Hot in Hellcat Canyon Read Online Free PDF

out of some of his more whisky-fueled nightmares: Rebecca Corday frisked with purses; threw her head blissfully back and beamed her signature dazzling smile to show off the gemstone earrings glinting in her ears; or flung her arms out à la Julie Andrews about to perform a twirl on a Swiss mountainside, a long pastel scarf rippling out from her hand. In every image she was absolutely ecstatic to be sporting something from Macy’s.
    In between the little electric shock of each of those benches, he rather enjoyed what he saw of the town. Main Street was charming and tidy. The genuine Gold Rush-era Victorian storefronts were scrupulously maintained, and doorways were flanked by bright flowers in baskets hung from hooks or spilling out of terra-cotta pots. A feed store sat side by side with the beauty salon and the palm reader, near a bakery, a fishing supply shop, a tobacconist, and a karate dojo, of all things, which he really ought to look into. Little streets fanned off the main drag, too, and when he craned his head he saw more handsome buildings clearly dating back to the first time miners had set foot in this area, and what appeared to be a fountain in front of a grand old domed building, modest in scale but regal in bearing. City or town hall, if he had to guess.
    So Hellcat Canyon is a little town in the middle of nowhere, maybe, but an alive town, as neat and pretty as any little toy village plopped down under a Christmas tree, sans snow.
    Eventually the sidewalks disappeared, and the town proper gave way to a paved road thickly canopied and lined with pines and oaks. The road gradually sloped up and up and up, and apparently that’s where he was headed.
    At the very crest of the hill an enormous Victorian house painted a pale lavender sat like a frilly crown.
    He approached gingerly. A flight of wooden steps led up to an enormous wicker furniture-bestrewn wraparound porch. Every chair on it sported a fat and flowery cushion.
    It looked so thoroughly girly, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was required to check his testicles at the door. The way you took off your shoes before you entered a Buddhist temple.
    He made for the steps like a pole vaulter and took them two at a time.
    Which was how he nearly crashed into a great, dangling wind chime. He gave it a startled swat. It retaliated by swinging at him like nunchucks.
    He dodged and feinted nimbly just in time, before it took out an eye.
    His black belt in karate came in useful at the damnedest times.
    The chimes were still clanging together, as were his nerves, as he turned the knob on the door.
    The first breath he took inside told him instantly how Dorothy felt in that field of poppies in The Wizard of Oz . Only instead of poppies it was potpourri. And he would lie right down here on the purple carpet and die if he was forced to breathe it longer than necessary.
    He looked around grimly. The glossy mauve walls terminated in a pale blue ceiling painted in big, creamy clouds. Everywhere his eyes fell, cherubs of one kind or another gazed lovingly back at him from framed prints on the wall, their chubby cheeks perched on their clasped hands, or their little wings outspread as they cavorted through rosy skies, or from the tops of little gewgaw boxes.
    And every imaginable depiction of an angel—ceramic, glass, wood, animal, stone, abstract, medieval, Art Nouveau—lined rows of shelves along the walls. It was the UN of angels.
    If this was heaven, he really hoped hell had a better decorator.
    As if the budget had all been spent on the interior, there wasn’t a single superfluous thing about the woman behind the counter, from her haircut (no-nonsense) to her sweatshirt (gray) to her figure (solid) to the reading glasses perched on her nose. One hand was flipping through a ledger, another hand was tapping away at an old adding machine, and her eyes were darting between it and her cell phone lying on the counter next to a big brass bell that said “Ring for