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

my highest priority.”
    “So, it’s only my body you care about.”
    “Pretty much.”
    “I figured … As for me, it will be a relief when you finally get rid of that steel-wool beard and ketchup-colored hair. I want my tall, dark, and handsome guy back.”
    “Just as I want my hot, slinky brunette.” He glanced over and brushed her wig with the back of his big hand. “Although, to be frank, I think this blonde is better in bed.”
    She had to laugh. She marveled at how he could always make her laugh. She could barely remember the nightmare now.
    They turned south onto Route 62, where it hugged the Allegheny River. In less than half a mile, past some archery and wilderness outfitter shops, the diner came into view on the right, just a couple hundred feet from the riverbank.
    The exterior reminded her of the Alamo, but in gray vertical planks instead of adobe. The front wall rose in several squared-off steps toward a peak in the middle. A long narrow porch with a wooden railing ran the length of the building. The sign above it said “Whitetail Diner” in carved letters; a painted image of a buck bounded over the name.
    A few cars were in the gravel lot. He pulled into an open slot in front of the entrance. Annie waited while he got out and came around to open her door for her. She loved his little romantic gestures. They had fallen into these customs automatically, from their first days together. She took his arm again and he led her up the steps.
     
    Warmth and the smell of pine smoke greeted them. So did Sherry Byczek, the stocky, middle-aged blonde behind the counter, who was pouring coffee for a male customer.
    “Hey there, Brad ’n’ Annie,” she called out in her husky smoker’s voice. “I thought you’d already left for Jersey.”
    “Hi, Sherry,” Annie answered. “No, not yet. Thursday, or perhaps Friday.”
    “Jersey?” the man at the counter chimed in, smiling broadly. “I was born there!” He was in his forties, sandy-haired and unshaven. He wore a green-and-orange plaid shirt and a black baseball cap with a gold letter “P” on the front.
    Dylan headed over toward the counter; she noticed how he put on the slight limp again. “Oh? Where abouts?”
    “Trenton,” the guy said. “But we moved here when I was still a kid. How ’bout you?”
    “Just outside of Princeton.” He stuck out his hand. “Brad Flynn.”
    “Denny Beck,” the guy replied, shaking hands.
    Dylan turned and motioned her over. “And this is my fiancée, Ann Forrest.” She saw the twinkle in his eyes.
    She approached Denny, extending her hand and a smile. “Call me Annie.”
    He eyed her up and down. “Fiancée, huh? You’re one lucky guy, Brad.”
    “Don’t I know it.” He winked at the man.
    Sherry gestured with the coffee pot. “You two grab a table, I’ll be right over.”
    Dylan led the way toward the welcoming heat of the big stone fireplace, steering them past a table where a white-haired elderly couple smiled up at them. On the varnished knotty pine walls above the mantelpiece hung the mounted trophies of Sherry’s late husband, George: four antlered deer heads surrounding that of a large black bear, its teeth bared in eternal menace. To add to the atmosphere, a variety of antique farm tools and hunting-and-fishing items hung on the walls to either side of the fireplace.
    He selected an empty table that would seat four. Like the others, it was covered with a red-checkered vinyl tablecloth. He dragged out a chair with his boot, shrugged off his leather coat, and dumped it onto the seat. Then, ignoring her, he slid into another chair and immediately began to browse the menu.
    Astonished, she remained standing beside her own chair for a few awkward seconds. Then she got it. Amused, she unbuttoned her jacket, folded it neatly atop his coat, then pulled out her own chair and sat.
    “I gather Brad Flynn isn’t the chivalrous type,” she whispered.
    “Brad is way too macho . Like Denny. See him