Storm Warning

Frost Falls was a virtual no-man’s land. The last vestige of civilization before the massive Superior National Forest that capped the state and embraced the land with flora, fauna and so many lakes. This tiny town reminded Yvette of the village where her grandparents had lived in the South of France. Except Frost Falls had more snow. So. Much. Snow.

“Survival,” she muttered with determination, but then rolled her eyes. She never would have dreamed a vacation from her job in gorgeous Lyon would require more stamina than that actual job. Mental stamina, that was.

But this wasn’t a vacation.

Something called lutefisk sat wrapped in plastic behind the freezer-case glass. Vacillating on whether to try the curious fish, she shook her head. The curing process had something to do with soaking the fish in lye, if she recalled correctly from a conversation with the store’s proprietor last week. It was a traditional Nordic dish that the locals apparently devoured slathered in melted butter.

Not for her.

Fresh veggies and fruits were not to be had this time of year, so Yvette subsisted on frozen dinners and prepackaged salads from the refrigerator case.

Her boss at Interpol, Jacques Patron, would call any day now. Time to come home, Amelie. The coast is clear. Every day she hoped for that call.

Unless he’d already tried her. She had gotten a strange hang-up call right before entering the store. The number had been blocked, but when she’d answered, the male voice had asked, “Yvette?” She’d automatically answered, “Yes,” and then the connection had clicked off.

Wrong numbers generally didn’t know the names of those they were misdialing. And an assumed name, at that. Had it been Jacques? Hadn’t sounded like him. But he’d only said her name. Hard to determine identity from one word. Impossible to call back with the unknown number. And would her boss have used her cover name or her real name?

The call was not something to take lightly. But she couldn’t simply call up Interpol and ask them for a trace. She was supposed to be dark. She and her boss were the only people aware of her location right now. She’d try her boss’s number when she returned to the cabin.

Tossing a bag of frozen peas into her plastic basket, she turned down the aisle and inspected the bread selections. Not a crispy, crusty baguette to be found. But something called Tasty White seemed to be the bestseller. She dropped a limp loaf in her basket. She might be able to disguise the processed taste with the rhubarb jam that she’d found in a welcome gift basket when she’d arrived at the rental cabin.

When the bell above the store’s entrance clanged, she peered over the low shelves. A couple of teenage boys dressed in outdoor gear and helmets joked about the rabbit they’d chased with their snowmobiles on the ride into town.

Town? More like a destitute village with a grocery/post office/fish and tackle shop/Laundromat, and a bar/diner/strip joint—yes, The Moose diner offered “pleasure chats” and “sensual dancing” in the far back corner after 10:00 p.m. on Saturday nights. The diner did dish up a hearty meal, though, and Yvette’s stomach was growling.

Her gaze averted from the boys and focused beyond the front door and out the frost-glazed window. Had that black SUV been parked before The Moose when she’d arrived? It looked too clean. Not a beat-up rust bucket like most of the locals drove. And it wasn’t dusted with a grayish coating of deicing salt that they seemed to sprinkle on their roads more than their meals around here. She couldn’t see the license plates to determine if it was a rental.

Yvette was alert for something she felt was imminent but was unable to say exactly what that could be. It reminded her of when she’d worked in the field. A field operative had to stay on her toes and be constantly aware of her surroundings, both physical and auditory. A wise state to embrace, especially in a town not her own.

She’d take a closer look at the SUV after she’d purchased her groceries.

The teenagers paid for energy drinks and left the store in a spill of laughter. Making her way to the checkout, Yvette set her basket on the counter.

“Bonjour, Yvette.” Colette, the shop owner, a Canadian expatriate Yvette had bonded with because she spoke fluent French, fussed with the frilled pink polka-dot apron she wore over a slim-fitting black turtleneck and slacks. “Twenty dollars will do it.”

Surely the bill was thirty or more.

Yvette nodded, unaccustomed to kindnesses, yet receiving such generosity felt like a warm summer breeze brushing her icy neck. Very much needed lately.

