Stealing Taffy (Bigler, North Carolina #3) - Susan Donovan Page 0,11

over his face and through his hair. He glanced around the room again, and that’s when he saw it—something shiny near his right shin. He stared at the bracelet. What the hell? Then he noticed a small piece of paper underneath. Dante snapped everything up and read Taffy’s words—“something to remember me by.”

He laughed. Damn, that girl was good. He sat quietly like that for many seconds, staring at the bracelet and the note. He should just toss everything in the trash. He’d never see that chick again and the last thing he needed was to go around collecting memorabilia from anonymous encounters with women from airports. It wasn’t like he did this sort of thing every day, but he did live in a one-bedroom with limited storage, after all.

Dante called O’Connor to tell her he was alive, that his flight was rerouted, and he would be on the next thing smokin’ out of Washington. She wasn’t happy, but at least he’d done due diligence. Next, he called the travel office to book a flight. Then he staggered to the shower, pretty much every single body part complaining at maximum decibel levels when he moved. As the hot water cascaded over him, images of Taffy flashed through his brain like heat lightning, and he decided that was that. He was done with her. He wouldn’t give the chick any more of his focus. It had been fun. It had been incredibly hot. But it was done.

Dante dressed quickly, packed up, and tossed a twenty on the bed for the unlucky maid. Before he could overthink things, he grabbed the bracelet and note and shoved them in his bag, well aware that he wouldn’t need a piece of cheap jewelry to remember her by.

Chapter 3

Kelly O’Connor was positively pleasant. It scared the hell out of him.

“So how’s your mother and sister, Cabrera?”

Dante nodded. “Good.”

“I already got an answer from Division.”

“I figured you had.”

“They denied your out-of-state transfer request.”

“No surprise there.”

“They want you to stay put for at least another six months and help transition in two undercover agents coming up from Atlanta this fall.”

“My pleasure.”

O’Connor tipped her head and studied him. “Look, I know you don’t particularly like the South. I have to admit it wasn’t my first choice, either, but you’re doing an incredible job and obviously our presence here is needed.”

Dante sighed, letting his gaze wander around the antique exposed brick of his boss’s office. He had to admit that Asheville was a charming little city nestled in the Appalachian Mountains—if a person happened to like charming little cities nestled in mountains. Which he did not. He preferred flat stretches of concrete and subway stations and hot dog carts and foul-smelling exhaust fumes and people who didn’t need five minutes just to say hello.

“Give it some time. It might grow on you.”

“Like a fungus.”

With that, O’Connor did something he’d never, ever, heard his boss do. She giggled. Giggled like a girl. This new bubbly-personality thing was disturbing, because he was far more comfortable with the old O’Connor, the one who cussed like a longshoreman and could hold her liquor like one, too. What had happened in the two weeks he’d taken off to interview at Division, visit his mother in Brooklyn, and see his sister in Chicago? If he didn’t know better he’d think O’Connor had been getting some.

“You been gettin’ some?”

Her face went scarlet and her eyes became huge. “None of your business, Cabrera.”

Dante shrugged. “Please accept my apology.” O’Connor was a complicated female, the kind who was apt to change the rules on a whim. She’d been open about her personal life with Dante in the past. She’d told him all about the mess she’d gotten herself into as a rookie and how she had a strict policy about dating other agents—it was never going to happen again. Dante figured the disclosure had been a warning for him, though she needn’t have bothered. O’Connor was attractive enough, with those pale eyes and dark hair, but she was nothing but sharp edges and hard surfaces. It was the job, no doubt. She’d been a DEA special agent for a dozen years and company women often toned down their femininity to avoid appearing “weak.”

O’Connor was so not his type.

Pink Taffy was his type.

He jolted in alarm. Oh, no. No, no, no. He wasn’t going there. He was done thinking about sweet and salty Taffy. Finished. It pissed him off that he hadn’t been able to shake her in the