120 Mph Read Free Page A

every
bit of glassware upon it. At least eight thousand dollars’ worth of glassware—if
put up for auction.
    She’d had enough of men trying to make
her uneasy over the last week. Her mutiny grew.
    “Who put you up to this? Mike?”
    Sara felt uncomfortable by not only his
nearness, but for the words to his following her home from work. She forced a
smile to state any effort on his part would not work in his favor. It would be
just the thing for Mike to do. Hire a man to follow her every move. Mike Derby
couldn’t take ‘no’ for answer. Moreover, the guy was a real asshole. He’d been
a bit bothersome as of late, and that bothering nature now looked to be more on
a stalking level that might need the involvement of authorities.
    She wasn’t much into contacting the
police, even if and when necessary. It was a trust issue more than a careless
issue and one she couldn’t seem to get past.
    Sara had single-handedly closed the
local strip club due to a health violation—alas, nothing more. It was as if all
the men in town, who didn’t have large breasts to stare at, had too much time
on their hands to pull childish pranks on those not as well-endowed. It wasn’t
as if she’d killed someone. She put a few hookers out of a job, that’s all. And
of course Mike had been the first to complain and the first to make Sara’s life
miserable.
    Assholes ’
shit didn’t stink any more than Chippendales ’ would, yet they were a horse
apiece in Sara’s book. Both jerks had been born from the Kingdom of Hotness.
    “I don’t know anyone named Mike. Should
I?” he asked, as his strong brow cocked to state this as truth.
    Regrettably, that raised brow made her equally
uneasy, and if done for what it was meant for, it sure as hell was doing its
job. Sara was squirming.
    “Come on? Really?” she said tartly. “You
have nothing better to do than to follow a woman to a yard sale?”
    He was too well dressed to be a crazed
stalker. Pressed casual pants, expensive leather jacket, and under the jacket
what looked to be . . . a tie ? His wavy brown hair looked tailored under
a barber’s care and wasn’t at all just plain brown as first thought. There was
a light dusting of silver in the strands. His clean-shaven face and bright
smile were a dead giveaway to his personal hygiene habits. Not a freckle or
hair out of place.
    He wasn’t a slob and he cared about
presentation . . . okay, she could work with that.
    Honestly, Sara’s second assessment had
been done much more thoroughly for the potential sketch artist, and certainly
not because she’d needed to check him out.
    Perhaps he knew Bill.
    Bill Hayer, in accounting, was angry all
the time and for good reason. Nevertheless, a filthy kitchen was a filthy
kitchen. And Sara had warned them to clean up their act. Eight days ago, she
publically closed the club down. That closing looked to be for good, because
once the doors were locked by way of Sheriff’s order, a few other sordid
details started spilling out of the place of which Sara had nothing to do with
by a simple closing of the club’s kitchen.
    Bill was leaving Sara nasty notes on her
desk every morning, making sure she knew she was being watched. They hadn’t
transcended into threatening, but she wasn’t taking any chances by calling his
bluff.
    “You weren’t at this yard sale, Sara,”
the stranger eased out of the corner of his mouth. “You were on your way home.
And the bright red sale sign caught your eye . . . as I knew it would.”
    “As—as you knew it would?” she squeaked out.
    At least the words had been audible, first
screamed from inside all the goo within her head, then tempered to simmering in
the back of the throat and released as a croak off the tongue.
    “This is Depression ware Heaven,” he
spoke flatly, looking her right in the eyes. “You would have stopped.”
    He’d made it seem as though he knew old
stuff pulled her in like metal to magnet. Yet how could that be? She never