heart,” Tom said. “Your heart has a very good sense of direction. I hope it comes my way. That is to say…” He paused and looked right into Caroline’s eyes. “Will you marry me?” But before Caroline could speak, he held up a hand, stopping her. “Don’t answer. Yet. This is just a proposal. For now, I hope we can get to know each other. I’ll wait as long as you think we need. When you know me, when your heart guides you, then you can decide whether to accept the proposal. That’s up to you.”
“Oh, phew,” Caroline said. “Because, well, this is a lot to process all at once. I feel…excited, scared…confused. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I know,” Tom said. “We have plenty of time. And just to be clear: the money is yours no matter what.”
Chapter 33
Caroline looked around a bit unsteadily. The man in front of her had been a complete stranger a couple of hours ago, and now there was so much at stake. Prince Charming had asked for her hand in marriage. This was her mother’s dream come true—but was it hers?
“So I can leave right now, right?” she said. “I can just walk back to my car with the money, if I even decide to accept it.”
Tom’s face changed. It was subtle, just a shadow of sadness or disappointment in his eyes, but he nodded and gave a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “Well, not exactly with the cash. We’ll have to wire the money into your account or something. Trust me, I’m good for it.” He rose to his feet and stepped back to give her space.
Caroline moved toward him. She got closer. Closer. Then she held his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. Now there was a twinkle in them as he appreciated her unabashed appraisal. She liked his eyes.
“Here’s to possibilities,” she said. And then she kissed him.
“I’m not on trial. San Francisco is.”
Drug cartel boss the Kingfisher has a reputation for being violent and merciless. And after he’s finally caught, he’s set to stand trial for his vicious crimes—until he begins unleashing chaos and terror upon the lawyers, jurors, and police associated with the case. The city is paralyzed, and Detective Lindsay Boxer is caught in the eye of the storm.
Will the Women’s Murder Club make it out alive—or will a courtroom thriller ensure their last breaths?
Read on for a sneak peek at the shocking new Women’s Murder Club story, available now only from
It was that crazy period between Thanksgiving and Christmas when work overflowed, time raced, and there wasn’t enough light between dawn and dusk to get everything done.
Still, our gang of four, what we call the Women’s Murder Club, always had a spouse-free holiday get-together dinner of drinks and bar food.
Yuki Castellano had picked the place.
It was called Uncle Maxie’s Top Hat and was a bar and grill that had been a fixture in the Financial District for 150 years. It was decked out with art deco prints and mirrors on the walls, and a large, neon-lit clock behind the bar dominated the room. Maxie’s catered to men in smart suits and women in tight skirts and spike heels who wore good jewelry.
I liked the place and felt at home there in a Mickey Spillane kind of way. Case in point: I was wearing straight-legged pants, a blue gabardine blazer, a Glock in my shoulder holster, and flat lace-up shoes. I stood in the bar area, slowly turning my head as I looked around for my BFFs.
“Lindsay. Yo.”
Cindy Thomas waved her hand from the table tucked under the spiral staircase. I waved back and moved toward the nook inside the cranny. Claire Washburn was wearing a trench coat over her scrubs, with a button on the lapel that read SUPPORT OUR TROOPS . She peeled off her coat and gave me a hug and a half.
Cindy was also in her work clothes: cords and a bulky sweater, with a peacoat slung over the back of her chair. If I’d ducked under the table, I’m sure I would have seen steel-toed boots. Cindy is a crime reporter
“Oh, phew,” Caroline said. “Because, well, this is a lot to process all at once. I feel…excited, scared…confused. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I know,” Tom said. “We have plenty of time. And just to be clear: the money is yours no matter what.”
Chapter 33
Caroline looked around a bit unsteadily. The man in front of her had been a complete stranger a couple of hours ago, and now there was so much at stake. Prince Charming had asked for her hand in marriage. This was her mother’s dream come true—but was it hers?
“So I can leave right now, right?” she said. “I can just walk back to my car with the money, if I even decide to accept it.”
Tom’s face changed. It was subtle, just a shadow of sadness or disappointment in his eyes, but he nodded and gave a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “Well, not exactly with the cash. We’ll have to wire the money into your account or something. Trust me, I’m good for it.” He rose to his feet and stepped back to give her space.
Caroline moved toward him. She got closer. Closer. Then she held his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. Now there was a twinkle in them as he appreciated her unabashed appraisal. She liked his eyes.
“Here’s to possibilities,” she said. And then she kissed him.
“I’m not on trial. San Francisco is.”
Drug cartel boss the Kingfisher has a reputation for being violent and merciless. And after he’s finally caught, he’s set to stand trial for his vicious crimes—until he begins unleashing chaos and terror upon the lawyers, jurors, and police associated with the case. The city is paralyzed, and Detective Lindsay Boxer is caught in the eye of the storm.
Will the Women’s Murder Club make it out alive—or will a courtroom thriller ensure their last breaths?
Read on for a sneak peek at the shocking new Women’s Murder Club story, available now only from
It was that crazy period between Thanksgiving and Christmas when work overflowed, time raced, and there wasn’t enough light between dawn and dusk to get everything done.
Still, our gang of four, what we call the Women’s Murder Club, always had a spouse-free holiday get-together dinner of drinks and bar food.
Yuki Castellano had picked the place.
It was called Uncle Maxie’s Top Hat and was a bar and grill that had been a fixture in the Financial District for 150 years. It was decked out with art deco prints and mirrors on the walls, and a large, neon-lit clock behind the bar dominated the room. Maxie’s catered to men in smart suits and women in tight skirts and spike heels who wore good jewelry.
I liked the place and felt at home there in a Mickey Spillane kind of way. Case in point: I was wearing straight-legged pants, a blue gabardine blazer, a Glock in my shoulder holster, and flat lace-up shoes. I stood in the bar area, slowly turning my head as I looked around for my BFFs.
“Lindsay. Yo.”
Cindy Thomas waved her hand from the table tucked under the spiral staircase. I waved back and moved toward the nook inside the cranny. Claire Washburn was wearing a trench coat over her scrubs, with a button on the lapel that read SUPPORT OUR TROOPS . She peeled off her coat and gave me a hug and a half.
Cindy was also in her work clothes: cords and a bulky sweater, with a peacoat slung over the back of her chair. If I’d ducked under the table, I’m sure I would have seen steel-toed boots. Cindy is a crime reporter
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