The Lovebirds. B.J. Daniels

expecting a blow.

      Jack knew that one of the town councilmen had voted against hiring him as sheriff and figured it had been Oliver Sanders. He told himself that Oliver’s obvious anxiety at seeing him could be nothing more than having a dead woman in his foyer. Or it could be the past. Considering his and Jack’s past, it could easily have been that alone.

      ‘‘Jack?’’ Mitzy cried, finding her voice too soon. ‘‘Jack McAllister?’’

      She’d remembered his name. But he’d have hoped as much considering how...intimate they’d been for a short period of time during his junior year in high school—a time he would have just as soon forgotten.

      He reminded himself that she probably felt the same way, in fact, might have forgotten him and only remembered when she saw his photo in today’s paper. Then again, the story about the new sheriff moving into his office hadn’t gotten a lot of play in the resort town’s only newspaper—not like Oliver Sanders’s new expensive condo development.

      Mitzy pushed herself up from a plump velvet couch, but appeared uncertain what to do next. Running into his arms seemed somehow inappropriate, he thought. So did shaking hands, but he held his hand out to her.

      ‘‘Mrs. Sanders,’’ he said in his cop voice, amazed how much she looked like she had in high school. He’d almost forgotten how partial she was to pink. She wore a pale pink suit with matching high heels and a white silk blouse, all expensive and carefully chosen for effect rather than comfort, just like the decor of this place.

      Her sculpted blond hair curled at her suit jacket collar and framed her doll-adorable face, accenting her big baby blues in a way that told him it hadn’t been unwittingly. Her still very nicely rounded body had fitness center written all over it.

      She took his hand almost coyly, something Jack was sure Oliver hadn’t missed. Some things just didn’t change.

      ‘‘Oh, Jack,’’ Mitzy said in that breathy voice of hers. ‘‘Sheriff? In River’s Edge?’’ She seemed to find humor in that. Or pity. With Mitzy it was hard to tell.

      Jack’s gaze moved past Mitzy to the third person in the room.

      A slim woman stood silhouetted against the bank of windows looking out over the town and the mountains. It wasn’t until she turned that he realized he knew her. That is, had known her. He fought to hide his surprise as she moved toward him, hand outstretched, amusement in her dark eyes.

      ‘‘Tempest Bailey,’’ she said, as if he wouldn’t remember her.

      Not a chance. ‘‘Tempest,’’ he said, wondering what she was doing here.

      She nodded as if seeing him wondering. She didn’t miss much. ‘‘I’m The Riverside’s version of a house detective—at least temporarily,’’ she said, making him remember her voice. Soft and deep with a hint of humor. It was one of the sexy things about her, although she hid the rest well. She wore khakis, a white blouse under a navy-blue sweater and cross-trainers. Her hair was long and dark, pulled back into a braid that hung to the center of her back. She wore no makeup, her face lightly freckled. There was something about the privileged. No matter how much they dressed down, they couldn’t hide the fact that they’d come from money.

      He realized he was staring at her. ‘‘Temporarily?’’ he asked when her words finally registered.

      ‘‘I’ve been offered the undersheriff job,’’ she said, tilting her head a little, her eyes glinting.

      T. J. Bailey. My God, he’d never dreamed the T. J. Bailey, the applicant the town council had offered the undersheriff position to, was Tempest. He tried to think of something to say to cover his shock and discomfort, but it was impossible with his foot stuck in his mouth.

      ‘‘Congratulations,’’ he finally managed.

      She cocked her head. ‘‘It’s a little premature for that. I haven’t accepted.’’ She met his gaze, her eyes as dark as an abyss.

      ‘‘Jack!’’ Mitzy cried, reminding him she had to be the center of attention. ‘‘I have a dead woman in my foyer!’’

      ‘‘Yes.’’ It didn’t surprise him that she wouldn’t refer to Peggy Kane by name. ‘‘That’s why I’m here. I’ll need to get statements from all of you.’’

      ‘‘Statements?’’ Mitzy looked horrified. ‘‘She choked to death on one of my chocolates. What more is there to say?’’

      ‘‘We won’t know what killed her until the coroner—’’

      ‘‘Of course, she choked,’’ Mitzy interrupted. ‘‘What else could it have been? Unless it was a heart attack. She did carry a lot of weight for a lot of years.’’ She must have seen his expression. ‘‘I’m not speaking ill of the dead. You all know it’s the truth. She was huge.’’

      Jack pulled the tape recorder from his pocket as Oliver pushed a large martini into his wife’s hand.

      ‘‘I’d offer you a drink, Jack,’’ Oliver said, motioning to his own glass, ‘‘but you’re on duty, right? Just like Tempest here.’’

      ‘‘Why don’t we all sit,’’ Jack suggested as he took Mitzy’s drink from her hand and put it down on the glass coffee table out of her reach. ‘‘If you don’t mind.’’

      ‘‘I think he’d like to get your statement while you’re still halfway sober, my dear,’’ Oliver said to his wife. ‘‘Jack obviously knows you.’’

      The tension in the room jumped up a notch as Mitzy shot her husband a .357 point-blank, drop-dead look, but it didn’t even seem to wound him, making Jack wonder about their relationship.

      ‘‘You might want to slow down a little yourself,’’ Jack suggested to Oliver. ‘‘Just until I get your statement.’’

      Mitzy smiled at that, then sat on the couch, smoothing the pink fabric over her thighs with both hands. ‘‘To think she choked to death on my chocolates.’’

      Jack didn’t correct her. For all he knew, she might be right. He met Tempest’s gaze across the expanse of glass coffee table as she took a chair opposite the couch. He got the distinct impression she didn’t think Peggy Kane had choked to death. At least not without help.

      He sat in the chair at the end of the coffee table between Mitzy and Tempest. Oliver continued to stand behind the couch, sipping his drink. It was just like him to refuse to sit. After all, he was a Sanders and they didn’t take orders from anyone in River’s Edge. Especially from some ex-high-school-jock from the wrong side of the tracks named Jack McAllister, even if he was the new sheriff.

      ‘‘Mitzy, why don’t you tell me exactly what you remember,’’ Jack said as he set the tape recorder on the table. ‘‘I’d appreciate it if no one interrupted her.’’ He glanced pointedly at Oliver, who bristled visibly.

      ‘‘I already told everything to that other cop,’’ Mitzy said irritably. ‘‘I don’t see why I have to go over it again. It’s just all so...ghastly.’’

      ‘‘I need to hear it for the record,’’ Jack said as he pushed the record button.

      Mitzy stared at the tape recorder, then at her drink for a moment, before she wet her lips and began speaking. ‘‘I came home at my usual time. I’m a Realtor, a very good one, in case you haven’t heard.’’ She directed the comment and a broad smile at Jack.

      ‘‘You came home at your usual time,’’ he prompted.

      ‘‘Yes, I was anxious to get home. It’s Valentine’s Day,’’ she said and looked from Jack to Tempest as if she doubted either was aware of that fact. ‘‘Anyway,’’ she sighed, ‘‘I got into the private elevator, started to insert my key for the penthouse when I noticed there was already a key in it.’’ She rolled her eyes.