Dead Cute (Drop-Dead Lethal #1)

Chapter 1

SABLE

I wrapped my arms around myself and kept my head down against the cold of a New York City November. My hood obscured most of my face from the people I passed.

I stepped through the crowd outside a club and paused to listen to the sound of Pink Pony Club blaring from the open door.

"Come on darling, I want to dance."

A man in straight leg jeans and a V-neck sweater stubbed out his blunt, grabbed his partner's hand and pulled him inside.

I watched for a moment before I hurried on.

I wanted to dance too, but I didn't want to risk the pitying looks. The whispers. The gossips. The people who asked questions I had no answers for.

My breath misting the air, I moved on until the music was nothing but a throb in the distance.

At a corner, I stopped to look up. The darkness where the sky should be was swallowed by the lights of the city. Millions of stars hidden by neon and fluorescence.

I jumped as my phone vibrated in my pocket. The generic ringtone sounded loud. Shrill. I should change it or turn it off.

I ignored it. The caller was probably another reporter with more questions.

I stepped across the road as it finally stopped ringing. A moment later, it started again.

I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Pressed on it to end the call before putting the phone on do not disturb. I was tempted to throw it in a trash can as I walked past, but I shoved it back in my pocket instead.

Once again it vibrated, this time with a text message. I didn't need to look to know what it said. Yet another request for an interview. How many had I turned down already? Ten? Twenty? I'd lost count.

What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about my husband’s murder’ did they not understand? It would be better if they didn't see the relief on my face when I talked about it.

The phone sounded again.

"For fuck's sake," I hissed under my breath. I really was going to throw the thing away. I yanked it out. It was a different number this time. That wasn't what caught my eye.

The text message was a single word.

Unknown caller

Bitch

Unknown sender. Probably a wrong number. I was about to delete it when another popped up:

Unknown caller

It's your fault

It wasn't the weather that sent a chill down my spine. I should have deleted both messages. Instead I sent one back.

Me

Who is this?

Of course they wouldn't reply. Who'd send messages like that from an unknown number, then explain themselves?

Just when I thought they weren't going to respond, another message popped up.

Unkown caller

Your worst nightmare

I snorted. Whoever this asshole was, he had no idea of the nightmare I'd already lived. The nightmare two people in masks saved me from. People who entered the hotel room I was sharing with my late, unlamented asshole of a husband. Somehow they knew what he was doing to me.

They killed him for it.

I owed them one. At least one. Maybe a lot more than one. Probably ten or eleven.

If I had any idea who they were, I'd send them a huge gift basket to say thank you.

Unknown caller

I'll see you soon, bitch

"Sure you will," I said to the screen.

I looked around. Watched for anyone watching me.

Apart from a couple of funny looks from people who wondered why I was looking around the way I was, no one seemed to be paying me much attention.

Either they were a good actor, or they weren't here.

I decided it was the latter. Someone with the guts to send threatening messages, but not to show up in person. I should report this to the cops.

I had the direct number of a detective who investigated my husband's murder, along with instructions to call him if I thought of anything else. Any detail I hadn't already told him.

I wouldn't.

I'd told him everything I could think of. Everything except one important detail. One of my husband's killers was a woman. I'd heard her voice when she spoke to her accomplice. Feminine and confident.

For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to mention that. It seemed important, relevant enough they might actually find her if they knew what they were looking for.

I didn't want her found.

Killing Wolfgang Taylor-Francis was a service to the world as far as I was concerned.

A service to me, and women like me. Women forced into a situation they wanted no part of.

Women who couldn't walk away. They'd done what I couldn’t.

End him. I was too scared to do it. Or pay someone to.

I would have left a money trail. The cops would have traced it back to me. He wasn't worth going to jail for.

I startled as someone bumped into me as they walked past. Flinched.

"I'm so sorry," the tall blonde said over her shoulder as she bustled past.

"Yeah, me too," I said more softly, giving her a nod before I turned away.

I didn't want to flinch every time someone touched me, but the text messages put me on edge.

Okay, more than usual. She could have slipped a knife between my ribs before hurrying on.

Or stolen my phone. Would that be so bad?

It would if I wanted sushi at three in the morning.

I checked my pockets. My phone was still there.

It was an accident. I reminded myself. Nothing more.

I hurried on toward my apartment. It would be warm in there, but I'd be alone.

The brisk walk, down a few blocks and back again wasn't just exercise. It was to remind myself I still lived in the world. I still existed. Locking myself away in my apartment and never leaving would be too easy.

For some reason I couldn't explain, it'd be a win for Wolfgang. He'd wanted to hide me away. He would have loved me to retreat from everything after he died, as if somehow I was spending the rest of my life grieving the prick.

Fuck that. He'd been dead for months. It was past time that I reclaimed my life. Got back to doing the things I enjoyed.

