I came to Perdition to catch a liar. I caught a biker instead.
I've been able to smell a lie since I was nine. It's the only thing I've ever been the best at. It's also why I'm sitting in a rental car in the New Mexico desert in July, sent to check out a quarter-million-dollar insurance claim filed by a motorcycle club.
Ten business days. Rubber stamp. Fly home.
Except the vendor's phone number rings a nail salon. The driver is "unavailable." And the man running the trucking yard is six-foot-four of ink and denim who looks at me like I tracked mud in.
His name is Dutch. First name or last, he won't say. He won't say much of anything. He hands me thirty-one boxes of perfect paperwork and gets cagey about one stack, and that tells me exactly where to dig.
By day four I've got it. The claim is dirty. The company is clean. Somebody is running something through Dutch's trucks, and his own President just threatened me over a plate of brisket.
And then there's Dutch himself. He caught me when I nearly passed out in a diner. He remembered how I take my coffee. He's big enough that I have to tip my head back to argue with him, and I've caught myself watching his hands more than the files. He looks at me like he wants me. He hasn't so much as kissed me. I want to know what's stopping him.
Because something is. The same week someone searches my motel room and a truck with no plates follows me down an empty highway, he goes from stonewalling me to standing between me and whatever's coming. This club is dangerous. Somebody in it is dirty. And Dutch is protecting me from something he still won't name.
Then his club votes on whether to run me out of town, and he stands up and tells them I'm not leaving. Not the county. Not his house. Not him.
I'm going to write down the truth. It's my job.
I just didn't plan on falling for the man I'd have to write it about.
Genre: Romantic Suspense
I've been able to smell a lie since I was nine. It's the only thing I've ever been the best at. It's also why I'm sitting in a rental car in the New Mexico desert in July, sent to check out a quarter-million-dollar insurance claim filed by a motorcycle club.
Ten business days. Rubber stamp. Fly home.
Except the vendor's phone number rings a nail salon. The driver is "unavailable." And the man running the trucking yard is six-foot-four of ink and denim who looks at me like I tracked mud in.
His name is Dutch. First name or last, he won't say. He won't say much of anything. He hands me thirty-one boxes of perfect paperwork and gets cagey about one stack, and that tells me exactly where to dig.
By day four I've got it. The claim is dirty. The company is clean. Somebody is running something through Dutch's trucks, and his own President just threatened me over a plate of brisket.
And then there's Dutch himself. He caught me when I nearly passed out in a diner. He remembered how I take my coffee. He's big enough that I have to tip my head back to argue with him, and I've caught myself watching his hands more than the files. He looks at me like he wants me. He hasn't so much as kissed me. I want to know what's stopping him.
Because something is. The same week someone searches my motel room and a truck with no plates follows me down an empty highway, he goes from stonewalling me to standing between me and whatever's coming. This club is dangerous. Somebody in it is dirty. And Dutch is protecting me from something he still won't name.
Then his club votes on whether to run me out of town, and he stands up and tells them I'm not leaving. Not the county. Not his house. Not him.
I'm going to write down the truth. It's my job.
I just didn't plan on falling for the man I'd have to write it about.
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Used availability for Savannah Rylan's Dutch