by Jill Shalvis
So why hadn’t Santa been able to pay his elves?
And why couldn’t she find the names of the people associated with running St. Michael’s Bingo? The website was one page consisting of nothing more than a pic of the village with their hours and address listed. No contact, no number.
Molly called Mrs. Berkowitz. “Who runs the village and the bingo hall?”
“Santa.”
Molly rubbed the spot between her eyes. “Does Santa have a name?”
“Santa.”
Molly had to laugh. “The guy who puts on the Santa suit. What’s his name?”
“Oh. We call him Crazy Nick.”
“As in … St. Nicolas?” Molly asked.
“No, as in Crazy Nick.”
Okay, she’d bite. “What makes him crazy?”
“Well, he’s had four wives, for one. And they all work for him even though they hate him. That’s what makes him crazy. He’s always grumpy. If I had four ex-wives, I don’t think I’d want them working for me.”
“Does Crazy Nick have a last name?” Molly asked.
“Probably, but I don’t know it. I could ask one of his exes for you on my next shift. But I’ve gotta go, dear. Jeopardy’s on.”
Molly disconnected. She needed to dig deeper, but for that she needed her work computer and superior programs. Telling herself she’d get up early, she went to bed.
And dreamed of warm, deep brown eyes the color of her favorite thing in the world—chocolate. She dreamed of a wicked smile to go with, and hands that had pulled her close, but not to sleep …
* * *
The next afternoon, Lucas was dividing his time between peering out through his binoculars and eyeing the screen of his tablet, which was streaming a live feed from the bugged building they were surveilling. He was doing his damnedest to concentrate on the job instead of how cruel life was that he’d slept with Molly but couldn’t remember a single minute of it.
Was her body as warm and curvy as it seemed in those sexy business dresses she always wore?
And what did she wear underneath? Lace? Silk? He had absolutely zero preference; he loved any of it. Had she slowly stripped out of everything and then run her hands all over his body? Had he gotten his mouth on hers? Did she taste as good as he imagined she would—
“It’s effing hot in here,” Joe muttered.
Since the guy had been complaining for hours, Lucas didn’t respond. Especially because it was hot in here.
“I’m hungry,” Joe said.
Lucas lowered the binoculars and pulled out an earbud of his headset. “Anything else?”
“My ass is numb.”
“And you want me to what exactly?” Lucas asked.
“Just saying,” Joe muttered and blew out a breath. “We’ve been here forever.”
Here, being the inside of a surveillance van. They were an hour north of San Francisco, in Sonoma at the Sonoma Raceway. And yeah, for December, the day was unseasonably warm and it was effing hot, and they’d run out of food a few hours ago.
He was there for surveillance and to record any evidence, but had been ordered to stay away from any real action, with Joe as backup on the off chance things were sour.
Lucas was ridiculously grateful to be on the job at all.
“I’m just saying,” Joe said.
“What are you just saying?”
Joe gave him a look. “Why aren’t you listening?”
Because I’m fantasizing about your sister naked and under me, moaning my name …
“This isn’t going to happen today,” Joe decided, pulling off his headset. “Intel was wrong.”
Intel on today’s surveillance had come from Molly’s research, research that Lucas had gone over with a fine-tooth comb. “My gut says otherwise,” he said. And his gut was almost always right. He’d honed his instincts at his previous job with the DEA, where he’d worked undercover for five years. Several of his cases had involved huge insurance fraud schemes, and it’d been one of those jobs to cost Lucas the love of his life, however indirectly.
Not that he was going there.
In any case, this job was going to be textbook. Their client, a major car manufacturer, had a problem. Some of their employees had been working overtime when a drive shaft had slipped, sending a truck axle crashing to the floor. Seven employees had claimed a variety of injuries, though no one had been hit. Three of the employees were back at work. Four employees were still off and had instigated a civil suit against the car manufacturer.
Lucas had dug deep, and in fact he’d done so with Molly’s help, discovering that the four employees went way back with each other and were old friends whose lives were entwined to the point that they’d all vacationed together. They each had doctor documentation saying they were unable to work, and yet Molly had tracked credit card records that put all four of them at the Sonoma Raceway for three consecutive weekends.
They were taking race car lessons.
“Maybe you’re right about tonight,” Joe murmured as two cars pulled into the lot. Two men came out of each car, the four of them meeting the descriptions and photos they had of the “injured” employees. “Damn,” he said looking through the lens of his camera, snapping still shots. “You getting this?”
“Yep,” Lucas said, filming their entrance. “Still want to leave?”
“Shut up.”
When the men vanished inside the racetrack, Lucas and Joe exited their vehicle to get better coverage. And to make sure that the men actually got into race cars.
“I always forget how good she is,” Joe murmured as they took their seats in the stands as spectators. “Molly.”
Lucas didn’t answer. Because he never forgot how good Molly was.
Well, except for the other night …
Hot Winter Nights
will be available September 25, 2018,
wherever books are sold!
Copyright © 2018 by Jill Shalvis
ISBN-13: 978-1-488-03767-2
Flash Storm
First published by Harlequin Blaze in 2008
This edition published in 2018
Copyright © 2008 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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