Criminally Handsome. Cassie Miles

you Emma Richardson?”

      “Yes.” Still holding Jack on her shoulder, she calculated how long it would take for her to slam the door and race through the house to safety. She had a pistol on the upper shelf in her bedroom closet, but it wasn’t loaded.

      “Annie at the Morning Ray Café told me that you’re a psychic. She gave me your address.”

      Thanks a heap, Annie. “What else did she tell you?”

      “That you can help me.” The attempted smile slipped off his long face. Deep lines carved furrows across his forehead and around his mouth. “Ma’am, I’d be willing to pay for your time.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridger. Annie gave you the wrong impression. I’m not for hire.”

      “I’m trying to find my brother. He’s been missing since January, and I’m at the end of my rope.”

      She couldn’t help being sympathetic to Bridger’s cause. Like her, he was searching for a relative who had disappeared.

      Jack wriggled on her shoulder and she lowered him to the crook of her arm. He waved his little arms and let out a yell. “The baby is due for a feeding. This isn’t a convenient time.”

      “I can come back.” He slapped his hat back onto his head. “Later tonight?”

      “Not tonight,” she said firmly. “But maybe tomorrow afternoon. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to help you.”

      “How does it work when you get these visions? Annie said you have to touch something that belonged to the missing person.”

      “Sometimes that helps. If you’ll excuse me, I—”

      Without warning, he whipped open the screen door, grasped her hand and pressed a round disc into her palm. He stepped back immediately, allowing the door to swing shut.

      The suddenness shocked her. Who would have thought such a big man could move so fast? Looking down at her hand, she saw a hundred-dollar poker chip.

      “Las Vegas,” she said. That explained a lot. Bridger was a Vegas cowboy, not someone who actually rode the range.

      “Vegas is my brother’s hometown.”

      Was Hank Bridger somehow connected with Vincent Del Gardo, the casino owner? Though it seemed an unlikely coincidence, she firmly believed that everything happened for a reason. Bridger might lead to the next step on the path to finding her cousin.

      She turned the chip over in her hand. The outer circle of dark gold was edged with green letters spelling out Centurion Casino. She’d been to that Roman-themed establishment when she visited Aspen. She remembered lots of marble and elephant statues.

      Bridger leaned closer to the screen door. “You see something. What can you tell me?”

      Jack gave a series of yips—sounds that usually led to sustained wailing. And she couldn’t blame him. He was hungry. “I have to go.”

      “Keep the chip,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

      As he walked down the sidewalk, she closed the front door and flipped the dead bolt. Though it was possible that destiny had brought Hank Bridger to her doorstep, the fates weren’t always kind. In her early morning vision, the man with the leather necklace wanted to kill her. Bridger—in his fringed jacket and snakeskin boots—wasn’t that man. But there might be a connection. She needed to be cautious.

      While she got Jack changed, she considered taking her gun down from the top shelf and loading it. Probably not a good plan. She hadn’t fired the gun in over three years.

      Leaning over the changing table, she nuzzled Jack’s tummy. “I’d probably shoot my foot off.”

      He giggled in response.

      “Yes, indeedy.” She crooned as she picked up his tiny pink feet and kissed his toes. “Yes, I would. I’d probably shoot my footsie right off.”

      Having a baby in the house changed everything. If Emma had been alone, she wouldn’t have been so concerned about Bridger. But there was more than her own safety to worry about. She might need help. It occurred to her that Miguel was only a phone call away.

      With Jack freshly diapered and dressed in a green-and-yellow footed sleeper, she settled with him in the solidly built, antique rocking chair with the carved oak back. Before the baby came to live with her, she hardly ever used this piece of furniture. But the rocking chair made a perfect nest for bottle feeding. As soon as she plugged the nipple in his mouth, he slurped vigorously.

      Her gaze surveyed her eclectic living room. From the clean lines of the beige patterned sofa to the burgundy velvet Queen Anne chair, she’d picked every piece with care, sparing no expense. She focused on the telephone resting on the spindle-legged table. Would Miguel think she was too needy if she called? Or was she being prudent and sensible? Hank Bridger was a menacing character who had come out of nowhere.

      After Jack was fed, she paced with the baby on her shoulder. More than an hour had passed since Bridger came to her door. If he intended to return, he would have done so. Unless he was waiting for darkness.

      Better safe than sorry. She picked up the phone and punched in the number on the card Miguel had left behind. He answered after the first ring. “Emma. What’s wrong?”

      As soon as she heard his voice, she felt like a coward. “I’m probably overreacting. But this guy showed up at my house, wanting me to help him find his missing brother. And he gave me a hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.”

      “I’ll be right there.”

      “That’s not necessary. I was just wondering if…”

      He’d already hung up. As she disconnected, she felt herself smiling. For most of her life, she’d been on her own—proudly independent and able to take care of herself. This was a change. It felt good to have someone to call—a strong, capable man with intoxicating green eyes. A man who could watch over her and mijo Jack.

      Standing at the front window, she watched through the Irish lace curtains as the sunlight segued into dusk. The house across the street had turned on their lights, probably getting ready to sit down to dinner. Should she offer Miguel something to eat? Like what? She hadn’t taken anything out of the freezer this morning to thaw. Her plans for this evening were opening a can of soup or zapping a frozen dinner in the microwave.

      His motorcycle thrummed as he swooped up her driveway and parked the sleek, powerful Harley. He wasn’t wearing protective headgear. Not illegal, Colorado didn’t have helmet laws, but she disapproved of the risk. At the same time, she loved the way his black hair was tousled by the wind. Still astride the Harley, he peeled off his dark glasses and stowed them in the pocket of his denim jacket.

      Only once in her life had Emma dared to ride on the back. She’d been terrified. And exhilarated.

      She scurried to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and opened it wide. Though the fading sunlight was dim, his green eyes glowed with reassuring warmth.

      “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I saw what you wrote on that piece of paper where you described your vision.”

      She’d scribbled a lot of things. “What was that?”

      “You made a note. ‘Aspen got away, but you will die.’” He stepped inside and looked around, peering into the shadows in the corners. “What made you write that?”

      She remembered the faceless man with the knife, the darkness, the blade slashing toward her throat. Some of the things she saw weren’t meant to be shared. “You can’t take my visions literally. Sometimes, death doesn’t necessarily mean physically dying. It could be a death of hope. Or well-being. Or a relationship.”

      “But I’m a literal kind of guy. You said that you were being chased. Then what?”

      “The man with the leather