What was that again? Hobbies seemed like a distant memory. Another life. I could always take up new ones. Right? Maybe I could learn how to knit. Or write the great novel I'd always wanted to write. The one Wolfgang would have laughed about if I'd mentioned it to him.

"No one would read it," he'd say. "Stick to what you're good at. Looking pretty on my arm."

I would have jabbed my fork into his eyeball if he said that, but like I said, going to jail for him wasn't worth it.

I walked past Angel's Rest, the renowned restaurant owned by chef Harlow St. James.

The smell drifting through the open doorway made my mouth water. One of the diners laughed at something their companion said. The sound made me smile.

I almost stepped inside, but remembered that these days I needed to book months in advance just to have lunch there.

I should book anyway, even if I sat by myself. I should do nice things for me. Things to remind myself I deserved to be taken care of, even if it was only by myself.

"Sable Kohl." A voice spoke behind me, smooth like whiskey over ice with a hint of chocolate.

I turned and pushed my hood off my head.

"Judge Cross."

"I thought that was you. Please, call me Forrest." His bright blue eyes regarded me like he could see into my soul and reveal all my secrets. As if he could see under all of my clothes and knew what would get me going with a glance.

"Forrest," I repeated. His name felt warm on my lips. Sensual.

"What brings you to this part of the city?" he asked.

"I was out for a walk."

Why did I suddenly feel so awkward around him?

Like a girl with a crush. I hardly knew the man.

I'd seen him here and there at charity events I'd forced myself to attend after Wolfgang's death.

We'd exchanged a few words here and there.

A glance before stepping away. I usually left once someone noticed I was there. Once I was 'seen.'

Those events were a brief reminder the world outside my apartment existed. People had needs. I had money, more money than I'd ever spend in my life. I might as well do something useful with it.

"I see," he said slowly. "I was just about to have lunch, would you care to join me?"

I hesitated.

"Everyone needs to eat," he said, filling in the silence. "You do eat, don't you?"

Now he was teasing me. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

"I—" I swallowed hard. "I've been known to eat once in a while," I said. Why did my eyes drop toward his groin? That wasn't what I meant.

"I mean food," I said quickly. "I mean…"

My face heated.

He rumbled a laugh. "What else would we be talking about?"

"Um, I can't think of a thing," I said in a rush. "I could go for some lunch." I glanced back toward Angel's Rest.

"Not there," he said. "One of my sons works there. Things are still awkward."

"Right."

If I remembered correctly, he had two of them: Jules and Cass. I'd seen them at the occasional charity event too, along with their girlfriend, Harlow, and her other two boyfriends, Archer and a man who called himself Boner, if you can believe that.

"There's a nice cafe on the corner."

Forrest offered me his arm.

I stared at it.

He lowered it to his side. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be…"

"It's okay," I said quickly. "I'm just—" I shook my head. "I'm still trying to deal."

"Of course you are."

He gestured for me to walk beside him, giving me a comfortable amount of personal space.

We walked in silence to Donatella’s, where he led the way to a table with a chair against the wall. A position that would let me sit and see the whole room.

How had he known? I would have walked out if I had to sit with my back to everyone else.

I can't even attribute that to Wolfgang. I'd always been that careful. On guard.

I offered him a smile as I slid into my seat and picked up a menu.

"This is a nice place." I berated myself for the small talk. Whatever though, we had to start somewhere, right? At least I didn't ask him if he came here often.

"It is," he agreed. "I come here often."

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.

He raised an eyebrow at me, but smiled back.

This, right here, was why I needed to get out more. I couldn't even hold a proper conversation with another person without making a complete idiot of myself.

"What do you recommend?" I asked, nodding toward the menu.

"The BLT here is very good," he said. "So is the coffee. Apparently they make a passible milkshake as well."

I wrinkled my nose.

"I'm a bit of a matcha girl myself," I said, but when the server came around, I ordered the BLT.

Forrest ordered the same, but with a coffee.

"This looks amazing," I said when she placed our food in front of us. She gave me a nod and hurried away.

"So, how have you been?" He picked up his coffee and watched me over the rim of his cup while he took a sip.

"I could ask you the same thing," I said.

He'd be a more interesting topic of conversation than I would. Wouldn't he?

He saw right through my diversion. I could tell from his expression, but he nodded. "Busy. But not too busy to have lunch with a beautiful woman."

I swallowed and picked up my sandwich. I didn't feel beautiful. I hadn't in a long time.

"That's very nice of you," I said politely.

"No, it's not," he replied. "I'm being honest; I was hoping to bump into you."

"You were?" Oh hell, what had I done? Did the cops realize I knew more than I told them? Why else would a judge want to speak to me? I thought, but couldn't come up with a single reason. Okay, one, but there was no way. Was there?

"I was," he agreed. "If you're ready to move on with your life, I'd like to get to know you better."