Page 27 of Earning Her Trust

The exact description every woman had given about the truck that watched them from the dark.

Even after logic kicked in, even after she recognized the Valor Ridge decal on the side and the dog silhouette pressed to the backseat glass, her pulse wouldn’t slow. She stared at the truck. What if the killer wasn’t some stranger lurking at the casino, but a man she’d just invited into her investigation?

Ghost leaned against the side of his truck, a cigar in one hand, the smoke curling up into the blue like he could erase her day with it. He didn’t watch her with the lazy confidence of aguy who thought he owned the world. No, Owen Booker watched her like a sniper sighting a mark through a rifle scope. Hyper-focused, steel-eyed, not missing a damn thing.

A shiver zipped along her spine.

Pathetic. She’d worked bigger cases than this, squared off with men twice as dangerous as Ghost. But the way he stood there, lean and motionless and already knowing how she’d spent her afternoon, made her want to turn tail and drive right back down the mountain.

Nope. Not happening.

She squared her shoulders and climbed out of her car. Cinder leapt out of the truck’s passenger seat and put herself between them, tail flagging high, hackles up, like she was personally offended by Naomi’s existence.

The feeling was almost mutual.

“Decided waiting isn’t your thing, huh?” Ghost didn’t even bother to glance at her as he called his dog to his side. Just pinched the tip of the cigar out, slid it into a slim case in his pocket, and exhaled a stream of smoke. The scent curled around her, a mix of woodsmoke, whiskey, and something seductively dark that made her stomach tighten. It was the kind of smell that stayed on your clothes—and under your skin.

She planted herself in front of him, arms folded. “I tried, but it felt like I was wasting time. Besides, Finch is harmless.”

His eyes went flat and hard. “Nobody is harmless.”

Especially not you, she almost shot back, but the words stuck at the last second.

She shrugged instead. “Finch couldn’t put a plan together if you gave him instructions and a coloring book. He’s pathetic, but he’s not a killer.”

Ghost’s gaze cut through her, slicing right past the bravado. “Losers get desperate. Desperate gets ugly fast.”

“Not this one.” Naomi forced herself to steady. “He was home, drunk, TV blasting. Neighbor backs it up.” She tipped her chin at the drive. “You want to double-check, feel free, but he’s a dead end.”

He didn’t answer. The way he looked at her was like he was cataloguing her mood, her stance, maybe even her pulse, for all she knew. Bastard probably found a way to weaponize oxygen.

Cinder hovered at his knee, ears pinned and eyes narrowed. Her lips peeled back in a vaguely threatening snarl.

The dog was just as friendly as her owner, and Naomi resisted the urge to bare her own teeth in response.

“So why the attitude?” she pressed. “Upset I didn’t sit here twiddling my thumbs and doing nothing until you showed?”

“Upset you lied,” he said, cool as refrigerated steel. “You told me you’d wait.”

“I had a hunch. I followed it and it paid off.”

Ghost’s gaze swept her, as if checking for bruises or blood or some other sign of disaster. “You always gamble on instinct?”

“Only when I know I’m right.”

“One of these days, you won’t be.” He said it so softly that she wasn’t sure she’d actually heard the note of worry, or if she’d imagined it.

Naomi rolled her shoulders, hoping he hadn’t clocked the shiver that zipped through her at the warning. “Maybe. But today isn’t that day. If you want to bust my balls about it, get in line behind every boss, boyfriend, and bureaucrat I’ve ever worked with.”

Ghost just looked at her. When they first met at Nessie’s Place the other day, she’d thought his eyes were cold. Now, up close, she could see the storm in them, moody as a winter sky.

Finally, he exhaled slowly and looked past her toward the woods, like he needed to recalibrate his entire internal GPS before he lost his temper. “All right. Give me the rundown.”

She did, rapid-fire. The texts, the breakup, the mention of Craig Foster. The fact that Finch was more scared than scary, and way too lazy to orchestrate anything complicated.

Ghost listened, eyes narrowed, taking it all in.

“Craig Foster,” he repeated.