Page 13 of Shattering Dawn

Amelia took a deep breath. “He just looks sort of…dangerous. That’s all.”

Irene was in the process of swallowing some more of her cappuccino. Her eyes widened, and she sputtered with laughter and set the cup down very quickly. She grabbed one of the little napkins and blotted her subtly plumped lips.

“Sorry,” she said. “But that is just hilarious. Wait until I tell Falcon. No, on second thought, I’d better not. He might get pissed.”

Amelia felt the heat rush to her face. “I know this is none of my business. I’ve never even met the man. But something about him worries me.”

Irene chuckled. “Probably the leather jacket and the mirrored sunglasses and the boots.”

“Is that what he wears?”

“Yep, and what’s more, he makes the outfit look good.” Irene glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot and leaned forward. She lowered her voice. “I appreciate your concern, but you can relax. You were right about one thing—Falcon is dangerous. Frankly, it’s one of his best features. All that leather and muscle is sexy as hell.”

“Okay, I get that,” Amelia said. Falcon didn’t sound like her type, but she wasn’t the one dating him. “What did you mean when you said I was right about him being dangerous?”

“Falcon is an undercover cop. Vice.”

“Oh.” Startled, Amelia sat back in her chair and absorbed that information. “Oh, I see.”

“He looks dangerous because he works in a dangerous world,” Irene continued. “His job and his life depend on him being able to blend in to that world. And now that I’ve told you the truth you haveto promise me you will not breathe a word of what I just said to anyone. He would not be happy to find out that I blabbed.”

“I understand.” Amelia paused and then leaned forward again. “If he’s undercover, why did he tell you the truth about himself?”

“Turns out even undercover cops need to talk to someone once in a while. I gather that, while the job is an adrenaline rush, it’s also a very lonely life.”

Chapter Seven

He detested stakeouts.The boredom factor was off the charts.

Gideon absently massaged his aching leg. He was sitting on a small folding stool in the shadows of the rear door of a pizza shop. The restaurant had closed two hours ago. His position gave him a clear view of the service entrance of Amelia’s apartment complex.

When he had arrived earlier he had been pushing a rusty shopping cart filled with the accoutrements of the cover he had chosen to use for the night’s work—some empty fast-food take-out cartons, a well-worn backpack, and a grungy sleeping roll. Just another homeless person trying to get through the night. Anyone who happened to pass by would look the other way.

Not that he expected a lot of foot traffic, not at one o’clock in the morning. It was unlikely that any innocents would wander into the poorly lit service lane at that hour. It would be the equivalent of taking a stroll down a dark alley. The flip side of that logic meant that if someone did show up it was a good bet the individual would not be an innocent.

He hadn’t set out to become a private investigator. Growing up, he and everyone else in the tightly knit Sweetwater clan had assumed he would join the family business, Sweetwater Security. But no, he’d just had to strike out on his own. The problem he had encountered—and that everyone else in the family had warned him about—was that his talent severely limited his career options.

Most of his work involved predictions, but not of the psychic variety. Criminals, like everyone else, were creatures of habit. They planned and carried out their crimes according to the old adageIf it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Amelia’s stalker had only had two nights to establish a pattern, but that was enough.

He was wondering if Amelia was still awake when a figure appeared at the far end of the service lane and moved quickly toward the gate. There was no hoodie tonight. Instead, the newcomer wore the uniform of a private security guard company, the cap pulled low over his eyes. He got points for upgrading the disguise, but the rest of his actions fit the pattern. As was the case with so many criminals, he had failed to do his research. Amelia’s apartment complex did not employ a security service.

The fake guard stopped in front of the security gate and prepared to open it with a key fob.

Here we go, Gideon thought.

He grabbed his cane and levered himself up off the seat. Pain shot down his right leg. He had been sitting too long. Fortunately adrenaline was kicking in, allowing him to keep moving.

He made it across the service lane just as the fake guard started to open the gate.

“You and I need to have a chat,” Gideon said. “I’ve got a few questions.”

The guard glanced at him and immediately lost interest.

“Get lost,” he growled.

“That’s not how this works.”

The guard rounded on him, his eyes hot. “You stupid fuck. You only get one warning.”

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