Dead Man's Curve

Her voice had a raw, uneven tone, the shaking in her hand growing to an alarming wobble as Sin stared down the muzzle of her Glock.

“You didn’t blow yourself up,” she muttered.

“Says who?” he asked.

“You’re wanted by the FBI.”

“I’m not on the list anymore,” he disagreed. “Dead, you see.”

Her mouth twisted with frustration. “You’re not dead. And you’re under arrest.”

He couldn’t hold back a grin at her serious expression.

“This isn’t funny.” Moving more quickly than he thought she could, she grabbed the Glock he’d taken from her and swung it back in front of her. This time, her hands didn’t shake nearly as hard.

Fear battled with grudging admiration. She was tougher than she looked. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

Alabama native PAULA GRAVES wrote her first book, a mystery starring herself and her neighborhood friends, at the age of six. A voracious reader, Paula loves books that pair tantalizing mystery with compelling romance. When she’s not reading or writing, she works as a creative director for a Birmingham advertising agency and spends time with her family and friends. She is a member of Southern Magic Romance Writers, Heart of Dixie Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America.

Paula invites readers to visit her website, www.paulagraves.com.

For Gayle Cochrane, who knows just how many ways I owe her my gratitude.

Thanks for all you do!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Special Agent Ava Trent took a slow turn around Room 125 of the Mountain View Motor Lodge, studying everything, even though the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation had already given the place a thorough once-over that morning before the locals had called in the FBI. She doubted there was much they’d missed, but she liked to walk through a crime scene while it was still relatively fresh.

She wasn’t going to pretend she could put herself in the head of either the victims or the perpetrator—she’d leave the hocus-pocus to the Investigative Services Unit. She just wanted to get a good look at the setup. Get a picture of it in her head. Most people in law enforcement had their own rituals. Taking a good, long look around a crime scene was hers.

Unmade queen-size bed. Suitcases open, partially unpacked, on the luggage stand helpfully supplied by the Mountain View Motor Lodge. Two toothbrushes in the bathroom.

Blotches of blood on the torn green comforter hanging off the bed.

“Married couple. Gabe and Alicia Cooper.” Cade Landry, the agent assigned to investigate the possible kidnapping with her, strode up to her, all broad shoulders, square chin and no nonsense. He was new to the Johnson City, Tennessee, resident agency and, if his gruff demeanor was anything to go by, he wasn’t going to turn out to be a favorite among the other agents.

She didn’t care herself. She wasn’t looking to have her hand held, and if she wanted conversation, she could call up her mother or her sister and get all she could handle. And unlike the female support staff at the resident agency, who all found Landry’s rock-hewn features and sweet molasses drawl irresistible, she certainly wasn’t in the market for a romantic entanglement, especially not with a fellow agent.

“Plenty of signs of a struggle, but not serious injury,” Landry continued. “Blood on the bedspread looks incidental. Bloody nose, maybe. Busted lip in a fight. If the Coopers are deceased, it didn’t happen here.”

“Why were they here in Poe Creek?” she asked.

“Three-year wedding anniversary, according to the motel staff,” Landry answered.

“An anniversary trip to Poe Creek?” She took another look around the motel room and shook her head.

“The husband’s a pro fisherman. Seems his idea of an anniversary trip included fishing on Douglas Lake,” Landry explained, referring to a lake northeast of Knoxville, Tennessee. It was a fifteen-minute drive from Poe Creek, depending on where they’d planned to put their boat in the water.

“Where can I get me a romantic man like that?” she murmured.

It might have been her imagination, but she thought she spotted a hint of a smile flicker over Landry’s stony features. Just a hint, then it was gone. “Not an angler?” he asked as he followed her on her circuit of the room.

“Actually, I’m a very good angler,” she answered. “But I don’t reckon scaling fish ranks high on my list of things to do on an anniversary trip.” Not that she’d ever had an anniversary to celebrate. Unless you counted six years with the FBI.

“Maybe he does all the fish-cleaning. A woman might find that romantic.” Pulling out a pen, Landry nudged a piece of paper lying on the bedside table. It was a note, written in a lazy scrawl. “‘225 Mulberry Road.’”