The Perfect Victim

Addison remembered vividly the night he'd told her about Agnes Beckett's sordid past. ''The one who told you Agnes Beckett was a prostitute?"

 

He nodded. "We can ask a few questions and have a sandwich if you're up to it."

 

"I'll settle for a soda and some information."

 

*

 

 

 

The familiar aromas of fried food, spilled beer and cigarette smoke hit Randall in the face like a blast furnace the instant he walked through the door. In the last year, he'd spent more time than he wanted to admit in bars just like this one, drinking himself into oblivion, trying not to think about the state of his life.

 

He wanted a drink now. Wanted it so badly he could already feel the burn of whiskey at the back of his throat, that heady rush of alcohol to his brain. He wondered if the need would always be there to torment him. He wondered if he would have given in to that need yesterday if Addison hadn't been there.

 

Shaking off the cold, and thoughts he didn't want to deal with at the moment, he scanned the room. To his right, a scarred wooden bar rail the length of the room. Behind it, a burly-looking woman with a receding hairline watched them out of the comer of her eye. From the jukebox, Eric Clapton belted out an old rock and roll song about a woman waiting for another love. Except for the group of men playing pool at the back of the room, and a thin young man hovering at the bar, the place was nearly empty.

 

Randall was acutely aware of the male eyes sweeping to Addison. A knot of territoriality tightened in his gut with surprising force. Casually, he put his arm around her shoulders, telling himself it wasn't a possessive gesture. He guided her to a corner booth. "Good thing we had reservations," he said, sliding into the red vinyl seat across from her.

 

Dark smudges of fatigue marred the porcelain skin beneath her eyes. Her lack of color worried him. She'd put up a valiant front, but he knew the strain was beginning to wear her down both emotionally and physically. She wasn't prepared to deal with half of what was being thrown at her. Dammit, she had enough to deal with without him complicating matters because he couldn't keep his hands off her.

 

As he stared into her fragile eyes, he almost wished he hadn't slept with her. Almost. She was beginning to mess with his head. More than just his head, if he wanted to be truthful about it. Crazy thoughts for a man who should be chomping at the bit to get back to his career. He hadn't intended for things to get so damn complicated. He hadn't intended for a lot of things to happen.

 

Across the table, she offered a wan smile. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out, pull her to him, and crush that lush mouth against his for just one more taste.

 

"Where were you just now, Talbot?"

 

He smiled, wondering how she'd react if he answered truthfully. "You don't want to know," he said easily.

 

The last thing either of them needed was another close encounter. If he went to bed with her again, his resolve to resurrect his failed career back in D.C. might not survive.

 

Reining in his libido, he let his gaze travel to the bar. "See the barmaid?" he asked.

 

Addison turned in the booth and glanced toward the woman behind the bar. "The one missing both eyeteeth?"

 

"Her name is Dixie. I spoke with her the last time I was here in Siloam Springs."

 

"She knew Agnes Beckett?"

 

"They worked together for a few months."

 

Craning her neck, Addison regarded the woman thoughtfully. "I want to talk to her."

 

Randall knew she wasn't going to like what the people in this town had to say about Beckett. He wished he could protect her from the truth, from getting hurt. But she deserved the truth. Even if it wasn't pretty.

 

"That waitress has lived in this little town for about ten years,” he said.

 

Addison turned back to him, her eyes jumping with excitement. "Do you think she might be able to help us find Al Stukins?"

 

"It's worth a shot." He watched the barmaid approach the booth. "The burgers aren't bad."

 

She groaned.

 

The barmaid snapped down two menus and two glasses of ice water. Her movements were the short, decisive movements of a woman who'd spent too many years waiting tables and too many hours on her feet.

 

"Hi, there," she said with the slightest hint of a twang. "What can I get you to drink?"

 

Randall put on 'his most charming smile. "It's Dixie, right?"

 

She turned narrowed eyes on him before baring a hit-or-miss smile. "I never forget a face." She tapped her pencil against her temple. "You're that private detective feller. Randy."

 

"I was wondering if you'd mind answering a few questions."

 

"Are you kidding? This is the most excitement I've had all week." Pulling a green order pad from the pocket of her smock, Dixie propped a chubby hip onto the table. "What do you want to know?"

 

"Did you know Agnes Beckett?" Addison asked abruptly.

 

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