Night Sins Read Online Free PDF

the paneled walls. All were in various states of hysteria—laughing, slapping thighs, doubled over, tears streaming. At the front of the room a Mutt and Jeff team lumbered through a soft-shoe routine in red longjohns while from the speakers of a boombox a man with an overdone Norwegian accent sang, “Itch a little here. Scratch a little dere. Valkin' in my vinter undervear . . .”
    Megan stared openly at the spectacle. The man on the right had a build like the Pillsbury doughboy and wore a red plaid Elmer Fudd cap. The one on the left was a different story altogether. Tall and trim, he had Harrison Ford's looks and an athlete's body. The underwear fit him like a second skin, announcing his gender in no uncertain terms. Megan fought to drag her gaze to less provocative details of his anatomy—his sculpted chest, narrow hips, long legs as muscular as a horseman's. Whoever had meant for the outfit to make him look ridiculous was obviously without hormones.
    The headgear was another matter. The Minnesota Vikings stocking cap sported yellow felt horns and long braids made of yellow yarn. The braids bounced as he shuffled and hopped through the steps of the dance. His expression was one of disgruntled indignity, but he was having a hard time maintaining it.
    When the routine ended, the performers took exaggerated bows, laughing so hard they couldn't straighten. He had a wonderful laugh, Harrison. Warm, rough, masculine. Not that it affected her, Megan thought, attributing the wave of warmth to being overdressed. She didn't have involuntary physical reactions to men. She didn't allow it. It wasn't smart—especially when the man was a cop.
    Harrison straightened, and a wide grin lit up his face; an interesting, lived-in face that was a little bit rough, a little bit lined, not exactly handsome, but utterly compelling. An inch-long scar hooked diagonally across his chin. His nose was substantial, a solid, masculine nose that might have been broken once or twice. His eyes were dark and deep-set, and even though they gleamed with good humor, they looked a hundred years old.
    Megan hesitated and Natalie bumped her forward, then stepped past her.
    “Have you no pride at all?” she demanded of her boss, tugging hard on one of his yellow braids. She shook her head, and her black eyes sparkled as she fought a smile.
    Mitch Holt blew out a big breath. “You're just jealous because I've been asked to model in
Victoria's Secret
.” He grinned down at the woman who ran his professional life.
Secretary
was far too lowly a title for Natalie Bryant. He considered her an administrative assistant and had bullied the city council into paying her accordingly, but he thought her nickname suited her best. She was a commandant in pumps.
    Natalie made a sound like a horse blowing air through its lips. “
Farmer's Almanac
is more like it. You look like a reject from the rube factory.”
    “Don't spare my ego,” he drawled, giving her a cranky look.
    “I never do. You got company.
Agent
O'Malley from the BCA.” She swung a hand toward the woman who had come in with her. “
Agent
O'Malley, meet Chief Holt.”
    Mitch leaned forward to offer his hand, sending a yellow braid swinging. He snatched the stocking cap off his head and tossed it to his dance partner without looking. “Mitch Holt. Sorry you're catching me out of uniform.”
    “I apologize for being so late,” Megan said, stepping forward to shake his hand.
    His hand engulfed hers, broad and strong and warm, and she felt a little involuntary jolt of something she would neither name nor acknowledge. She looked up at Mitch Holt, expecting to find something smug in his expression, finding instead confidence and the keen gleam of awareness. The word
dangerous
came to mind, but she dismissed it. She tugged her hand back, trying to break the contact. He held on just a second longer, just long enough to let her know they would do things his way. Or so he thought. Business as usual . . .
    “I