She handed over the money. Colette packed up her provisions and helped Yvette fit it all into the backpack she brought along for such trips. She looked forward to riding the snowmobile into town for twice-weekly grocery trips. And today, despite the single-digit temperature, boasted bright white sunshine. A girl could not ignore fresh air and the beautiful landscape. She always brought along her camera and stopped often to snapshots. It was a good cover for an agent, but photography had also always been a hobby she’d wanted to take to the next level.

“Those wool leggings look très chic on you,” Colette commented, with a slide of her gaze down Yvette’s legs. “But you really do need to wear snow pants if you’re snowmobiling in this weather.”

“I’ve got on layers.” Yvette waggled a leg. The heavy boots she wore were edged with fake fur, and the leggings were spotted with white snowflakes on a blue background. Beneath, she wore thermal long johns, an item of clothing she hadn’t been aware existed until she’d arrived here in the tundra. A quilted down coat topped it all.

Fitting the backpack over her shoulders, she paused at the door while Colette walked around the counter and met her with a zip up of her waterproof coat and a tug at her scarf (which happened to match her leggings—score one for fashion).

“You don’t have a helmet to keep your ears warm?” Colette asked. She eyed Yvette’s knit cap with the bobble of red pom-pom on the top. “You foreigners. I’m surprised your ears don’t drop off with frostbite. It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails out there. And with the wind chill? Uff da.” The woman shuddered.

“Don’t you mean mon Dieu?” Yvette countered.

Colette laughed. “Minnesota has gotten into my blood, chère. It’s uff da here. Want me to order a helmet for you?” She tapped the pom-pom. “We order directly from the Arctic Cat supplier in Duluth. Takes only a day or two. And some are even electronic so you can turn on the heat and listen to music.”

“Sounds perfect. The helmet provided by the cabin is too big for me and tends to twist and block my vision. Thanks, Colette.”

“You heading across the street for a bite to eat? I see the chief’s snowmobile just pulled up. That is one fancy machine. And I’m not talking about the snowmobile.”

“The chief?” Yvette glanced across the way. “You mean a police chief? What’s up?”

“Nothing of concern, I’m sure. It’s just, have you met Chief Jason Cash?”

“Should I?”

Colette winked. “Uff da, girl, he’s the hottest catch this side of the Canadian border. Young, handsome and cocky as hell. But none of the local girls can seem to turn his eye.”

“I am hungry,” Yvette said with a wistful glance across the street. For so many things she’d not had in almost two months. Sunshine. A buttery croissant. Conversation. Sex.

“Good girl. Tell the chief I said hello.” Colette pushed the shop door open and virtually shoved Yvette out.

Bracing for the blast of cold, Yvette cursed how easily she had succumbed to the suggestion she hide out overseas until the heat on her blew over. Her boss had chosen this location and given her a cover identity. He hadn’t told her exactly what it was that could implicate her, but she knew it had to do with her photographic memory. Thing was, she never really knew what some of the stuff that she worked on meant, as it was generally out of context and merely a list or scramble of information to her brain.

Boots crunching on the packed snow, she crossed the wide double-lane Main Street. A couple of pickup trucks with snow chains hugging the tires were parked before The Moose, as was one of the fanciest, most powerful snowmobiles she had seen. Walking by it, she forgot about the mysterious SUV she’d noticed earlier and instead took in the sleek black snowmobile dashed with neon-green embellishments. The body was like a blade, streamlined for speed.

The owner was handsome, eh? And single?

She wasn’t looking for romance, that was for sure. But a woman could not survive on staticky rerun episodes of Sex and the City and her vibrator alone. Might as well give the man a gander, as she’d heard people say in these parts.

But for the official record, she was just here for the food.

Chapter Three

Jason took in the woman who sat before the diner counter. Two stools separated them. After setting a backpack on the floor, she’d pulled off a knit cap to let loose a spill of long black hair. Unzipping her coat halfway revealed a blue-and-white wool sweater that featured snowflakes and reindeer. Looked like one of Marjorie’s knitted projects. Jason had one of those ugly sweaters—it featured a moose and possibly moose tracks (because he could never be sure it wasn’t moose scat)—but he wore it proudly because someone had made it especially for him.

