Addison knew she shouldn’t have let him off the hook so easily. Randall Talbot might wear that boy-next-door charm like a comfortable pair of old jeans, but she knew something darker lay just beneath that steady gaze and crooked smile. Still, it was difficult to stay angry when he was so clearly sincere. After all, he had apologized, she told herself. God only knew what that had done to his ego.
At first, she'd had no intention of accepting the apology or listening to whatever frail rationalizations he'd conjured up. She'd enjoyed watching him struggle with that giant sized ego he wielded so artfully. Perhaps even a small, cruel part of her had just wanted to see him cut down a notch or two. But he'd been determined to make amends, and Addison hadn't had the heart to snub him. Even if it had taken him three weeks to work up the courage.
His offer to take her case had thrown her. The jolt of pain that followed was surprisingly sharp. It had been three days since her ill-fated trip to Siloam Springs, and she was still trying to accept that Agnes Beckett was dead. As much as she didn't like to think about it, a small part of her had died that day in the cemetery. She'd lost one of her dreams. Now, she couldn't help but wonder if things might have turned out differently if she'd hired this man early on.
Studying him across the bar, Addison realized he looked like a different man than the scoundrel she'd met that day in his office. Gone was the heavy five o'clock shadow, the bloodshot eyes, and the nasty disposition. The transformation was complete and not at all unpleasant. There was still an inherent ruggedness about him, but the harshness and the vague sense of violence she'd sensed before had vanished.
He was taller than she remembered, well over six feet. He looked fit and relaxed in well-worn jeans, hiking boots, and a blue parka. His eyes were dark brown and a little too intense for comfort. He was a stickler for eye contact, she noticed, and at times she found his gaze unsettling.
She was about to offer him a refill in a "to go" cup when the bell on the alley door jingled. Her gaze snapped to the door leading to the back room. Mild puzzlement skittered through her. She and Gretchen were the only people who used the alley door. Besides, she'd locked it. Hadn't she?
She looked at Randall only to find his eyes already on her. "Expecting company?" he asked quietly.
"Not through the back door."
"You keep it locked?" he asked.
"Always." Slipping her apron over her head, she started for the back room. "I'll be right back."
Reaching over the bar, Randall stopped her with a light touch on her arm. "Let me check it out. You stay put."
Something in his eyes kept her from arguing. Closing the cash drawer, Addison placed the money bag on the shelf beneath the register, out of sight.
"Give me that," he said.
She hesitated an instant before passing the bag to him over the counter. The thought hit her that she didn't know him from Adam, but she quickly reminded herself that he was a licensed private investigator.
"Where's your phone?" he asked.
"I left it in the back room."
Another muffled sound emerged. The alley door closing, she thought, and felt the first real jab of alarm. Soundlessly, she came around the bar and approached Randall.
"Go stand at the end of the bar," he said and started for the back.
In the two years she'd owned the shop, Addison had never been afraid. Not of her customers or the hours she kept. She'd never considered the possibility of a robbery. Yet tonight, as she listened to an intruder slink through the rear door, an uncomfortable layer of fear settled over her like cold fog.
The knob squeaked. Randall stopped, took a step back. An instant later the door swung open and slammed against the wall. Shock crashed through Addison when a man stepped into the doorway. In an instant, she took in the full-length coat, black leather gloves, and knit ski mask. A tiny chrome pistol glinted like a cheap trinket in his hand.
In her peripheral vision she saw Randall scramble back. The intruder glanced toward the front door. Addison stood frozen at the end of the bar: Her heart rocked hard against her ribs when he raised the gun and leveled it at her.
Then she was being shoved violently to the floor. A gunshot snapped through the air. She fell flat on her back hard enough to take her breath. Randall came down on top of her. Before she could move, he sprang to a crouch, cursing as he worked an ugly pistol from beneath his parka. To her utter amazement, he took aim and fired.
The blast deafened her. She sat up, pressing her hands to her ears. Her brain screamed for her to run. Before she could move, Randall gripped her arm. "Stay down!"
Addison watched helplessly as he tossed the bank bag toward the rear door. "What are you doing?" she cried.
"Saving your life. Stay the hell down!"