was dictating. At the slow, husky sound of his voice, she turned off her minirecorder and pressed its narrow end to her lips.
âYouâre listening to cool country,â he told her with a lazy smile, â95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. Iâll be playing nothing but the smoothest of country sounds till six. If youâve just come home, find a comfortable place to dry off and warm up. If youâve been home awhile, refill that mug with whatever feeds your senses, take a real slow breath, and relax. Iâve got Randy Travis, Juice Newton, and Exile cominâ up on 95.3 FM, the home of a little country in the city, WCIC Providence, kickinâ off a cool country streak with a new cut by T. Graham Brown. Jared Snow listeninâ with you in the heart of the night. Enjoy.â¦â
She did, oh, she did. The tension that lingered in her body seemed to ease with the sound of his voice. The images that plagued her with each break from her work disappeared. In a leisurely motion she set the recorder on the desk. Raising her arms, she linked her hands on her forehead, pushed up the dark bangs that normally lay there and arched her back into a feline stretch.
Jared Snow. He had a sexy voice, and a suggestive way of using it. He was smooth and easy; it was hard to listen to him and not melt. He talked as though he were lying beside her in bed, as though they had just made heated love and were in a comfortable embrace, basking in the afterglow. When he identified his station, he could as well be saying she turned him on, and when he announced the song to come, he could be telling her he wanted her again.
Not for the first time, she wondered what he looked like. He had to look sexy. Not that looks mattered, certainly not when it came to Jared Snow. But she didnât want him to look sleazy. She saw enough of that during an average day in court. She wanted him to be a sight for sore eyes. She wanted the reality of him to be wonderful.
Maybe she wanted too much. Susan told her all the time that her expectations were too great. Maybe they were. Such had been her experience with Matt Briarwood. She had been twenty-one and in love, only to find that he merely wanted a few nights in bed. More recently she had entrusted a political corruption case to Bobby OâNeil and learned a month after the case ended in an acquittal that Bobby had accepted a bribe to back off.
More than once Savannah wondered whether she was simply a poor judge of character. But she didnât want to believe that. She decided that there were times when she felt so strongly about things that she was blind to reality. In Mattâs case, sheâd been in love, which was enough to warp any young womanâs judgment. In Bobbyâs case, she had seen a brilliant legal mind and had been so eager to put it to use that she had not been on the lookout for snags.
She supposed she was an eternal optimist. Her only alternative was to go through life expecting the worst. That was too depressing.
Dropping her arms, she leaned toward the briefcase that lay open on the desk and removed the pad of paper she used when she had talked with Will earlier. Chewing on her lower lip, she studied the words written there: KICK IN A COOL THREE MILLION .
Over and over she read the phrase. Closing her eyes, she pictured the original, recalling the message in its entirety. As a ransom note, it got its point across, but why those words? Kick in a cool three million. Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ off a cool country streak â¦
Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ back to an oldie â¦
Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ in at twelve twenty-two â¦
Lots of people listened to Jared Snow. He had been holding down the twelve-to-six shift at CIC for two years, during which time he had no doubt built a sizable following. Lots of people listened, people like her who either didnât want to sleep, didnât need to sleep,
âYouâre listening to cool country,â he told her with a lazy smile, â95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. Iâll be playing nothing but the smoothest of country sounds till six. If youâve just come home, find a comfortable place to dry off and warm up. If youâve been home awhile, refill that mug with whatever feeds your senses, take a real slow breath, and relax. Iâve got Randy Travis, Juice Newton, and Exile cominâ up on 95.3 FM, the home of a little country in the city, WCIC Providence, kickinâ off a cool country streak with a new cut by T. Graham Brown. Jared Snow listeninâ with you in the heart of the night. Enjoy.â¦â
She did, oh, she did. The tension that lingered in her body seemed to ease with the sound of his voice. The images that plagued her with each break from her work disappeared. In a leisurely motion she set the recorder on the desk. Raising her arms, she linked her hands on her forehead, pushed up the dark bangs that normally lay there and arched her back into a feline stretch.
Jared Snow. He had a sexy voice, and a suggestive way of using it. He was smooth and easy; it was hard to listen to him and not melt. He talked as though he were lying beside her in bed, as though they had just made heated love and were in a comfortable embrace, basking in the afterglow. When he identified his station, he could as well be saying she turned him on, and when he announced the song to come, he could be telling her he wanted her again.
Not for the first time, she wondered what he looked like. He had to look sexy. Not that looks mattered, certainly not when it came to Jared Snow. But she didnât want him to look sleazy. She saw enough of that during an average day in court. She wanted him to be a sight for sore eyes. She wanted the reality of him to be wonderful.
Maybe she wanted too much. Susan told her all the time that her expectations were too great. Maybe they were. Such had been her experience with Matt Briarwood. She had been twenty-one and in love, only to find that he merely wanted a few nights in bed. More recently she had entrusted a political corruption case to Bobby OâNeil and learned a month after the case ended in an acquittal that Bobby had accepted a bribe to back off.
More than once Savannah wondered whether she was simply a poor judge of character. But she didnât want to believe that. She decided that there were times when she felt so strongly about things that she was blind to reality. In Mattâs case, sheâd been in love, which was enough to warp any young womanâs judgment. In Bobbyâs case, she had seen a brilliant legal mind and had been so eager to put it to use that she had not been on the lookout for snags.
She supposed she was an eternal optimist. Her only alternative was to go through life expecting the worst. That was too depressing.
Dropping her arms, she leaned toward the briefcase that lay open on the desk and removed the pad of paper she used when she had talked with Will earlier. Chewing on her lower lip, she studied the words written there: KICK IN A COOL THREE MILLION .
Over and over she read the phrase. Closing her eyes, she pictured the original, recalling the message in its entirety. As a ransom note, it got its point across, but why those words? Kick in a cool three million. Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ off a cool country streak â¦
Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ back to an oldie â¦
Kick in a cool three million.
Kickinâ in at twelve twenty-two â¦
Lots of people listened to Jared Snow. He had been holding down the twelve-to-six shift at CIC for two years, during which time he had no doubt built a sizable following. Lots of people listened, people like her who either didnât want to sleep, didnât need to sleep,
Similar Books