The woman at the counter was not a resident of Frost Falls. And today, of all days, he was particularly alert to strangers. This morning had brought a dead stranger onto his radar. Lunch had found him standing over an autopsy of the same woman. When driving back to Main Street, he’d sighted a shiny SUV that did not belong to a local. He’d run a plate check. Belonged to a Duluth resident. No police record or accidents reported. Worked for Perkins. Probably in town visiting friends.

And now Miss America was sitting ever so close.

She ordered mint tea and the club sandwich with extra bacon. The waitress winked and commented that she was glad to finally use up the tea she’d had stashed under the counter for years.

Jason noted the woman’s cringe when she heard the date of the tea, and he chuckled.

“Not many tea drinkers in these parts,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in The Moose. You passing through Frost Falls?”

“In a means, yes,” she said with an accent that sounded familiar to Jason.

She was an exotic beauty. Her skin tone was olive, and her features were narrow. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath delicate curved black brows. She didn’t fit the standard profile of the Scandinavians who populated a good portion of Minnesota’s frozen tundra. Gorgeous, too, far prettier than most. And she didn’t appear to be wearing a lick of makeup. Something about natural red lips...

Jason shook off a bittersweet memory of red lips and sly winks. Weird that he hadn’t heard about this beautiful woman from the town’s gossip mill. He turned on the stool to face her. “Name’s Jason Cash,” he offered. “I’m the town’s chief of police.”

For another few months, at least. If and when he lost this job, what would he have to show for his years of service to both his country and this small town?

Not a hell of a lot.

“Nice to meet you, Chief Cash. I’m Yvette LaSalle. I’m not exactly passing through this cozy town. I’ve been here a few weeks. For a, um, vacation. Decided to stop in the diner today because I was across the street making a grocery run.”

“LaSalle.” Must be French Canadian. Nix the Miss America idea, and replace it with...hmm... Her tone didn’t seem to possess the rugged edge the Canadian accent offered. Interesting. And come to think of it, he had heard Marjorie mention something about a newcomer sitting in The Moose last week. Why had Marjorie failed to point out how drop-dead beautiful the woman was? Her gossip was usually much more on point. “I’m glad our paths crossed today.”

The waitress set Yvette’s plate and tea before her.

“Mind if I slide over?” Jason asked. “Then we don’t have to yell across the room at one another.”

“Go ahead.” She pulled a strip of bacon out of the sandwich and munched the crispy slice. “Mmm, meat, how I have missed you.”

“You go off meat for some crazy reason?”

“I am a vegetarian,” she said, prodding another bacon strip, then eyeing it disdainfully. “Or rather, was.” She took a big bite of the sandwich. “Mon Dieu, that is so good!”

Miss France, he decided. He’d only been assigned a single two-day Parisian job while serving in the CIA. He knew a handful of French words, but beyond that, his capacity for learning foreign languages was nil.

“You must not order the tea very often, eh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I had a misguided craving. I think this’ll be the last time I get tea here.”

“Stick with the root beer,” Jason said. “Root beer never lets a man down.”

“Sounds like a personal issue to me, but to each his own. I like your snowmobile,” she said. “The one parked out front, yes? It looks like a racing machine.”

“Oh, it is.” Jason’s back straightened, and he hitched a proud smile in the direction of the powerful machine parked outside. “Could have been a professional racer. I love burning up the track. But I don’t have the time. This job keeps me on call 24/7.”

“I suppose there is a lot of crime in this sleepy little town.” She tried to hide a smirk, but Jason caught it. A fall of dark hair hid half her eye. Oh, so sexy. And every part of him that should react warmed in appreciation.

The last time he’d felt all the right things about a woman had been two years ago in Italy.

And that had ended disastrously.

“Someone has to keep the Peanut Gang in line,” he offered.

“The Peanut Gang?”

“Bunch of old farts who think poaching wolves isn’t harming the ecosystem. Idiots.”

“I’m not afraid of wolves. I think they are beautiful animals.”

Jason nodded. “They are. But I’ll leave it to my brother, the wolf whisperer, to kneel on the ground and pet them. It’s always best to be cautious around wild animals.”

Yvette nodded, but then said, “I got a great shot of a moose last week. On film, that is.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ve learned to snowshoe out in the forest behind the cabin. Always take my camera along.”

“You should be careful. Those beasts look gawky, but a moose can run fast.”

