Deadly Interest: Sweetheart Mystery Series, #1

Dedication

For the Cozy Corner Crew, thank you for being with me every step of the way!

Meet the Author

Debra Fisk grew up in a small town New Jersey but relocated to Central Florida because she loves the warm weather.

While working at one of her first jobs she discovered the world of romance novels and fell in love. She is the wife to a doctor, the mother of a son, two dogs, two cats and three parakeets. Her first book Irresistibly Delicious hit number three the Bookstrand Bestsellers list for over 5 weeks straight.

Debra loves to connect with readers at:

debrafiskauthor@gmail.com

www.debrafisk.com

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Books by Debra Fisk

COZY COVE SERIES

Irresistibly Delicious

Irresistibly Dangerous

BAREFOOT BAY KINDLE WORLDS

Only in Your Arms

4M RANCH SERIES

Summer Heat

SWEETHEART MYSTERY

Deadly Interest

Chapter 1

Of all days, today I was running late. Me—Samantha Adams, a stickler for punctuality—late to the most important career meeting I’d had in over a decade. I tossed my red tote bag on the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel of my ’93 Lexus and started the engine. Leather interiors and Florida didn’t mix well even in February. I hit the air conditioner on switch before my makeup began to melt in my four-wheeled sauna. Eighty-four with the humidity at ninety-nine percent just made everything feel sticky. My car was a classic, but the relief of the cool air came out in seconds.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Half past noon. I’d better call Vicki Shark to tell her I was running late. If I stopped at her office now, I was going to be delayed even longer for my appointment afterward. My mother’s warning voice rang in my ears. Always be on time. Since she arranged this client, I wouldn’t want it to get back to her. I reached for my cellphone and hit Vicki’s number. She picked up on the first ring. Berkman Shark Investments, this is Vicki.

Hi, Vicki, it’s Samantha. I’m running late for a showing out at Amore. Can I come by afterwards and pick up the file?

Mortgage broker Vicki Shark was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with white teased hair swirled high into a bubble resting on the top of her head. Tough as nails, she had a masculine voice that sent a chill down my spine.

Anything for an Adams. I’ll be here all afternoon until I have to leave for the reception, she cooed, which was a bit unusual for her. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear she was drinking. At least she was in a good mood. The woman could be quite intimidating. She made me, even at twenty-eight, feel like a teenager late for class.

Thank you. See you then. I hung up, relieved to have that phone call behind me, and refocused my attention on my meeting as I pulled out of the circular driveway and away from the house I now called home. It felt good to be back in a house instead of my apartment back in the city. It was comfortable for my temporary situation and would do. In a way, it was nice to be back. After all, this town had been my family’s home for over a century.

If I’d lived here at the time, I might have protested. After all, I was an Adams, a descendant of one of the founding families of the quaint town of Sweetheart, once known as Sweetwater. A little over five years ago, the town voted unanimously to change the name to Sweetheart. I was slowly getting used to it. I had to admit that, up until this point, I’d never heard of a town changing its name, but according to Google, ours wasn’t the first, and I suspect it wouldn’t be the last. I didn’t understand the allure of tourist revenue to our historic downtown shops. In my opinion, growth came with consequences. Sweetheart had a lot to lose. Some of its charm lined the streets with the finishing touches added by my ancestors.

Grandpa Earl Adams staked out his homestead along with longtime friend Nate Heavens. They mapped out the center of the town after they traveled by foot to Florida from North Carolina.

After four months, I still hadn’t been able to get used to it, even after I moved back home. The street names magically changed into candy and love terms. Kinda cute in a weird sorta way. It wasn’t too difficult, since the town was small, but now with the new subdivisions popping up on the edge of town, a lot of streets went on forever, and who couldn’t love a little town tucked into a country setting, with the big heart full of big dreams? Right?

Home of the Sweetest people you’ll ever meet!

A catchy slogan and bound to drive some of the local tourist business through our community. People loved to visit Florida. They fell in love and got married here, brought their families to the major theme parks.

I, for one, was uncomfortable with the L word. Love was a painfully sad subject I tried to avoid altogether. I was probably the only person in town who moved back home as a temporary situation to regroup financially. Most of the locals had been born and raised here. The few who left never returned. There were new citizens who moved to Sweetheart trying to escape their hectic life or the cold weather up North. They thought living in Florida was wonderful, but I missed my life in New York City. I’d left with a heavy heart and good deal of reluctance. I’d lost my job and my apartment after Owen, my fiancé, disappeared—I had no idea what happened to him, but I was determined to find out one day. It was a mystery I tried to solve, along with the police. Over two years had passed, and not one tip from the missing-persons hotline had led to anything substantial.

A lot of tears and family support helped me believe it would all make sense. One minute we were making wedding plans, and the next he was gone, vanished without a trace, leaving behind his apartment, clothes, cellphone, laptop—everything, including his orange cat, Giorgio, who now lived with me and my dog, Peppermint, a tiny white ball of fluff.

My little Peppermint rescued me when my heart was shattered by Owen’s disappearance. The natural assumption was he met with foul play, but without any trace of evidence, the police let the case grow cold, and so did my heart at the thought of falling in love. I mean, how did you move forward without closure, right?

