Dead Right by Brenda Novak Page A

have come. She was counting on him to put an end to the doubt and conjecture.
    “I’ve got to catch a break eventual y,” she grumbled and put the phone to her ear. But then she spotted a man striding purposeful y toward her from the lost luggage counter and hung up. She’d seen this guy walk past her before but… He couldn’t be her investigator, could he?
    “Hunter Solozano?” she said tentatively.
    His eyes swept over her, his expression revealing little except annoyance. “That’s me.”
    He was carrying a guitar…. A lot of country-star wannabes came through the Nashvil e airport, but he didn’t look anything like a cowboy. He was definitely West Coast.
    “Is that al your luggage?” she asked. Other than the guitar, he had a smal carry-on bag that appeared to contain a computer.

    He raked his fingers through blond hair that was a bit too long and beginning to curl at the ends. “They lost the rest.”
    “You’re kidding, right?” He had to be kidding—about more than his luggage. He looked like a…a surfer. About six feet tal , he had icy blue eyes, a lean, rugged face and a great tan. Worse, the hint of beard covering his jaw made him appear too lazy to be cunning or perceptive. And his rock-hard body indicated he spent more time swimming in the ocean than sitting behind a desk.
    “No joke,” he said. “But they told me they’d drive it to Stil water as soon as they find it. Hopeful y, it’l get here sometime tomorrow.”
    What have I done? She’d been expecting someone driven, maybe even ruthless. Someone capable of solving a mystery that had stumped Stil water’s best and brightest for twenty years. Instead, she’d hired a beach bum with a guitar—for one thousand dol ars a day!
    “Right.” She barely managed to stifle a groan. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt over another T-shirt, a pair of faded, holey jeans and…flip-flops.
    Flip-flops! Frowning, she rubbed her forehead.
    “I said they’d drive it out,” he repeated, watching her curiously.

    “I heard you.”
    He hiked up the computer bag he carried on one of his impressive shoulders. “So…what’s the problem?”
    Dropping her hand, she decided to be honest with him.
    “Tel me your father or your older brother is here somewhere.”
    One eyebrow, much darker than his sun-streaked hair, slid up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You’re too young,” she complained.
    “Too young for what? I’m thirty-two. How old do I have to be?”
    “Older than that. I’m thirty-six and I certainly don’t feel equipped to handle this…this mess. Besides, you’re too—”
    she motioned to his guitar “—God, you could pass for Keith Urban. I don’t need someone who’s drop-dead gorgeous.
    And I sure as hel don’t need someone who can sing. I need a P.I. who’l take my problem seriously, who’s so dedicated and tenacious that he won’t give up, no matter what.”
    His scowl darkened. “I liked the drop-dead gorgeous part, but I’m more offended than flattered by your other remarks.”
    “I don’t care. This isn’t fun and games to me, Mr.

    — Hunter. See? Now that I’ve met you, I can’t even cal you Mr. Solozano. Mr. Solozano would be your father.”
    “I could go out and buy some wing-tip shoes, a magnifying glass and a trench coat. Would that help?” he asked sarcastical y.
    “So now you’re a comedian, too.”
    “Should I have taken you seriously? How does my appearance preclude my ability to do my job?”
    “Every available woman in Stil water wil be coming on to you, wasting your time—which is real y my time, since I’l be paying for it.” She couldn’t admit that she might be tempted to come on to him herself, that he’d be a distraction she didn’t need. Especial y since she stil wasn’t over Kirk.
    “It doesn’t matter who comes on to me. I’m not interested.”
    “On the phone you mentioned an ex-wife.”
    “And now you know why.”
    When she hesitated, he said, “So where