Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,11

I’ve become. But as soon as Gramps’ will is read, you’ll learn a whole lot more.”

“Good. I like a surprise.”

“When is the will to be read?” She swallowed her reflexive response and managed a semblance of civility. “Super soon, I hope.”

“Tomorrow around noon.” He sat down in front of the fire, weathered fingers clasping his cup. “You’ll be able to catch the four o’clock flight.”

“Good. Great, in fact. As soon as I get back to T-O I’ll contact National Realty and set up the sale of this place. You’d better start packing. I’ll want you out asap.”

She turned to sweep out of the room, remembered her coffee, and hesitated. It was good, one of the best brews she’d ever tasted. And she hadn’t had a cup since breakfast. She swung back, scooped up the mug, then made a second attempt at a haughty exit.

“Don’t let thoughts of what Jack might have left to me disturb your sleep. The only thing he promised me was his favorite old salmon rod.” His words, tinged with sarcastic humor followed her.

Chapter Three

“Gramps left you a fishing rod?”

“Yes.” He freshened his coffee. “Years ago, when I caught my first salmon on that rod and Jack showed me the right way to release it back into the river, he said he’d leave it to me in his will. He always kept his promises.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.” He shrugged. “And neither do I…until tomorrow.”

Keep your cool. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ll be rid of him forever.

In an effort to take her own advice, Allison ambled over to the bookcase and began to peruse the contents.

“The Lost Will.” She pulled a volume from the shelves and waved it in his direction. “As I recall, a man is murdered by a prospective heir. Think I’ll climb into bed and refresh my memory.”

As she sauntered out of the living room, thumbing through its pages in pretense of a casual confidence she was far from feeling, he called after her, “That’s a Christie, isn’t it? See if it mentions anything about a twenty-year-old salmon rod as a motive. Dame Agatha generally used bigger gains as motives, as I recall.”

Allison’s lips tightened as she crossed the darkened dining room. Her fingers gripped the novel with a vengeance.

I wish you were a hero-woodsman type swinging through the woods. I’d be first in line to trip you up.

Inside her warm room, she snapped on the light. Heath must have activated the electric heat. Even though it was the first of May, a damp, foggy night in this area could be chilly, even frosty.

She pulled a skimpy silk nightgown from her suitcase. Not exactly appropriate to the setting. A wicked desire to see the expression on her companion’s face if she paraded out into the living room wearing it slipped across her mind.

Not tonight, but maybe just before I kick him off my property. She laid it aside.

Another bit of pink, this time in a floral pattern, caught her eye. Rose-patterned flannel pajamas.

When Myra had suggested warm sleepwear might come in handy on their trip to New Brunswick, Allison had laughed. They’d be staying at a motel in town for two nights, for heaven’s sake. She, Allison Armstrong, was accustomed to the sensation of silk against her skin in bed. But she hadn’t been expecting to be left in the backwoods with a barbarian named Heath Oakes.

You really set me up to stay here, didn’t you, Mom. I wonder when you stuck this kiddie outfit into my suitcase. No doubt about keeping things platonic in this getup. Not even Nature Boy-slash-gigolo could be turned on by it.

What the heck. She gave the jacket a flap and picked up the pants. No one was going to see her in them, and it was only for one night. Late tomorrow afternoon she’d be on a plane headed back to the city.

Dragging the flannel outfit behind her, she went to the window and drew the drapes against the fog and darkness. Five minutes later, she climbed into the sleigh bed, pulled the quilts about her, adjusted the shade on the bedside lamp, and settled down to read The Lost Will, her pajamas and white cotton gym socks cozy and comforting in the inhospitable night.

The digits on the clock radio beside her bed indicated 9:15 p.m. Normally Allison Armstrong wouldn’t be in bed for at least another two hours. This particular day had been exhausting, though, with the early morning flight out of