Читать книгу The Royal Mess - MaryJanice Davidson - Страница 16

Chapter 5

Nicole dropped her client, a perfectly pleasant family practitioner named Sandra Dee, of all things, at the Outer Banks Co. and pocketed the generous tip.

Sandra Dee, also from New York City, had caught on at once and spent the afternoon kicking ass and filling the live well. The small redhead nearly staggered under the weight of the fish on her stringer. Nicole unhitched the boat trailer, mentally promising her boss she’d come back first thing in the morning and hose it down.

Nicole couldn’t help but laugh as her giddy client bounded up the steps to the office with one final wave over her shoulder. These were the best days for her: showing someone a skill they had not known they possessed. Showing a stranger the utter and mystifying beauty of the Alaskan wilderness and recognizing the look on their face, the awe of someone at a stirring church service.

She swung by Chicken Lickin’ for a three-piece meal, hold the biscuits, extra gravy. Mmm . . . gravy. She’d drink it by the glass if she could. The thought made her grin.

Her smile faded as she saw the long black car parked in her driveway and the two men loitering on her front lawn. She didn’t slow and didn’t look in that direction again. She stared straight ahead—nope, nothing wrong here, and I certainly don’t live there, which is why I’m not looking at you two—and kept going past her trailer.

She found the back trail leading into the woods, got out of her truck and locked the hubs, then got back in, engaged the four-wheel drive, and bounced and jounced until she was only half a mile from the south side of her property.

Muttering under her breath, Nicole popped open her glove compartment and pulled out the .38. A poor weapon at long range, but she had every expectation of getting nice and close. Besides, the rest of her guns were in the shed. She cursed herself for not installing a gun rack in the truck. Well, maybe next week.

Nicole locked the truck (some of her rods were custom made) and stole through the forest on foot, noisy as a salamander. She came up on her trailer from behind, knelt, and carefully slid aside the panel to the left of the back door. She belly crawled beneath her trailer until she was beside her porch.

One of the men was sitting on her porch; the other one—the armed one, no mistaking the bulge on his hip, even from the road—was standing beside him. In fact, he was standing about nine inches in front of her face.

She supposed most single women might wonder why armed strangers were waiting for her in her yard, but she’d never been one to sweat the why of things.

She noiselessly slid the panel back, reached, clutched his ankles, and yanked. The man hit the ground face-first and in a flash she vaulted from cover, sat on him, and pressed the barrel of her gun to the back of his head.

“That’s a .38,” she informed him. “Normally a pea shooter, but at this range, it’ll ruin your week.”

“Ow,” the man said calmly into the grass.

She relieved him of his sidearm, a spotless nine millimeter, and tossed it behind her, beneath her trailer. “When you get it back, you might want to break it down and hit it with some gun oil. It’s pretty dirty under there. Also, I don’t like surprises.”

“I never would have guessed,” the stranger mumbled into the turf.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man on the porch said in a deep voice, sounding exasperated and charmed at once. She turned her head, not moving the gun.

“You!”

“Me,” the King of Alaska replied agreeably. He was dressed in jeans and a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had his chin cupped in his hand (he needed a shave) and took her in at a glance: the brunette hair, the blue eyes, the dirty shirt and jeans, the gun.

“Yep,” he said, sounding almost . . . cheerful? “You’re one of mine, all right. Nice to meet you, Nicole.”