“Tell me about it. I was photographing the snow-laced birch trees and out of nowhere a moose charged through the deep snow. It was beautiful. But I’m cautious to check for big critters now when I venture out.”

“You should stick to the trails. Safer.”

“Safe is good, hmm?”

Jason almost responded with an immediate yes, but he sensed by her tone that she was angling for bigger fish. Were those thick lashes as soft as they looked? And did she prefer not so safe? Now that was his kind of woman.

“Depends,” he said. “There’s safe and then there’s, hmm...wild?”

“Wild is not a word I’d ever place to anything in this town.”

If that wasn’t some wanting, repressed sexual desire in her sigh, Jason couldn’t guess otherwise. She had been in Frost Falls a few weeks. Why had he never noticed her before? And could he hope Alex hadn’t already hooked up with her?

“You, uh, like wild?” he asked.

“I do.” She finished off one triangle of the sandwich, but from his side view Jason noticed her smile did not fade.

Oh, he liked the wild, too. In so many ways.

The waitress set his bill down before him. He did not put it on the station’s expense account. He couldn’t see asking the town to pay for his meals. And now with the closure notice hanging over his head, he wanted to be as frugal as possible with the city budget. Much as he didn’t like sharing the investigation with the BCA—yes, Ryan Bay, the looker, had arrived in town—it was a good thing, considering they had the resources and the finances to serve the investigation properly. As soon as the final autopsy report arrived, Jason intended to meet with Bay at the station house and go over the evidence.

Reaching for her backpack, Yvette shuffled it on over her arms. Ready to head out so quickly? She still had half a sandwich on the plate. He couldn’t let her leave. Not until he’d learned more, like where she was staying, and did she have a significant other? And did her hair actually gleam when it spilled across her shoulders?

Briefly, Jason frowned as memories of his early morning stop resurfaced. The deceased had long black hair and a beautiful face.

At that moment, his cell phone buzzed with a text. Elaine had ID’d the victim as Yvette Pearson.

“Yvette,” he muttered and wrinkled a brow. That was a weird coincidence.

“Yes?”

He looked up and was met with a wondering blue gaze. He’d once fallen for a pair of blue eyes and a foreign accent—and life had changed drastically for him because of that distraction.

“You said my name?” she prompted.

“Huh? Oh. No. I mean, yes. Not you. It’s a text.” He quickly typed, Thanks for the info. Forward the final report to me and Ryan Bay. He tucked away the phone and said to the very much alive Yvette, “It’s a case. Not you. Sorry. Police business.”

She nodded. “Yvette is a common French name.”

“You betcha. Lot of French Canadians living up in these parts.”

“These parts.” With a sigh, she glanced out the front window.

Jason noticed she eyed the black SUV parked across the street. The one that hailed from Duluth.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, with a nod out the window.

“You mean the owner of that SUV?” She shook her head. “Despite my sparkling personality, and a desperate desire for good conversation, I don’t have any friends in this town. Other than Colette at the market. She’s the only French-speaking person I’ve run into.”

“You speak French? I was wondering about your accent.”

“I’m from Lyon.”

Lyon, eh? That was a major city in France.

“So, what is there to do in this town that is more interesting than Friday night at the Laundromat slash grocery store?” Yvette asked.

“Let’s see...” Jason rubbed his jaw. “A guy could nosh on some of the amazing desserts they have here at The Moose. I have to admit, I’m a big fan of their pie. You want a slice before you rush off?”

“Much as I would love to, I’ll have to pass. Wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.” She pushed the plate forward to indicate she was finished. “But I won’t rule out pie in my future,” she said with a teasing tone. “What else you got?”

“Well, there is Netflix and chill,” Jason suggested slyly.

“I don’t understand.”

“It means...uh...” A blush heated Jason’s cheeks. Since when had his flirtation skills become so damned rusty? And awkward. Mercy, he was out of practice.

“More coffee, Jason?” the waitress asked.

Saved by the steamy brew. “No, thanks, I should get going. Marjorie is waiting for me back at the office to sign off on some...paperwork.”

The last thing he wanted to do was let the cat out of the bag that a body had been found so close to town. On the other hand, he expected when Susan Olson next went on shift at the back of the diner, it wouldn’t take long for word to spread.

