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  “The man’s a gem.” Bernice’s face glowed with approval. “I told Clay about that leaky faucet in the back bathroom, and he’s already fixed the problem.”

  Violet smiled, although the effort appeared painful. Clay imagined her mentally reviewing everything she’d said at the coffee shop and weighing whether dinner was worth having to put up with him. Hopefully, the mouthwatering aroma of Bernice’s pot roast would convince her to stay.

  “I was worried last night and asked the Lord to protect both of us,” Bernice continued. “Then Clay appeared on my doorstep today. He’s an answer to my prayer.” She patted his arm and headed back to the kitchen.

  The delightful landlady put more stock in his attempt to help than was deserved, but Bernice’s stamp of approval must have had a positive effect because at that moment, Violet shrugged out of her coat and handed it to Clay.

  “Did Bernice run an FBI check on you before you moved in?” she asked.

  So that was the problem. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Violet.”

  “And get me fired.”

  He hung her wrap in the hall closet then followed her into the living room. A couch, love seat and overstuffed chair sat around a brick fireplace where logs blazed.

  “The fire’s warm, and you look cold. Didn’t your mother tell you to wear a hat and gloves in the winter?”

  Violet threw him a frosty stare. “She was partial to mittens.”

  “Which you probably lost on occasion.” He indicated for her to sit on the end of the couch closest to the fireplace. “I picture you as a free-spirit type of kid.”

  “More like strong willed. I don’t give up.” She raised her brows.

  He got the message. She was determined to write the article on the mob and their connection to the two murdered Montana women.

  “My mother called it my Aunt Lettie stubbornness,” Violet added as she settled into the plush cushions on the couch.

  “Her sister?”

  “Sister-in-law.” Violet’s face shadowed for an instant.

  “A favorite aunt?” he asked, hoping to determine the reason for the momentary change of expression.

  “According to my mother, I followed in her footsteps.” Violet failed to say more, and Clay wouldn’t push the point.

  She crossed her sculpted legs. He fought to keep his eyes from straying south, although he did glance at her shoes. Open toes and much too delicate for Missoula’s winter. “You ever wear boots?”

  She looked at her feet. “Only when it snows. Are you always so inquisitive? You sound more like a reporter than a cop.”

  “Look, Violet, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot last night and then again today.”

  She smiled. “You’re going with a theme. Don’t tell me you have a thing for feet?”

  He swallowed down the laughter that tried to surface. The first comment that sprang to mind was he liked all parts of her anatomy, but that hardly seemed appropriate. Besides, their relationship needed to remain focused on the business at hand.

  Her safety. What she knew about the Mafia. The name of her informant. All important topics that had nothing to do with shoes or feet or how he wanted to sit next to her on the couch.

  Instead, he plopped down on the love seat. One guy in a two-person couch made him feel like the odd man out.

  For the next few minutes, they chatted about Missoula and the scenic spots located in this section of the state, keeping the conversation neutral and safe.

  Bernice stepped into the living room and invited them to the table. She led the way and explained the seating arrangement. “Clay, help Violet with the chair on my left. You sit to my right.”

  He held the indicated chair for Violet, then did the same for Bernice before he took his seat.

  The savory smells made his mouth water. Bernice had cooked some of his favorites. Green beans, mashed potatoes and homemade rolls along with the roast and gravy.

  Clay unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap, waiting to dig in as soon as Bernice started to pass the various dishes.

  Instead, she turned to him and gently touched his hand. “Such a pleasure having both of you at the dinner table this evening. We have so much for which to be thankful. I’d appreciate you offering the blessing, Clay.”

  “The blessing?”

  “Why yes, Clay. We need to give thanks to God for the food.” Bernice gave an inclusive glance at Violet. “And for the three of us being together.”

  At least, he had an idea of where to start. He was thankful to be with Violet. Surely he could put some of his feelings into words.

  He bowed his head, dropped his hands to his lap and fiddled with his napkin under the table.

  “Father…God, thank You for this food.” He stole a glance at Violet. Her eyes were closed, hands clasped, head bowed. “And for allowing our paths to cross. We’re grateful for Bernice’s cooking and for our hungry appetites.”

  Bernice chuckled under her breath.

  “Please keep Violet safe,” Clay continued.

  Her eyes popped open.

  He winked. “Amen.”

  “That was lovely.” Bernice’s smile of gratitude was genuine. “The Lord gave you the right words this evening.”

  He looked across the table at Violet. Too bad he never seemed to have the right words to use with her. When he was around Violet, he felt as if he was out on a high ledge with nowhere to go but down.

  She looked up again and her brown eyes locked on his.

  The room shifted. She had a dangerous effect on his equilibrium as if he were standing on the edge of a mountain cliff and had just been struck with the random vertigo that sometimes flooded over him.

  Step back or jump.

  At this point, neither option made sense.

  After dinner, Clay insisted on washing the dishes while Violet helped Bernice tidy the kitchen.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” she whispered to Violet.

  Seeing the muscular cop up to his elbows in soap-suds did soften the ambivalent feelings Violet had harbored toward Clay since he’d first appeared uninvited on her doorstep. She was beginning to realize the man had charm.