As I continued down Caramel Way, my heart tingled with excitement. This was a new beginning for me. I had my first real client, courtesy of my mother, Athena Adams, and I had to admit I was more than a little nervous. My Florida Realtor license was issued two weeks ago, added to my résumé as an interior designer. Even with dual licenses, interior design and real estate, my new career was moving slowly and unsteadily. Unlike that of my mother, who had the Midas touch when it came to business.

I’d landed an awesome position as the exclusive Realtor for the explosive new urban development taking place on the west side of Sweetheart. The homes were filled with the latest technology and not for the average home buyer. They were a little more upscale, futuristic with advanced technology—oh, and they were all GREEN, if you know what I mean.

I was a little uneasy I hadn’t heard from my client Gunner Remington. He was new to the area, mid-thirties and single. He met my mother at one of her community development meetings. She was the community development director for the city of Orlando, a job she loved. Anyway, she said he was in charge of some large corporation looking to relocate its main office to Central Florida. He was looking for an executive home, I understood, and would need an interior designer.

I turned on Only You Lane and mentally went over the features of the model home I would be showing him. My phone rang, and I hit the speaker button so I could talk while driving. My car was too old for Bluetooth.

Using my professional voice in case it was a client, I said, This is Samantha Adams; how can I help you?

Sam, it’s me.

Hey, Hunter, what’s up? Hunter Arms and I grew up together and sat next to each other all the way from preschool to high school. You know, Adams, Arms. We dabbled in dating before I left for college. There were feelings there on both sides, but it was a bit complicated. He worked for the local police department now.

Are you going to the City Hall reception this afternoon?

Today was the dedication ceremony for the new wing added to the town hall called the Sweetheart Towers.

Of course I am. My mother wouldn’t allow me to miss it. That was the other thing about my mother. When she attended these local business events, she practically insisted I be there. I didn’t mind—plus, I owed her big-time for all of the help over this past year, but sometimes I liked to keep a low profile. Maybe I was self-conscious about being the newcomer in town.

Do you want me to swing by and pick you up before you go? Your mother called me and asked me to make sure you’d be on time. Of course she did, worried I’d be late. On time to her meant arriving thirty minutes early.

I’m meeting a client out at the model home in Amore, then I’m going to Vicki Shark’s office, but after that I can. I’ll call you when I’m on my way to see Vicki.

Okay, great, and good luck today.

Thanks. I disconnected and gazed out at the horizon. Gray, puffy storm clouds moved quickly in the direction of the model center. Florida weather could change in an instant from sun to rain, then back to sun again. With a little luck, I could make it inside before the inevitable downpour. Too bad my umbrella sat inside my front door back at the house.

I focused on my mind-set. I needed to sell this house to prove to myself I was not a highly educated financial failure. Years of education were about to pay off. I had my fingers crossed my associate’s degree in communications and my bachelor’s in interior design would help me to shine as a Realtor.

Splat.

The first oversized raindrop hit my windshield. Splat. And then, like someone turned on a fire hose, it teemed so hard, my wiper blades did nothing against the amount of water hitting my windshield. My pretty red pumps, which had been overpriced on sale, were about to be ruined, and I’d taken less than one hundred steps in them. With any luck, it’d stop before I got there.

After a slow ten-minute rain-filled drive, I reached the stunning two-story Mediterranean home with barrel tile roof, Italian cypress and natural rock-encased hedges framing the exterior. There was caution tape blocking the front entryway, indicating the new stone was recently set, forcing me to use the side entrance. Really?

It didn’t matter. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining again, though the ground was saturated. There was no way I could avoid traipsing through the mud. I looked around. My client was nowhere in sight, but at least the delay bought me a little time so I didn’t ruin my shoes. The contractor, Dalton Construction, hadn’t completed pouring the exterior concrete.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, contemplating my next move. I reached in the back seat, where I had two plastic grocery bags. I slipped off my shoes, placed my feet in each bag and tied them around my ankles. Grabbing my red leather tote, I tossed my shoes inside and climbed out of the car. Sinking into the cool wet mud with my feet encased in plastic was an odd sensation. Off in the distance, an SUV hurried down the winding road that entered the development. Yikes! I’d better move fast before he arrived. Taking oversized steps in a tight red dress slowed me down. I struggled to make it to the side entrance, but he had already parked and was getting out by the time I’d reached the side door. I tried to act natural. Well, as natural as I could with plastic muddy bags on my feet.

He was tall and muscular, with thick, black, wavy hair, a broad smile and eyes hidden behind dark glasses. I noticed he wore boots. Gold stars for him. Giving a weak smile, I waved. Mr. Remington, hello.

Samantha Adams. Please call me Gunner. He glanced at my feet. I like your footwear. Taking several steps toward me, he removed his glasses, and eyes the color of the morning Florida sky smiled at me. I sucked in a long breath. My cheeks burned, and it wasn’t from the sun.

I placed my hand on the stone siding for balance. Thank you. I smiled back. And call me Sam. It’s what I’m comfortable with.

Samantha was used whenever I was scolded by my mother, or called on in class as a kid. I waggled a muddy, bagged foot. If you’ll give me a minute to remove them, I’ll be happy to take you inside.

Sam Adams? Like the beer? He wore a playful smirk. "Except