High Noon Read Online Free Page A

pretty morning for it, if you paid attention. One of those sparkling clear, hint-of-a-breeze mornings you’d wish you’d prized come July.
    Or he could just go down and sit on the dock, look out toward the salt flats and watch the sun play on them. Take the coffee down and just sit and do nothing on a pretty spring morning—a damn good deal.
    And what was Joe doing this fine morning? Sitting in a cell? A padded room? What was the redhead up to?
    It was no use pretending it was just an ordinary day in the life when he couldn’t get yesterday out of his head. No point thinking he wanted to sit on the pier nursing a hangover and pretending everything was just fine and dandy.
    So he went up the back steps to his bedroom, hunted out clean jeans and a shirt that didn’t look like it had been slept in. Then he pulled his wallet, keys and other pocket paraphernalia out of the jeans he had slept in after he’d dragged his half-drunken ass to bed.
    At least he’d been smart enough to take a cab, he reminded himself as he scooped his fingers through his shaggy mass of brown hair.
    Maybe he should wear a suit. Should he wear a suit?
    Shit.
    He decided a suit was a kind of showing off when worn to visit a former employee in Joe’s current situation. Besides, he didn’t feel like wearing a damn suit.
    Still, the redhead might like suits, and since he had every intention of tracking her down, a suit could play to his advantage.
    Hell with it.
    He started out, jogged down the sweeping curve of the main staircase, across the polished sea of white tiles of the grand foyer. When he opened one of the arching double doors, he saw the little red Jag zip down the last curve of his drive.
    The man who folded himself out of it was wearing a suit, and it was sure to be Italian—as would be the shoes. Phineas T. Hector could manage to look perfectly groomed after mud wrestling in a hurricane.
    Duncan hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and watched Phin stroll. He never looked to be in any particular hurry, Duncan mused, but that mind of his was always running on high speed.
    He looked like a lawyer, Duncan supposed, and a high-dollar one. Which was exactly what he was now. When they’d first met—had it been ten years now?—Phin had barely been able to afford the cab fare to court, much less an Armani suit.
    Now he wore it like he’d been born to, the pale gray an excellent choice against his dark skin, his gym-hammered body. Sun flashed off his dark glasses as he paused at the base of the white steps to study Duncan.
    â€œYou look a little rough there, friend of mine.”
    â€œFeeling the same.”
    â€œImagine so after the amount of adult beverages you poured into your sorry self last night.”
    â€œFelt good at the time. What’re you doing out here?”
    â€œKeeping our appointment.”
    â€œWe had one of those?”
    Phin only shook his head as he climbed the stairs. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t remember. You were too busy drinking Irish and singing ‘Danny Boy.’”
    â€œI did not sing ‘Danny Boy.’” Please, God.
    â€œCan’t say for sure. All those Irish tunes sound the same to me. You heading out?”
    â€œI was. I guess we should go inside.”
    â€œOut here’s fine.” Phin settled down on the long white glider, laid his arms out over its back. “You still thinking of selling this place?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe.” Duncan looked around—gardens, trees, pits of shade, green, green grass. He could never decide how he felt about the place from one day to the next. “Probably. Eventually.”
    â€œSure is a spot. Away from the action, though.”
    â€œI’ve had enough action. Did I ask you to come out here, Phin? I’m blurry.”
    â€œYou asked if I’d check in with Suicide Joe this morning, then come out to report to you. After I agreed, you