Page 101 of His Forgotten Colton Fiancee

Having this man in her kitchen made her uneasy. “You’d better leave. You don’t want the order to get cold.”

She handed him the box filled with the enchiladas and burritos, covered to keep them warm.

He nodded and left, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind him.

Relief filled her. Quinn returned to the kitchen, placed the check on the table.

She pressed two fingers to her head. Another headache. Was her memory returning?

No, it must have been the smell of smoke from Nestor’s clothing. So strange. A man who professed to like health food and smoked. Well, his clients liked healthyfood.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the gut feeling something was wrong about the man.

Maybe she should call West. Ask his advice.

You never wanted anything to do with him again.

Quinn returned to slicing carrots when a truck screeched to a halt at the curb. As she glanced up, West ran into the kitchen, Rex beside him.

Mouth tight, eyes glittering with focus. Something was dreadfullywrong.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he muttered. “Quinn, was your client here?”

“He just left. What’s wrong?”

“Your client wasn’t here for ordering food. He’s the unsub who killed Tia.” West gripped her arms. “Quinn, tell me, where did he spend his time? Was he in the kitchen?”

Mouth wobbling, she tried to form words.

“Quinn! Tell me!”

“Yes. He...he wanted to see my operation.”

“Get back,” West ordered tersely. “Rex, find.”

“Find what?” she asked. Then it dawned on her. “Oh my God. We have to get out of here.”

“No. I need to find that explosive device. No telling how powerful it is. Could take down this building and the one next to it.” West glared at her. “I told you to get out!”

“This is my store. I’m not leaving you.”

Nose down, tail up, Rex sniffedaround the kitchen. She couldn’t hang back while West and Rex placed themselves in danger. In the doorway, Quinn watched, clutching the chef’s knife like a life preserver. Heart racing, she couldn’t believe it.

A bomb in her kitchen?

The canine paced the kitchen, going back and forth, his nose to the floor. How could Rex discern anything with all the smells? Chili, tomatoes, onions. Cumin.

But she knew this was what West had trained him to do.

Pausing for a beat, Rex loped over to the steel table where Quinn had set down the last order. Tail beating the air, Rex sat.

He’d locked onto the scent of something.

“Good boy, Rex,” West said, his voice pitched higher.

West crouched down and removed a box the size of a cell phone from under the steel table. A light blinked.

He raced outside, banging open the back door. “Rex, stay! You, too, Quinn!”