Deadly Gamble by Linda Lael Miller Page A

carafe onto the burner.
    â€œA biker, for Christ’s sake?”
    â€œTucker’s not a biker. He’s a cop. Narcotics division.”
    â€œAt least his name rhymes with my opinion of him.”
    â€œGee, and your opinion matters so much.”
    â€œYou didn’t used to be so hard.”
    â€œWell, you haven’t changed at all.” I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. Chester wound his silky way around my ankles. “You’re still an arrogant, self-centered ass.”
    â€œI have changed, Mojo.”
    â€œRight,” I agreed tartly. “You’re dead.”
    â€œThat was a low blow.”
    â€œIt’s true, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m trying to help you.”
    â€œHow? By scaring me out of my wits? By undermining my sanity?”
    â€œI brought back your cat.”
    I looked down at Chester and, on impulse, scooped him up. He felt so real, and pretty chunky. Whatever they were feeding him on the other side, it was sticking to his ribs.
    Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I knew I’d loved Chester once, and I was dangerously close to loving him again.
    â€œYou never got to say goodbye to him,” Nick said.
    I buried my face in white, warm fur. “He can’t stay,” I mourned.
    â€œNo,” Nick agreed gently. “It’s a frequency thing. These appearances are pretty tough to sustain. But he’s not dead, Mojo. He’s alive, but in a whole different way. That’s the point.”
    Chester’s fur was damp, where I’d cried on him. “It’s the same with you.” Statement, but it had the tone of a question.
    Nick nodded. “The difference is, when he goes back, he’ll be able to get onto a train and go on to whatever his idea of heaven happens to be. I’ll still be stuck at the station.”
    I was grudgingly intrigued, if not necessarily sympathetic. I’d loved Nick completely, and he might as well have torn my heart out of my body and backed over it with a UPS truck. “Why?”
    â€œUnresolved issues,” he said, with yet another sigh.
    I studied him, still holding Chester as close as I could without squashing him. “What kind of unresolved issues?” I asked suspiciously.
    â€œYou trusted me. You loved me. And I betrayed you. I have to earn your forgiveness.”
    â€œIs that all?” I sniffed, reluctantly set Chester down on the floor, straightened again. “Okay. That’s easy. You’re forgiven. Now, kindly hop on the Starlight Express and stop showing up in my apartment.”
    If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn Nick was being sincere. He actually looked remorseful. “Sorry,” he said. “It isn’t that easy. You can’t just toss off a platitude. You have to really mean it.”
    â€œShit,” I said.
    He looked like a kicked puppy. “Was it that bad? I remember some really good times together.”
    â€œDo you?” I grabbed a mug down off the shelf. No sense getting two; if Nick couldn’t eat Oreos, he probably couldn’t drink coffee, either. “Maybe you’re confusing me with your secretary—excuse me, executive assistant . I caught you boinking her in a construction trailer once, remember? Or maybe it’s that sweet young thing in the condo down the hall from ours. The one who always wanted you to fix something. Or—”
    Nick put up a hand, rose wearily to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mojo. What else can I say? I can’t change the past.”
    Tears stung my eyes. “Get out, Nick.”
    He was gone in a blink.
    And Chester went with him.

    â€œY OU’VE BEEN CRYING ,” Greer accused, when I showed up at her mansion outside of Scottsdale at five to six that night, bringing along a bottle of Chardonnay donated by Bert. A glorious Arizona sunset blazed crimson and pink and apricot on the western horizon.
    â€œNo, I haven’t,” I said. It was a