The last time Dylan had seen his son’s mother, Julie, she’d had that done, and her lips had just sort of lain there on her face when she talked. Real spooky.

Even if he hadn’t seen the woman’s California plates, and if she were dressed in a potato sack, he’d know she was big-city. It was all in the way she moved, straight forward, with purpose, and in a hurry. Big-city women were always in such a hurry. She looked like she belonged strolling down Rodeo Drive instead of in the Idaho wilderness. A stretchy white tank top covered the full curves of her breasts and a pair of equally tight jeans bonded to her like she was a seal-a-meal.

“Excuse me,” she said as she came to stand by the hood of the Blazer. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.” Her voice was as smooth as the rest of her, but impatient as hell.

“Are you lost, ma’am?” Lewis asked.

She blew out a breath through those deep red lips that on closer inspection appeared to be completely natural. “I’m looking for Timberline Road.”

Dylan touched the brim of his hat with the tip of his forefinger and pushed the Stetson to his hairline. “Are you a friend of Shelly Aberdeen’s?”

“No.”

“Well, now, there isn’t anything out on Timberline but Paul and Shelly Aberdeen’s place.” He took his mirrored sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them up the bridge of his nose. Then he folded his arms over his chest, rested his weight on one foot, and lowered his gaze down the slim column of her throat to her full, rounded breasts and smiled. Very nice.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Was he sure? Paul and Shelly had lived in that same house since they’d first got married, about eighteen years ago. He chuckled and raised his gaze to her face once more. “Fairly sure. I was just out there this morning, ma’am.”