  Once the dishes were dried and put away, Bernice fixed a pot of coffee then excused herself, claiming she needed her beauty sleep. Clay poured coffee, carried two mugs into the living room and sat next to Violet on the end of the couch closest to the fireplace.

  “Heavy cream and two sugars. Did I get it right?”

  “Perfect.” She took a sip of the hot brew then leaned forward and placed her mug on the coffee table. Sitting back, she found Clay’s arm curving around her shoulders.

  He flashed her a hope-you-don’t-mind smile that sent a jolt of electricity to her midsection. The scent of his aftershave brought back memories of a darkened alleyway in Chicago. Her head swam as if she were caught in a swift current, being carried downstream. For half a second, she thought he was going to kiss her.

  Instead he said, “Why don’t you tell me what you know. How’d you find out about the two murdered Montana women?”

  Once a cop, always a cop.

  Surely if she shared information, he would do the same. Plus, he might be able to open a door that had remained closed to her.

  Violet told him how she learned about Ruby Summers Maxwell and the picture of Ruby’s twin sister, Jade, standing with Marshal McGraw.

  “His office handles Witness Protection,” she explained. “Fairly obvious that Ruby was in the program.”

  “What about the other woman?”

  “Carlie Donald entered Witness Protection after testifying against a member of organized crime who worked in Philly.”

  “So the Martino family didn’t have anything to do with her murder?” Clay asked.

  “I never said that. Carlie wasn’t killed because of the man she put in jail, but because of her green eyes and her participation in the Witness Protection Program.”

  “And green eyes are important because—?”

  �
�Because Eloise Hill has green eyes. Years ago, when she testified against Salvatore Martino, her photo was in all the newspapers. I tracked down various stories in the archives. One of them mentioned her green eyes.”

  Violet had also learned Eloise had a child named Kristin, although she doubted the baby had any relevance to what happened in Montana. Violet decided to reveal what she’d learned about Clay.

  “From what I found, your parents were killed in an auto accident. No relatives to take in their only child.”

  “No relatives willing to take in their only child,” he corrected, frustration now evident in his voice.

  “You were thirteen when you entered the Southside Foster Home and remained there for five years.”

  “I aged out at eighteen.”

  “Eloise was one of the other teens.”

  Clay nodded. “She was a few years older. For some reason, she decided to help the new kid settle in. Once I was Eloise’s friend, the other kids accepted me.”

  “Testifying against Salvatore Martino forced her into Witness Protection.”

  “That’s right.” Clay nodded. “And her courage to go up against the Chicago don made me realize I wanted to work in law enforcement. Someone has to draw a line in the sand and say what’s right and what’s wrong or the bad guys win.”

  Violet shook her head ever so slightly. “You’ve known all along Eloise was the reason the Martino thugs killed the two women in Montana.”

  His lips twitched seductively. “Yeah, but I needed to find out how much you knew. You did your homework, Violet. Where’d you get the information?”

  “A source who might be in danger.”

  “The woman at the coffee shop?” he asked.

  Violet held up her hand. “I won’t tell you anything until I talk to someone about getting her into the Witness Protection Program. I left a message with the U.S. Marshals office in Billings. Unfortunately, no one called me back.”

  “Earlier you mentioned Deputy Marshal Micah McGraw. I know his brother. Jackson McGraw is the FBI Special Agent-in-Charge of the Chicago office.”

  “Tell him I want protection for a woman associated with the mob.”

  Clay’s brow furrowed. “I told you to be careful, Violet. We talked about how you are in danger. The Mafia doesn’t play around.”

  “And what about other women who might be in danger? Shouldn’t they be warned? At least they’d know the Mafia could be closing in if they read the article I’m writing, which exposes what’s happening in this state.”

  “Printing something in the paper would blow the FBI operation and could endanger those already in Witness Protection.”

  “No, Clay, I’d be helping, not hurting their attempts to skirt the mob.”

  He sighed. “You’re only seeing one side of the picture.”

  “And you’re only interested in the side that affects you. What happened in Chicago that landed you in trouble? The way I heard it you pummeled a onetime pimp until backup arrived. You two had a history, only I couldn’t find out what or who was involved.”

  Clay clamped down on his jaw.

  She waited for him to respond. Maybe she’d gone too far.

  He sat for a moment, staring at the fire. Finally, he grabbed their mugs off the coffee table and stood.

  “It’s late and you have to work tomorrow. I’ll get my coat.” He took the mugs to the kitchen then walked to the back of the house. A door closed.

  A few seconds later, Violet’s phone rang. She pulled the cell from her purse and lifted it to her ear, hearing a sharp intake of breath before the connection died.

  A Chicago area code but not the number Gwyn had used the night before last. Violet hit the call back button. Before anyone answered, Clay returned to the living room, coat in hand.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  Violet flipped her cell closed and stood. “Really, I’ll be fine on my own.”

  He raised his brow.

  She sighed. “Okay, I know. A girl’s got to be careful.”

  He grabbed her coat from the closet and helped her slip it on. Shrugging into his own jacket, he held the door for her.