He pulled out a twenty and laid it on the counter. “That should cover both our bills.”

Yvette zipped up her jacket. “Thank you, Chief Cash. I’m going to look up Netflix and chill when I get home.”

“You do that,” he said. And when she learned it meant watching Netflix together, then making out? “I’m down the street at the redbrick building if you ever need me. Used to be a bustling station house, but now it’s just me and dispatch.”

“Keeping an eye on the Peanut Gang.”

“You betcha.”

He walked her to the restaurant door, and she pointed across the street where a snowmobile was parked before Olson’s Oasis. It was an older model, similar to the one he’d once torn through ditches on when he was a teenager.

“That’s me,” she said.

“How far out do you live?” he asked.

“I’m renting. Here for a short stay. It’s a cabin about five miles east. Lots of birch trees. Very secluded.”

“Everything around here is secluded. You step out of town, you’re in no-man’s land. That’s what I love about this place. And lots of powder.”

“Powder?”

“Snow. When I’m not working, I spend my time on the cat, zooming through the powder. Er, cat is what some locals call the snowmobile. At least, those of us with an inclination to Arctic Cat sleds and racing.”

“Ah, a thrill seeker?”

“You nailed it. You must be staying at the Birch Bower cabin?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Jason nodded. The owners rented the place out in the winter months while they vacationed in their Athens home. Nice place, Greece. Beautiful blue waters. Fascinating local culture. Ouzo in abundance. He’d nearly taken a bullet to the stomach there a few years ago. Good times.

“Thanks again,” Yvette called as she walked away.

Feeling as though he wanted to give Yvette his phone number, Jason also suspected that would not be cool. Not yet. They’d only chatted ten minutes. So instead he watched her turn on her snowmobile and head off with a smile and a wave.

Besides, he knew where to find her now if he wanted to.

A glance to the SUV found it was still parked. Exhaust fumes indicated the engine was running. Hmm...

Jason strode across Main Street toward the SUV, boots crunching the snowpack. The vehicle shifted into gear and drove past him. It slowed at the stop sign at the east edge of town. And sat there. Yvette had crossed to the town’s edge and taken a packed trail hugged by tall birch trees.

The thunder of Jason’s heartbeats would not allow him to dismiss the SUV. It was almost as if the driver had been parked there, watching... Yvette?

He looked at his cell phone. Elaine’s message read, Yvette Pearson.

As the very much alive Yvette LaSalle had said, it was a common French name. But two Yvettes in one small town? Both, apparently, visiting. And one of them dead?

Unable to shake the itchy feeling riding his spine, Jason returned to his snowmobile and pulled on his helmet. By the time he’d fired up the engine and headed down Main Street, the SUV had slowly moved toward the birch-lined road heading east. Yvette’s direction.

Jason pulled up alongside the SUV, switched on the police flasher lights and signaled the driver to pull over. He did so and rolled down his window. The thirtysomething male wearing a tight gray skullcap and sunglasses tugged up a black turtleneck as the brisk air swept into the truck cab.

“Chief Jason Cash,” Jason said as he approached the vehicle. A nine-millimeter Glock hugged his hip, but he didn’t sense a need for it. Nor did he ever draw for a routine traffic stop. Not that this was a traffic stop.

“Hello, Officer,” the man said with an obvious accent. Texan? A Southern drawl twanged his voice. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I’ve not seen you in Frost Falls before, and it is a small town. Like to introduce myself.” He tugged off a glove and offered his hand to the man. The driver twisted and leaned out the window to shake his hand. A calm movement. Warm hand. But Jason couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses. “Your name?”

“Smith,” he said easily. Which was the name Jason had gotten from the plate check. “I’m visiting the Boundary Waters tourist area. Just out for a drive. Beautiful day with the sunshine, yes?”

“You betcha.”

Definitely a Texan accent. Fresh out of high school, Jason had served three years in the marines alongside a trio of Texans who had extolled their love for hot sauce whenever they were bored.

“You got some ID and vehicle registration, Smith?”

The man reached down beside him. Jason’s hackles tightened. He placed a hand over his gun handle. Smith produced a driver’s license and, opening the glove compartment, shuffled around for a paper. He handed both over.