Sapphire Nights (Crystal Magic Book 1)(14)

“Knock yourself out,” he said, finishing his wine and looking for a waiter—not as if he needed wine but checked on the efficiency of his employees.

Carrying on a conversation when she knew nothing was tough. Sam admired a painting nearly hidden by tall plants. “I saw a mural in the diner that resembles an earlier version of the one on your wall. The same artist?”

Kennedy wrinkled his brow as if trying to remember and turned to see what she was looking at. He shrugged and watched the waiter fill his glass. “There used to be an artists’ colony here. The whole town is littered with pieces like that. I suppose some day, we need to find out if any of those artists became famous. Although with our luck, it would probably be as an art fraud.”

Sam widened her eyes at the disparagement, but before she could ask questions, he pulled his beeping phone from his pocket and frowned at the screen. “I have a situation I need to handle. Stay and enjoy your dessert. I’ll be back to take you home in a bit.”

Shit, shit, shit, she wanted that key card. “I could wait in the business office,” she suggested quickly.

He nodded in approval. “Good idea. I’ll speak to Derrick on the way out. He’ll have a card waiting.”

He strode off without a look back. So much for making an impression. She’d even shampooed and used a ton of product to tame her hair into something better than a haystack, and he still didn’t notice.

Oh well, she had access to a computer. Too excited to bother with dessert, she finished her meal and hurried to the front desk, wondering what kind of situation required his attention.

The desk clerk didn’t seem concerned, so the place wasn’t on fire at least. He handed her the key, gave her directions, and picked up a ringing phone.

She had no idea if she’d ever been in a hotel, much less a business office. She wasn’t entirely certain she knew how to use a computer, but she figured anyone with a master’s degree must have some knowledge of technology. A master’s degree. She could scarcely comprehend it. She’d feared she’d stolen the car and its contents, but she had a master’s degree! Or the owner of the car did. Whoops.

She hoped she’d know how to use the computer the way she knew how to use a fork and drive a car. Apparently, she had a strong unconscious memory.

The business office was dark and empty. She unlocked the door, flipped a light switch, and settled into a desk chair in front of a monitor.

The hotel’s computer password and user name were printed on a sheet of instructions. Taking a deep breath, she logged in, opened a search engine, and typed in the phone number she’d found in her textbooks.

Brigham Young University came up.

She’d written down the campus phone in her textbook, not her own? What kind of person did that?

One without her own phone? Was she that poor or that invisible?



Hours later, a rap on the window of the business office shook Sam out of her computer search. What time was it? She glanced at the computer clock—going on ten. She turned around and saw a dirty, disheveled Deputy Walker leaning against the glass. At least her alliterative depiction didn’t include dangerous. Beneath his whisker-stubble, his face looked drawn and exhausted, which made him slightly more approachable.

Had Kurt sent a police officer to take her home? Rude.

Feeling better that Samantha Moon didn’t seem to have any missing person or “This person is armed and dangerous” warnings on the internet, she unlocked the door and joined the deputy in the hall. “Are you on duty twenty-four hours?” she asked, more sympathetically than she’d intended.

He shrugged. “They save me a room here for nights when I’m running late. Kurt’s mother just arrived, and they’re having a family wrangle. I can run you home, if you like.”

Charming. She’d been deserted for his mother. A ticket to wealth seemed even less appealing than earlier.

“I’m thinking of storing bicycles all over town,” she said crisply, stalking for the nearest exit. The swish of the skirt against her legs felt odd and sexy. Non-student Sam seemed to like skirts.

She could feel the deputy looking, which made her feel a tad better about being so callously abandoned.

“Getaway vehicles? How about roller blades?” he suggested. “Easier to store. Although either of them in that outfit and without helmets and knee pads is asking for trouble.”

She was tired, frightened, and horribly alone. That was the only excuse she had for the vain thrill that he’d noticed what she wore. “So I need to store my Superwoman costume in telephone booths with the bikes? Maybe I’ll just take up hitchhiking.”

“Don’t recommend it. Small towns come with crazies too.” He opened the door of his tall SUV and assisted her in.

Her hand felt swamped by his rough grip. At the same time, she was reassured by his strength. Hormones played havoc with her swirling emotions. Why on earth did this a scruffy cop strike sparks when the wealthy resort owner didn’t?

She stared at her hands as he climbed in rather than study the profile of the man who might one day lock her up. “Are you free to talk about the grave we saw today?” That was better than—can the police tell that I don’t have an identity?

“Not really,” he admitted. “Not without a coroner’s confirmation. But it’s not one of the settlers as the Kennedys will try to make you believe.”