BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) Read Free

black-and-white fur. The cat didn’t move or acknowledge his presence.
    “Eh-eh-eh-eh … ”
    He smiled. “Dream on, Luna. Without claws, you wouldn’t last ten minutes out there.”
    “Why did you have her de-clawed?” she asked.
    “I didn’t. They had already done that at the pet store where I rescued her.”
    The word choice made her smile. “You seem to be in the habit of rescuing maidens in distress.”
    He shuffled toward her, affecting an exaggerated limp. “And look at the terrible price I paid for my chivalry,” he said, drawing her into his arms.
    She laughed as he rubbed his beard against her neck, tickling her. “You fake. We hiked five miles yesterday, and I could barely keep up with you. And you were certainly rambunctious enough in bed this morning. I’d say your battle wounds have pretty much healed.”
    “True. Now the brave knight collects his reward.” His lips moved lightly against her throat.
    “Cut that out. Luna isn’t the only lady here with breakfast fantasies. Grab your coat.”
    He sighed and straightened. “You fail to appreciate male priorities.”
    “I appreciated your priorities just a few hours ago, mister. Now let’s go, before they stop serving.”
    “ My priorities?” He flashed that crooked little grin she adored.
     
    They emerged from the fire-warmed cabin into the still, frigid air of the February morning. She drew the soft fur of her jacket collar up around her cheeks. Weak light from the morning sun filtered through the surrounding stands of pines and hemlocks.
    She stood aside while he double-locked the door. He wore his long dark leather coat, but was hatless and gloveless. His eyes narrowed against the cold and little clouds of breath escaped through his lips as he bent to set his “tell-tales”—two unobtrusive twigs that would indicate if anyone entered the cabin during their absence.
    He turned away and let the spring-pulled outer screen door bang shut. Startled, a cardinal chirped and streaked across the clearing, like a scarlet flare. They stepped down from the porch. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke. She took his arm and pressed against him, matching his stride. In the quiet of the forest, the crunch of their boots was the only sound.
    Ice crystals had formed overnight on the windows and dark-blue hood of his Honda CR-V. It was half-crammed with household items they packed the evening before, so they took her Camry instead. He helped her into the passenger seat, then went around and got behind the wheel. They sat a moment while the car idled and the defroster cleared the windshield.
    The Camry bounced over the frozen ruts of the long dirt drive and Dylan turned south onto East Hickory Road. After a short distance, the car crossed the little bridge over the ice-covered Hickory Creek. A couple of minutes later, they reached Route 666 and rolled west, past the wood-framed houses of the northwestern Pennsylvania village of Endeavor.
    “Annie, I know you’re tired of the diner. Are you sure you don’t want to head down to Oil City? A lot more choices, and we can be there in half an hour.”
    “No. I’ll pass out if I don’t get something into me in the next ten minutes.”
    He flashed that little smile again. “Seems you worked up an appetite this morning, Annie Woods.”
    She laughed in spite of herself. “If it weren’t for that , Dylan Hunter, I swear I would’ve gained twenty pounds this past month.”
    “Sex and hikes in the Allegheny National Forest. Could there be a more satisfying weight-control regimen? But remember, Annie dear, up here it’s not Dylan Hunter; it’s ‘Brad Flynn.’ You slipped up yesterday in that country store.”
    “Yes, Brad dear . And you remember that up here it’s ‘Annie Forrest .’ And nice as this past month has been, Mr. Flynn, my body must get back to D.C. and some real food. It’s endured all the burgers and fries it can tolerate.”
    “Believe me, Miss Forrest, saving your exquisite body is