Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride

“Impressive,” Neil said. “They’re one of the best in town.”

“I met the owner last year during a mountain rescue situation.” The search for a missing client had been a harrowing few days, fortunately with a happy ending. “We have a lot in common.”

Roger stuck out his square jaw. “I suppose that means you’ll be seeing more of Angela.”

“And Benjy,” Shane said. “I sure hope so.”

“Maybe you can convince her to cut down on her hours at the pancake house,” Roger said gruffly. “The only person she needs to be cooking for is my son.”

Though he didn’t agree that Angela should quit her job and become a full-time wife unless that was what she wanted, Shane sidestepped the issue. “She works hard.”

“Nothing wrong with dedication,” Roger said, “as long as you’ve dedicated yourself to a worthy goal. As you know, my son has an acclaimed reputation as a virologist. He cures illness. He’s saving the world, dammit. His wife should be something more than a cook.”

Shane couldn’t let Roger’s idiotic statement go unchallenged. “She’s a chef. Not a cook.”

“What’s the difference?”

Roger had stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket, and Shane hoped that his muscular handshake had cracked a couple of bones. “It’s hard to explain unless you’ve tasted her food. There’s a damn good reason why her restaurant always has a line. She’s an artist.” He remembered a description Yvonne had once given. “A culinary artist.”

“It’s true,” Prentice said as he straightened his posture. “Angela concocts recipes with the skill of a chemist. She trained at Cordon Bleu in London.”

A tall woman with thinning black hair stepped into the room. Her long, skinny fingers twisted in a knot. “Gentlemen, it’s time for lunch. Please come to the table before the soup gets cold.”

Shane was hungry but didn’t really want to sit down to a meal with these guys. He reconsidered his plan to stay in one of the guestrooms at Neil’s house. Though he wanted to be close to Angela in case she needed protecting, he didn’t like the Revere family—father or son.

“Before I sit down,” Shane said, “I should see what’s keeping Angela.”

“You go ahead and relax,” said Dr. Prentice. “I’ll check on her.”

As Prentice left the room and crossed the entry way to the staircase, Shane noticed that his arthritic shuffle changed into a confident stride. He was much stronger than he had appeared when he rose hesitantly from his chair.

Why had Prentice tried to create the impression of being a tired, elderly man? As a lawman, Shane knew that a man who lied about one thing will lie about another. He needed to check out Dr. Edgar Prentice and find out what else he was hiding.

SINCE SHE’D ALREADY moved many of her clothes to Neil’s house, Angela had a lot of options. She’d chosen a cotton dress in conservative navy blue with white trim because it seemed least likely to provoke a response from Neil’s father. As she finished brushing her hair, she heard a knock on the bedroom door.

Her first instinct was to lock the door until the little blue pill worked its magic and numbed her nerves, but she wasn’t a coward. Slipping into a pair of navy flats, she marched to the door and opened it. “Dr. Prentice?”

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