  The night had turned even more frigid. Clay wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they hustled along the sidewalk. Violet’s coat was lightweight, and she enjoyed the warmth of his embrace.

  Stars twinkled overhead, and the moon—a bit larger than last night—lightened their path. As if there had been an unspoken pact, they turned to frivolous chatter that made them both laugh as they climbed the steps to Violet’s porch. An inside lamp glowed through the window, and the porch light brightened the stoop.

  Clay took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. “Let me check the house before you go in.”

  He quickly moved from room to room, opening closets and glancing behind furniture and into the corners. Tonight, Violet appreciated his concern for her safety.

  He returned to the porch. “Everything looks okay. I noticed the laundry-room window was locked and the curtains drawn.”

  “I’m trying to do what you tell me,” she said, feeling her lips twitch with mischief.

  “Just remember the danger hasn’t passed. I’ll keep an eye on your house throughout the night so don’t worry. My cell phone stays on. If you hear anything that doesn’t sound right, call me.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard, Clay.”

  “Cut me a little slack, Violet.”

  He smiled in an alluring way that made her neck tingle and her internal temperature rise.

  Quickly as it came, the smile vanished. Stepping closer, he caught her chin with his right hand and looked into her eyes.

  Her heart skidded to a stop.

  “Thanks for making my day a little brighter.”

  Violet sighed. The man had a way with words.

  Then he turned on his heels and walked down the steps. Violet watched him hurry across the street, feeling a longing grow deep within her.

  How could she sleep knowing he was on guard? The longer she was around Clay the more confused she became. As much as she wanted to stand on her own two feet, she let down her guard whenever he was near.

  She needed to be careful. Yes, the mob posed a threat, but the way her body reacted whenever she was with Clay caused her more concern at the moment. Despite his good looks and rugged individualism, she needed to remember the bottom line.

  She didn’t trust cops.

  SIX

  Clay had acted like a love-struck teenager, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend as he walked her home. Fact was he’d wanted to kiss Violet. The thought tingled through his gut as he opened Bernice’s front door and stepped inside the house. He would have liked to kiss Violet about a million times to see if that sensation ever subsided. Clay doubted it would.

  Hanging his jacket in the closet, he noticed the fresh floral scent of Violet’s perfume that clung to his shirt. He sniffed the sleeve that had wrapped around her on the couch then chuckled at his own reaction.

  Get a grip, old boy.

  Old? Thirty-five was hardly over the hill. But Violet had to be ten years younger. To him, the difference seemed insignificant. Age wasn’t the problem.

  He poured a cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine would snap him back to reality. He needed to talk to Jackson, but he didn’t want the FBI agent to hear anything in his voice except a law officer’s focus on his job.

  Taking a long swig of the coffee, he pulled out his cell and tapped in Jackson’s number.

  “I spoke with Violet Kramer,” Clay said when the agent answered. “She’s got friends who don’t seem to have a problem feeding her information.”

  “Not surprising for a reporter.”

  “Violet mentioned an informant.”

  “The woman at the coffee shop?”

  “I’m not sure, but the informant has some connection with the Martino family.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “No. Although we might be able to work out a deal if Violet can tal
k to someone in the U.S. Marshals office in Billings. She wants to get the informant into Witness Protection. I was hoping Micah would be available to meet with us.”

  “Any chance she’ll share more information if we can promise protection for her snitch?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. I’m also hoping she’ll listen to Micah. My warnings haven’t penetrated her stubbornness yet.”

  “I’ll see what we can arrange,” Jackson said.

  “Violet mentioned Eloise.”

  “In what context?”

  “Who the Mafia might be looking for.”

  “Did she get that from her source or come up with it on her own?”

  “I have a feeling it was from the source. We know Salvatore wants Eloise to pay for sending him to jail.”

  Jackson grumbled. “What you did to Cameron Trimble is what I’d like to do to Salvatore. Only I wouldn’t want any cops around to pull me off the guy.”

  “I hear you.”

  “How many lives have been ruined because of him? How many people killed or living on the run?” Jackson pulled air into his lungs. “Listen, you’re doing a good job with this reporter. I’ll talk to Micah and get back to you.”

  Clay hung up and poured another cup of coffee. He’d keep watch over Violet’s house to ensure the intruder or his buddies didn’t return tonight. The way his heart was racing, Clay couldn’t sleep. If he did nod off, he’d probably meet Violet in his dreams.

  Still affected by her earlier encounter with Clay, Violet put water on the stove to boil, hoping a cup of chamomile tea would calm her fluttering heart. While the water heated, she opened her cell phone and looked at the last incoming number. Though the hang-up call had come from a Chicago area code, if it was from a cell phone, the caller could be anywhere. Even Missoula.

  The kettle boiled. Violet poured water over the tea bag, inhaled the fresh herbal scent and, cup in hand, headed for her computer.

  She had work to do. Somehow, she needed to shove Clay and the hang-up call into the think-about-later portion of her brain. Slipping her flash drive into the USB port, she pulled up the photo she’d taken on her cell phone earlier today.

  The photo captured the woman’s face as she’d glanced back at Violet. Or was she looking at something else?