Shadow's Lady (A Pajaro Bay Cozy Mystery + Sweet Romance) by Barbara Cool Lee Page A

Hades reserved for the inventor of the rotating mirrored disco ball—"
    Matt chuckled.
    "—and don't get me started on those horrid frantically flashing video games. But most of the time I don't know I had a seizure until I wake up."
    If she had a seizure. Everything in her life was restricted by that one phrase. She never knew when they were coming, and she never knew she'd had one until she woke up with a whopping bruise on her head or a crowd of curious spectators gathered round her like she was a sideshow attraction.
    "Well, it doesn't seem to have affected your life much."
    She touched the finger of her left hand, no longer weighed down by Richard's ring.
    "No. It hasn't affected me at all."
    "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."
    Of course he wasn't sorry. He was nosy, and obnoxious. He looked sorry, though. He looked, as always, sympathetic and gentle, and understanding. Like someone she could bare her soul to. What a sham.
    There was an awkward silence, broken only by the patter of rain against the windows, and the snoring of Shadowfax from his spot curled up on the kitchen floor.
    She watched the man surreptitiously as he sat there. Though he appeared pale, and a bit worse for wear from his ordeal, he still managed to project, as ever, the rakish pirate quality that she'd noticed the first time she'd met him.
    "So, um, what happened to Charity?" he finally asked. She supposed he thought he was steering their conversation toward more neutral territory, but Charity's fate was inextricably bound up with all those dashing pirates who, in her imagination, looked exactly like the man seated in front of her.
    "Charity Aiden was killed by rum smugglers two months before Prohibition was repealed."
    "Ouch. How's that for ironic?"
    "The baby was adopted by some family," she added, wanting to get past the part with the pirates—and the murder. "She later grew up to marry their son. The book calls the family the leaders of Pajaro Bay society. And that's the end of the story. Is that tragic enough for you?"
    Matt laughed. "That would be the Madrigals."
    "What would?"
    "The leaders of Pajaro Bay society. I played football in high school with Kyle Madrigal. His family founded Pajaro Bay, so Rose Aiden Madrigal would probably be Kyle's grandmother, or great-grandmother, or something like that."
    "Wow, you've rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous," she joked. After the words came out they hung there in the room. He was the famous one. Famous for murder and mayhem.
    He didn't seem to notice her gaffe. "My family doesn't rub shoulders with Madrigals," he corrected. "When the Madrigals were busy running Pajaro Bay, my family was gutting fish in Wharf Flats." He frowned, then added, "And never the twain shall meet."
    Oh, please. Was that his explanation for turning to crime? Pleading poverty? Aunt Zee had said something about the infamous Matt DiPietro playing into all of Pajaro Bay society's stereotypes about low-class 'wharf rats from Wharf Flats.' But that was hardly an excuse for his crimes.
    She turned away, disgusted, both at him for drawing her into conversation and at herself for momentarily forgetting who he was.
    She stomped off to the kitchen to make herself breakfast. He could starve for all she cared.
     

chapter eight
     
    Matt watched her as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. She was a bundle of prickly, poorly concealed anger. The easy rapport of last night was gone.
    He knew what was wrong. All the signs were there—the wary sidelong glances, the distrust. He'd blown it.
    Somehow she'd recognized him. The air hung heavy with her unspoken accusation. Murderer, her eyes screamed at him.
    He should never have told her his name. Now she believed she was trapped here with a criminal. And he was going to let her keep thinking that.
    Playing a notorious gangster gave him an in to every sleaze-ball international cartel the Project wanted to bring down, but it wouldn't help him impress the object of his desire.
    And