Page 4 of Finding Denver

It’s one thing to read it in the articles, to hear it called out as I pick up a coffee. I don’t even really mind if someone uses it while asking me for a photo (as long as I’ve had said coffee first). But tonight, I’m stuck in a confined space with hundreds of people, and they all seem to have forgotten my actual name.

Hence: fork murder.

Confined space might be a bit of a stretch. It’s a ballroom in one of the most prestigious hotels in San Francisco. Grand ceilings, polished floors, champagne glasses that seem impermeable to fingerprints and lipstick stains. The room is filled with thirty round tables with ironed tablecloths and more cutlery than necessary, considering the speck of food I was given earlier. When the portion had been placed in front of me, I’d leaned close to Ranger and demanded he give me his meal too, and he’d reminded me that he was armed. Mental note: hungry gangsters are mean.

And my husband is looking particularly mean at the moment. Standing among a group of politicians, their tuxedos pressed and perfect despite the evening being at the midway point, Ranger Luxe looks both bored and furious. He towers above the other men, as he does with most people, and I wonder if he’s fantasizing about fork murder, too.

I smile. He probably is.

He catches my eye. His look says, ‘Mass murder?’

I shake my head. ‘Not tonight, dear.’

A scowl I’m all too familiar with crosses his face, and he returns to his conversation.

My gaze sweeps across the room where earlier, I was awarded Businesswoman of the Year. An interesting achievement, given that not long ago, I was a suspect in two murder cases—the first, my husband; the second, the cop investigating my husband’s murder. I’ve hopped from celebrity, to murderer, to respected businesswoman, and it’s really fucking strange.

I’m also really fucking hungry.

My stomach growls so intensely that my muscles quiver, and I place a hand against it. There are at least two more hours left of this evening, and I cannot survive another stiff-smiled conversation on a half-empty stomach.

I eye the three bars in the room. Two are heavily staffed with a larger selection of free drinks and so have been busy most of the evening. I head for the third, which is empty, except for the bartender and one person standing at the farthest end from the party. Maybe he has an aversion to these events, too.

The bartender smiles. “What can I get for you?”

“Food,” I whisper. “Do you have anything edible back there?”

The young man blinks. “Erm …” He searches behind the bar and produces a small, white bowl. “Lemons for the drinks?”

My whimper is not an exaggeration. “Are they at least fresh?”

He winces. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

“I’ve got food.”

My gaze snaps to the man at the far end of the bar, and my vagina forgets that it’s married.

Tall. Broad. Dark hair that’s trimmed at the sides, thick and styled on top. A full, short beard that still accentuates a sharp jawline. His black bow tie is unfastened and hanging around the crisp whiteness of his shirt, and his tuxedo jacket is draped over the stool beside him. He looks a few years older than me.

When I don’t respond, he dips his hand into his discarded jacket pocket and produces a packet of M&Ms. My mouth waters.

“I’ve always been told not to take candy from strangers,” I say, despite the overwhelming urge to snatch the chocolate and run away to share it with Ranger.

The man arches a brow. “You were about to take lemons from the bartender.”

“Yes, but he works here,” I say, gesturing at the young man who watches the conversation like a tennis match. “Less likely to poison me.”

The man laughs. “It’s a sealed bag.” I tilt my head in aso whatway, and he tosses the packet to the bartender. The young guy catches them. “There. Now he can give them to you.”

“But I watched you give them to him,” I say, a laugh escaping me.

He shrugs, his grin warm. “I guess life is about taking risks.”

It is indeed. And the likelihood of me about to digest death chocolate is a small one. Fork murder? Extremely high right now.

“Fine, gimme.” I extend my hand and wiggle my fingers, and the bartender hands me the chocolate. I make an overenthusiastic point of checking the packaging for any tears or holes, and the stranger watches with amusement. Satisfied it’s safe, I tear open the packet and go to town.

Oh, good God. Poisoned or not, it’s worth it.