Rosehall...
Oh, shit. She'd never worn this costume at Rosehall, but she had gotten it there.
"Someone recognized what I was wearing,” she said, her voice void of the anger boiling within. Anger aimed at herself, at her own thoughtlessness. Yet, how could she have known, realistically, that there was any chance of the costume being recognized?
"What?"
"This outfit,” she said, lightly flicking the chains wrapping the skirt. The resulting chimes sawed at her nerves and deepened her anger. “It was given to me at Rosehall."
"By who? Jontee?"
If only. “No. Besides, Jontee's dead and hardly in a position to recognize anything."
"Then who?"
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Nelle James."
Chapter Eight
Cade studied her for a long moment and then said slowly, “Nelle James gave you that outfit?"
"Isn't that what I just said?"
Her voice held a mix of anger and defiance, and he smiled grimly. There was no need to reprimand her for her stupidity, because she was kicking herself hard enough. “Meaning she's here in town?"
"I would have told you if she was,” she snapped back, her green eyes flashing like a cat's in the darkness that surrounded them.
"Would you? I'm not so sure.” After all, how well did he actually know her beyond the realm of the bedroom? The report Oliver had given him had contained very little information, and she'd pretty much kept mum about personal details in the brief time they'd been together at Rosehall. The only thing he knew about her was the fact that she and Nelle had been very close friends. And close friends didn't rat on each other, did they?
"I'm a ranger,” she said, voice deceptively calm given how white her knuckles suddenly were. “Don't you ever accuse me of not doing my job properly."
"I didn't—"
"Then what the hell do you think making an accusation like that was?"
"I was trying to elicit an honest response, which I got."
"Bastard."
"I'm an IIS officer. That's what we do.” He reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. “Why don't you go talk to Denny while I see if I can get that truck tracked down?"
She stared at him for a second or two, her finger's flexing, as if she was debating whether to hit him or salute him. In the end she did neither, simply shoved the wig back on before walking away. He called Anton, but as he waited, his gaze was drawn to the enticing sway of her h*ps as she stalked toward the club. There was, he noted with amusement, something very alluring about the way a woman walked when she was angry.
"Hey, boss,” Anton said, by way of hello. “What's up?"
"I want you to head up to Main Street and cruise around for a dark blue truck being driven by a blonde in a sheer black dress. She'd be in her early to mid-twenties."
"Not exactly an unpleasant task.” He paused, and Cade heard the sound of keys jingling and the quick murmur of conversation before a door slammed. “Why are we looking for the blonde?"
"She was the woman who apparently asked the kid to leave the note on Ranger Grant's windshield."
"And she spotted you? Dressed as you were?"
"Either that or we were followed."
"You didn't have a tail. Trista checked after you left."
"Savannah swears no one followed her."