One Wrong Move by Angela Smith Page A

time.
     
    Why not give it to the police?
     
    The police can’t be trusted.
     
    “Ugh,” she moaned, rubbing her fingers through Beacon’s fur. Sometimes people would go to journalists before they went to the cops. The media offered a good portal to law enforcement. It might be easier to go to the media. Many thought journalists could be trusted and would be hungry to uncover the information. In many cases, that was true. In Rayma’s case, it was definitely true.
    This would be the last time. She wasn’t one to quit, wasn’t one to give up on the middle of something she considered big, but enough was enough. She’d take the information, hand it over to the police, and leave it alone. She’d give up this mission, delete her blog, ignore her email. Maybe even leave Hammer Bay for good.
    Nothing was left for her here.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    Rayma dipped her fries in ketchup and surveyed the room, a typical hole-in-the-wall café with literally at least one hole in the wall and probably several others covered by the faded black and white photos.
    It was cozy, in a no-frills way.
    The grease from the hamburger and fries coiled her stomach, but she needed all the strength she could get.
    She jumped when a hand touched her back.
    “What are you doing here?” Camden’s voice shot chills down her spine. He snatched a fry from her plate and sat beside her, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wearing that damn smile that twisted her with desire.
    “I’m having lunch,” she said, almost too composed for her own ears, which still rang in alarm. She hadn’t realized until now how on edge she’d been. Of course, Camden always had that effect on her. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Was he her informant? No, impossible. Wouldn’t he have already told her? “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”
    “I’m having lunch, too.” He grabbed another fry, chewed with an impassive, somewhat bored expression that irritated Rayma’s nerves. He swallowed. “I do eat at other places besides Vin Doux.”
    “Are you stalking me?” she asked. His arrival here was too convenient, and she wondered again if he was her informant. He had been at Pier 18 when she figured he’d be working, and now he was here.
    “Why would I do that?”
    “I’m meeting someone here. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.” If he was her informant, she hoped he’d tell her soon.
    He reached his arm over and stole another fry, but she slapped his hand away before he had a chance to pilfer her ketchup, too. That didn’t stop him from eating the fry, smiling as he watched her.
    Lust shot straight to her thighs. He had a nice smile—crooked, but with straight teeth. His hair was mussed, unlike the neatly combed look he sported at the restaurant. This was sexier, more dangerous.
    The heat from his body scorched her. He was sitting right beside her, his thigh pressed into hers, and it was all she could do to keep her mind functioning normally.
    She had to remind herself he might be a drug dealer. Dating a would-be felon wasn’t on her agenda
    “This is our third date. Doesn’t that mean—”
    “No!” She imagined the rest of his sentence. She glanced at his large hands and imagined them touching her body. Strong and masculine hands. Arms constructed of ropy muscle so thick and perfect that if this were really a date, she could have easily considered it the third, and everything that implied.
    She averted her gaze. What was wrong with her? Lack of sleep played havoc with her senses. A nice warm body in bed would help lull her to sleep after a good bout of lovemaking.
    No, not lovemaking. Sex. She wasn’t planning on being in love any time soon. But Camden…oh, she bet he’d be good.
    When he tried to snatch another fry, she elbowed him away and encircled her plate with her hands, drawing it closer. She scooted as far against the wall as the booth would allow. “This is not a date, and if you came here