her now.

“Yes,” Agnes said.

Which wasn’t a lie. She was exhausted, but she wasn’t angry or frightened or insane anymore. If she’d been this calm when they’d had sex, she might have noticed some of the details. It was a shame she’d missed that.

She shifted again.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” But it would be really nice if you wrapped your arms around me. And then did some stuff. To keep my mind off some other stuff. And make me so tired, I pass out. And then tomorrow, I’llbe sane and never sleep with you again.

“You scared?”

“No,” Agnes said. “You’re here.”

“What then? I’m trying to get to sleep, and you’re tense as a board.”

“Yeah,” Agnes said. “About that.”

“Whatever it is you need, I’ll take care of it in the morning.” He stretched over and kissed her forehead, and she lifted her chin to catch his mouth, putting her hand on his cheek and kissing him back, and after a minute, he pulled back. “Agnes?”

“Well,” she said in a reasonable voice. “It’s morning somewhere.”

He rolled over on his back and stared at the porch ceiling. “You’re an odd woman, Agnes.” He sighed. “You have any special requests? Anything you like?”

“Men,” Agnes said. “Men who save my life and then make me come on my back porch.”

“I can do that,” Shane said, and put his arms around her, and Agnes sighed and began to concentrate on the details.

They were very comforting.


Shane woke feeling naked and exposed. And content. He cracked an eye at the mop of dark curly hair lying across his chest, which he knew was a mistake, because he should be checking the perimeter first to see what had wakened him. He was making a lot of mistakes lately.

He looked over at Rhett and noted that the bloodhound had his head up, which he took to be a sign of high alert for the dog. Probably the apocalypse coming, and the Four Horsemen were pounding toward the bridge over the inlet right now. With luck, it would collapse under them. Shane slid out from underneath Agnes and realized he was very exposed. A sniper could take him out easily.

Shane grabbed the rumpled sheet and went to drape it over Agnes, but paused, taking in her soft, round naked body for a few seconds, then carefully placed it over her. He reached down and grabbed his pants and put them on, fastening the holster for his Glock in place. He slid his feet into his boots.

A figure wearing a straw hat walked down the dock, a tackle box in hand, casting a long shadow over the water to one side. Shane opened the screen door, and Rhett shambled down the path to greet the invader.

They met near the gazebo. “Detective Xavier.”

“Mister Shane Smith.”

“How do you know that?”

“Saw the scrapbook your uncle keeps in the diner under the counter. Saw that picture of you in the hospital bed, getting the Silver Star when you were in the Rangers. Your uncle talked some about you.”

“My uncle has a big mouth.” Joey has a scrapbook on me? “Not big enough. So you were a war hero and got wounded?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Shane said. “Don’t want to have that happen again,” Xavier said. Rhett peed.

Shane said, “So where is Detective Hammond this fine morning?”

“He volunteered to get some background on the wedding,” Xavier said. “See if that might explain the unfortunate break-in. I believe he knows the bride.”

Rhett continued to pee.

Shane noted the tackle box. “Going fishing? Water’s back where you came from.” He nodded to the small boat tied off at the floating dock.

“What I’m fishing for is in the house.” Xavier tried to get around Shane.

Shane moved to block his way. “And that is?” Xavier halted. “I don’t like that basement.”

“It is dank and dark.”

“I don’t like that crime scene.” He made to get by once more. Shane folded his arms. “You said it was an accident”

“It was.”

“Then?”

“I want to poke around.” Xavier tried to step around once more, and Shane edged into his way.

“Poking around can be dangerous.”

Xavier looked up at him, exasperated. “What are you trying to say, son?”

“Already said it.”

Rhett finished peeing and came over and sniffed Xavier’s shoes, seemed satisfied, and ambled toward the house. Great guard dog, Shane thought.

Xavier looked at Shane’s outfit of pants, pistol, and no shirt, and then glanced up at the porch. “You sleep outside?”

Shane turned and looked through the screen door. There was no sign of Agnes or the sheets that had been tumbled there. A woman who could wake up fast and then remove evidence silently. His kind of girl.

“Yep. I like fresh air.”

Xavier nodded, his exasperation evaporating into amusement. “Right. Miss Agnes up yet?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Right.” Xavier gave a lazy grin and walked around Shane. “Quite a woman, that Miss Agnes.”

“Yep,” Shane said, following him up the walk. “Bit sharp-tempered, though.”

“I’d call her fiery.”

Xavier turned his head toward Shane and nodded amiably. “Fiery. That’s good.”

They walked up the path, Rhett ambling with them. Xavier trooped up the steps to the porch and spared a glance at the air mattress and Shane’s T-shirt, crumpled in a ball. “Restless night, son?”

“Slept like a baby.”

“I bet you did,” Xavier said, and went into the kitchen.


Agnes had awoken slowly to voices out by the gazebo and then quickly to the realization that she was naked on her back porch with a teenage boy imprisoned in her basement and a cop walking up to her back door.

Shit. She grabbed for her sundress and slipped it on, trying to stay below the screens while gathering up as much of the bedding as she could carry, then did a low dash into the house to get Three Wheels out before Xavier saw him. She shoved the table away from the basement door, pushed the door open, whispered, “Wake up down there,” and dropped one of the kitchen chairs into the opening. “Climb on that and boost yourself up here.”

She stood back as Three Wheels clutched and clambered out of the hole, skinny and dirty, seemingly made entirely of elbows and knees with a shock of reddish-blond hair sticking out from under his old Confederate army cap. When he was on his feet, she grabbed his shirt.