Hidden Agenda. Maggie Price

      A young cowboy swirled Carrie into view just as the song ended. The noise level dropped so fast it was almost like turning deaf. Linc saw the man whisper something in her ear; Carrie tipped her head back and laughed.

      Linc set his beer aside and moved their way, not at all surprised she’d found a dance partner. Reaching her, he slid his arm around her waist, then turned his attention to the cowboy. He was in his early twenties, of medium height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt, its sleeves shoved up on well-developed forearms.

      “Time for me to claim my lady,” Linc said, and caught the flash of disappointment in the man’s eyes.

      The cowboy shifted his gaze back to Carrie. “It was my pleasure, red.”

      “And mine.” She offered her hand. “You take care, West.”

      “Will do.” He gave her a smile with a dose of low-voltage charm. “Hope to see you around here again.”

      “Count on it.”

      Linc watched the cowboy melt into the crowd, then looked at Carrie. She had pulled her hair up with one hand and was fanning her bare neck with the other. The color was high in her cheeks, her hair damp at the temples.

      She looked like she’d just engaged in a bout of hot sex and might be willing to jump back into bed for more.

      The image had him grinding his teeth. “Looks like that cowboy is a real admirer of yours, red.”

      “His name is West Williams,” she said, her voice a low whisper. “I don’t remember seeing information on him in our files. Do you?”

      “No. Think he has a record?”

      “My instincts tell me he’s a good guy, but I’ll run him.” She settled a hand on his arm. “We should dance. Over by the jukebox. There’s something going on with one of the booths. I can’t figure out what it is.”

      “All right.”

      The jukebox sparked back to life with a husky-voiced country singer torching a love song. Linc slipped his arms around Carrie, thinking he would have preferred a rowdy tune that required little touching. Trying to ignore the way her body meshed with his, he guided her over the wooden floor with smooth, intricate steps.

      “You’re a good dancer,” she said against his ear.

      “I figured you were waiting for me to step on your toes.”

      She angled her head back to look up at him. Her mouth was red and wet and curved in genuine puzzlement. “What brought that on?”

      Without thinking, he tangled his fingers with the tips of her hair. It was a shame, a damn shame, he thought, that she felt so incredibly good in his arms. “Could be the way your nails are digging into my shoulder.”

      “Oh.” Her hand flexed open. “Sorry.”

      “It’s just a flesh wound.” They reached the side of the dance floor closest to the long row of booths, most of them occupied. Linc bent his head so that his cheek brushed hers, his mouth close to her ear. Heat pulsed off her flesh and he wondered if her skin tasted as creamy as it smelled. “What am I looking for?” he asked.

      “Check out the booth in the corner,” she said, swaying with him. “The one with the reserved sign on it.”

      The slow song melted away into another with a quicker tempo. Linc splayed his fingers against her back and continued moving in the same steady rhythm while he watched the booth. Minutes later he said, “I’ve seen two men and one woman slide into the booth at separate times. Each sits there for a short time, then leaves.”

      Carrie nodded, the light from the jukebox touching her cheek with gold. “While I’ve been dancing, I’ve counted a dozen people do the same thing,” she whispered. “A waitress never comes by to see if they want to order anything.” She shrugged. “Any guess about what’s going on?”

      “Not yet.” When the song ended, he drew away, but kept her hand in his. “How about we try out the booth?”

      “You’re reading my mind.”

      She slid in first, he followed. “It’s too dark to see much,” she said seconds later. Against his side, Linc felt her body shift while she patted her hand against the wall. “All I feel is some sort of padded piece of wood,” she said.

      “What size is it?”

      “About the dimensions of a chair arm.”

      “Does it move?”

      “Can’t get it to budge.” Carrie met his gaze. “Those people wouldn’t have sat here and then left without a reason. They had to have picked up something. Or left something. Maybe both. There’s no other explanation.”

      “Drugs and cash, maybe.” Linc swept his gaze upward, spotted a camera, its lens aimed at them. “We’re on film,” he said. “Let’s go outside and look at the other side of that wall. Maybe we can spot some sort of sliding panel.”

      “Good idea.”

      Linc smiled when a rail-thin waitress wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt scurried toward the booth. “Two beers—”

      She cut him off with a shake of her head. “I’ll be happy to serve you at another table.” She patted the small sign at the table’s edge. “This one’s reserved.”

      “Sorry,” Linc said, rising. “Didn’t notice.”

      “No harm done.” She ran a damp rag over the tabletop. “You folks find another spot and I’ll bring those beers.”

      Carrie slid out of the booth. “Listen, sugar, all that dancing just caught up with me. How about passing on those beers and taking me home?”

      “Sure, babe.” He slipped the waitress a few dollars, telling her they’d be back the next night.

      Minutes later they were outside, following the beam of Linc’s small penlight while they crept toward the rear of The Hideaway.

      He didn’t care that the air was as cold as a morgue fridge. In retrospect, it was far preferable to the heat that had surged through him while Carrie swayed in his arms. If he hadn’t felt a gnawing curiosity about what the deal was with the back booth, he would have made up some excuse to halt their dancing a lot sooner.

      As it was, he planned to take a long, cold shower when he got to his room at the Drop Inn.

      “See anything?” His words were almost soundless as he swept the penlight’s beam over the rear corner of the building.

      “Nothing.” Carrie’s breath made tiny puffs of steam on the cold air. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped in for a closer look.

      Holding the beam steady, Linc glanced sideways. Bare bulbs dangling from ancient fixtures affixed to the roof’s eaves illuminated the rear of the old house. The bulbs tossed shadows in every direction along the graveled access that ran the length of the structure. A few feet from where he and Carrie stood was a back door and wooden porch with several steps leading down from it. A Dumpster sat angled to one side of the porch. Beyond the Dumpster, another bare bulb illuminated a weathered, storm-cellar-type door that butted against the building’s foundation. Door to the basement, Linc surmised. The shiny hinge and padlock securing the door glinted beneath the light.

      Linc shifted his gaze back to Carrie. As if searching for the trigger of a secret panel, she used her gloved fingers to prod the building’s rough-planked exterior. “None of the waitresses even looked at any of the people I spotted in that booth while I was dancing,” she whispered. “Then you and I plop down, and a waitress is on us like white on rice. Something’s definitely going on with that booth.”

      “Yeah, I—”

      Hearing a faint creak, Linc froze. In his peripheral vision he saw the back door swing open.

      He shot