Storm Warning. Michele Hauf

was alert for something she felt was imminent but was unable to say exactly what that could be. It reminded her of when she’d worked in the field. A field operative had to stay on her toes and be constantly aware of her surroundings, both physical and auditory. A wise state to embrace, especially in a town not her own.

      She’d take a closer look at the SUV after she’d purchased her groceries.

      The teenagers paid for energy drinks and left the store in a spill of laughter. Making her way to the checkout, Yvette set her basket on the counter.

      “Bonjour, Yvette.” Colette, the shop owner, a Canadian expatriate Yvette had bonded with because she spoke fluent French, fussed with the frilled pink polka-dot apron she wore over a slim-fitting black turtleneck and slacks. “Twenty dollars will do it.”

      Surely the bill was thirty or more.

      Yvette nodded, unaccustomed to kindnesses, yet receiving such generosity felt like a warm summer breeze brushing her icy neck. Very much needed lately.

      She handed over the money. Colette packed up her provisions and helped Yvette fit it all into the backpack she brought along for such trips. She looked forward to riding the snowmobile into town for twice-weekly grocery trips. And today, despite the single-digit temperature, boasted bright white sunshine. A girl could not ignore fresh air and the beautiful landscape. She always brought along her camera and stopped often to snapshots. It was a good cover for an agent, but photography had also always been a hobby she’d wanted to take to the next level.

      “Those wool leggings look très chic on you,” Colette commented, with a slide of her gaze down Yvette’s legs. “But you really do need to wear snow pants if you’re snowmobiling in this weather.”

      “I’ve got on layers.” Yvette waggled a leg. The heavy boots she wore were edged with fake fur, and the leggings were spotted with white snowflakes on a blue background. Beneath, she wore thermal long johns, an item of clothing she hadn’t been aware existed until she’d arrived here in the tundra. A quilted down coat topped it all.

      Fitting the backpack over her shoulders, she paused at the door while Colette walked around the counter and met her with a zip up of her waterproof coat and a tug at her scarf (which happened to match her leggings—score one for fashion).

      “You don’t have a helmet to keep your ears warm?” Colette asked. She eyed Yvette’s knit cap with the bobble of red pom-pom on the top. “You foreigners. I’m surprised your ears don’t drop off with frostbite. It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails out there. And with the wind chill? Uff da.” The woman shuddered.

      “Don’t you mean mon Dieu?” Yvette countered.

      Colette laughed. “Minnesota has gotten into my blood, chère. It’s uff da here. Want me to order a helmet for you?” She tapped the pom-pom. “We order directly from the Arctic Cat supplier in Duluth. Takes only a day or two. And some are even electronic so you can turn on the heat and listen to music.”

      “Sounds perfect. The helmet provided by the cabin is too big for me and tends to twist and block my vision. Thanks, Colette.”

      “You heading across the street for a bite to eat? I see the chief’s snowmobile just pulled up. That is one fancy machine. And I’m not talking about the snowmobile.”

      “The chief?” Yvette glanced across the way. “You mean a police chief? What’s up?”

      “Nothing of concern, I’m sure. It’s just, have you met Chief Jason Cash?”

      “Should I?”

      Colette winked. “Uff da, girl, he’s the hottest catch this side of the Canadian border. Young, handsome and cocky as hell. But none of the local girls can seem to turn his eye.”

      “I am hungry,” Yvette said with a wistful glance across the street. For so many things she’d not had in almost two months. Sunshine. A buttery croissant. Conversation. Sex.

      “Good girl. Tell the chief I said hello.” Colette pushed the shop door open and virtually shoved Yvette out.

      Bracing for the blast of cold, Yvette cursed how easily she had succumbed to the suggestion she hide out overseas until the heat on her blew over. Her boss had chosen this location and given her a cover identity. He hadn’t told her exactly what it was that could implicate her, but she knew it had to do with her photographic memory. Thing was, she never really knew what some of the stuff that she worked on meant, as it was generally out of context and merely a list or scramble of information to her brain.

      Boots crunching on the packed snow, she crossed the wide double-lane Main Street. A couple of pickup trucks with snow chains hugging the tires were parked before The Moose, as was one of the fanciest, most powerful snowmobiles she had seen. Walking by it, she forgot about the mysterious SUV she’d noticed earlier and instead took in the sleek black snowmobile dashed with neon-green embellishments. The body was like a blade, streamlined for speed.

      The owner was handsome, eh? And single?

      She wasn’t looking for romance, that was for sure. But a woman could not survive on staticky rerun episodes of Sex and the City and her vibrator alone. Might as well give the man a gander, as she’d heard people say in these parts.

      But for the official record, she was just here for the food.

       Chapter Three

      Jason took in the woman who sat before the diner counter. Two stools separated them. After setting a backpack on the floor, she’d pulled off a knit cap to let loose a spill of long black hair. Unzipping her coat halfway revealed a blue-and-white wool sweater that featured snowflakes and reindeer. Looked like one of Marjorie’s knitted projects. Jason had one of those ugly sweaters—it featured a moose and possibly moose tracks (because he could never be sure it wasn’t moose scat)—but he wore it proudly because someone had made it especially for him.

      The woman at the counter was not a resident of Frost Falls. And today, of all days, he was particularly alert to strangers. This morning had brought a dead stranger onto his radar. Lunch had found him standing over an autopsy of the same woman. When driving back to Main Street, he’d sighted a shiny SUV that did not belong to a local. He’d run a plate check. Belonged to a Duluth resident. No police record or accidents reported. Worked for Perkins. Probably in town visiting friends.

      And now Miss America was sitting ever so close.

      She ordered mint tea and the club sandwich with extra bacon. The waitress winked and commented that she was glad to finally use up the tea she’d had stashed under the counter for years.

      Jason noted the woman’s cringe when she heard the date of the tea, and he chuckled.

      “Not many tea drinkers in these parts,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in The Moose. You passing through Frost Falls?”

      “In a means, yes,” she said with an accent that sounded familiar to Jason.

      She was an exotic beauty. Her skin tone was olive, and her features were narrow. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath delicate curved black brows. She didn’t fit the standard profile of the Scandinavians who populated a good portion of Minnesota’s frozen tundra. Gorgeous, too, far prettier than most. And she didn’t appear to be wearing a lick of makeup. Something about natural red lips...

      Jason shook off a bittersweet memory of red lips and sly winks. Weird that he hadn’t heard about this beautiful woman from the town’s gossip mill. He turned on the stool to face her. “Name’s Jason Cash,” he offered. “I’m the town’s chief of police.”

      For another few months, at least. If and when he lost this job, what would he have to show for his years of service to both his country and this small town?

      Not a hell of a lot.

      “Nice