Midnight Rider. Joanna Wayne

      “My twin sister, Sylvie Hamm.”

      Twin sisters. That explained Brit’s attitude. Probably considered her sister a victim of the drunken sex urges he didn’t remember. It also explained why Brit Garner looked familiar.

      “So why is it I’m not having this conversation with Sylvie?”

      “She’s dead.”

      The words sank in slowly, changing everything. “I’m sorry,” he said honestly. The how and why of all of this seemed less important now. A baby would grow up never knowing her mother. A baby that might be his.

      He tried to wrap his mind around the new development. The death had to be recent. Kimmie was just a baby. “How did your sister die?”

      “She was murdered.”

      A new jolt shook his system as the situation grew even more disturbing. He muttered a few careless curse words, not out of disrespect but out of desperation. He didn’t see how things could get much worse, but from the look on Brit’s face, he had a feeling they were about to.

      “I get the feeling I should be calling in a lawyer about now,” he said.

      “Not if you have nothing to hide. You’re not currently a suspect in her murder, Mr. Dalton, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      Currently the operative word. “Have you arrested a suspect?” he asked.

      “Not yet.”

      “Do you have one?”

      “No.”

      “A motive?”

      “It’s an open investigation. I can’t really discuss the details with you.”

      “Exactly what can you share, Detective?”

      Brit stood and walked around to the front of her desk, propping her shapely backside on the edge of it. Hard-edged, probably tough as nails, but hard to get past the fact that she looked more like a starlet playing a cop than an actual detective. There had to be a story there somewhere.

      “What specifically would you like to know, Mr. Dalton?”

      “First, how about calling me Cannon? If I am Kimmie’s father, then we’re practically related.”

      “Okay, what do you want to know, Cannon?”

      “For starters, why would you hand over your niece to a man like R. J. Dalton, or to me, for that matter, since you think I’m such a lowlife?”

      She hesitated, then exhaled slowly as if she were giving in against her better judgment. “I’d planned to take that up with you after we have the results of the paternity test in hand, but since you’re so eager to discuss details, I guess we can talk now.”

      “Then we finally agree on something.”

      Brit glanced at her watch. “Do you mind if we talk over a sandwich? I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I need some food and decent coffee.”

      “Fine by me, as long as I’m not riding to the restaurant in the back of a squad car.”

      Her full lips tipped into a slight smile. “Not this trip. There’s an informal restaurant with quick service just around the corner. We can walk.”

      “Lead the way.”

      Actually he had few hunger pangs growling in his stomach, as well. He’d driven straight through, grabbing snacks for munching when he’d stopped for fuel and bathroom breaks.

      Snippets of that night in Marble Falls kicked around in his mind as they walked to the café. He hated that his memories of that night were lost in a whiskey fog. Weird considering he wasn’t even that much of a drinker. A beer or two every now and then. A six-pack on a bad night.

      The night in Marble Falls had been far worse than bad.

      Right now he figured he wasn’t the only one with questions. And, in spite of Brit’s assurances, he figured he was one wrong answer away from becoming a suspect.

      That still didn’t mean she had her facts right about his being Kimmie’s father.

       Chapter Five

      So this was the rodeo cowboy Sylvie Hamm had found irresistible. Brit had to admit he wasn’t the sort of a man who’d go unnoticed in a bar or most anywhere else.

      His skin was tanned. His eyes were penetrating—caramel colored with gold flecks that made them almost hypnotizing when his gaze locked with hers. His hair was a sun-streaked brown, unruly, thick locks falling rakishly over his brow.

      He needed a shave, but the rough growth of whiskers only added to his blatant masculinity, as did the angry, skinned blotch on his left cheek.

      Worn jeans that fit to perfection, white Western shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. And a sauntering charisma and Texas drawl that left no doubt he was the real deal.

      Put that package of screaming virility in a cozy bar with a steamy country ballad for background. A few drinks. A belly-rubbing dance or two. Then a burning kiss that rocked your soul...

      Brit swallowed hard and shook the sensual images from her mind. Her relationship with Cannon Dalton was strictly business. She’d been angry with him since the day she’d learned that he was Kimmie’s missing-in-action father.

      But he was also the only link to Sylvie. Aggravating him or making him defensive would not help her cause. Sylvie could have said or done something the night they’d been together that would lead Brit to the killer. She also needed enough information to decide if he would be a fit father for Kimmie.

      If not, biological rights or not, Brit would do whatever it took to keep him from getting custody of her niece.

      That move would be a last resort. Brit knew more about the rodeo than she did about taking care of a baby—and that was absolutely nothing.

      “Jodie’s Grill and Deli. Is this the place?” Cannon asked as they approached the green awning that shielded the entrance from the elements.

      “Yes. It’s larger than it looks from the outside and mostly a lunch spot, so it shouldn’t be too crowded tonight.”

      He hurried ahead to get the door. Their shoulders brushed as she stepped past him. A jolt of unexpected heat surged through her. She stepped away quickly.

      What was it about this man that was getting to her?

      “Would you like a booth or a table?” the hostess asked when they stepped inside.

      “How about that back booth?” Cannon suggested, nodding to one that the busboy was wiping down.

      “Certainly, sir.”

      “Okay with you, Brit?” he asked after the fact.

      She nodded, surprised he’d called her by the shortened version of her first name. Rick was the only male in Homicide who did. To everyone else she was Garner.

      It was as if she and Cannon had just skipped a few steps of the introductory stage. Perhaps part of the cowboy way, like his swagger and virility.

      They followed the hostess past a cluster of occupied tables to the back corner of the dining area. Brit took the seat that let her see the door. It was a cop thing to always be able to watch and assess what was going on in any situation.

      Cannon slid onto the padded bench seat opposite hers and opened his menu. “Any recommendations?” he asked as the hostess walked away.

      “Salads are excellent,” Brit said. “My favorite is the Greek salad with a side of hummus and pita bread.”

      “You mean for starters?”

      “No. They’re large portions.”

      “To you, maybe.