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Maybe Harley Jean Davidson should have finished college, but at the time it hadn't seemed nearly as important as it did now. She should have stayed in corporate banking. She should have settled down with Mr. Right instead of dallying with Mr. Right Now--irresistible Memphis detective Mike Morgan. It was time to put her shallow youth behind her. She was closing in on thirty, entering the halls of maturity, and proving that she has a talent for catching bad guys. Things could be worse. Much worse. Her job as a Memphis tour guide is about to get even stranger than usual. "Hey," she called, "last stop for all Elvi. This is it, sir. Sir?" He didn't respond, just remained in his seat on the bus, staring out the window. Maybe he'd gotten cold feet about the Elvis contest. With a sigh, Harley walked to the back. "Hey, buddy," she said when she reached his seat, "we're here. Time to go on stage and sing your heart out. Knock 'em dead." When he still didn't respond, Harley put a hand on his shoulder to give him a slight shake. He slumped forward, his head hit the back of the seat in front of him, and she jumped into the aisle. The hilt of a knife protruded from his back. She froze. This couldn't be happening. Not to him, not to her, again. She leaned closer, and the rusty smell of blood made her stomach lurch. Backing slowly away, she fumbled at her waist for the cell phone that she now kept tethered to her with a chain, and hit speed dial. The police dispatcher answered quickly. "Nine-one-one?" Harley said in a voice that sounded a lot calmer than she felt. "We have another dead Elvis." Will her talent (jinx?) for stumbling into crime scenes eighty-six her relationship with Mike? Was he working up to a break up or just still upset about the dead Elvis in her van? Only one way to find out. "So," she said when she put the heated plate of fried rice and egg rolls in front of him, "is this a break up?" He gave her a startled look. "What are you talking about?" "Me finding bodies. You not liking that. Us. Maybe we need to talk about it." "Yeah. Well. I'm not really good at that kind of conversation." "Me either." She sat down in the chair opposite him, and Sam immediately jumped up on the cushioned arm to sniff her plate. He purred. Little beggar. She gave him a piece of rice and he gave her a horrified look. Then he leaped down to cross to Morgan, who had chicken fried rice. Morgan obliged the cat with a piece of chicken, and then looked over at Harley. "Maybe we just need a break from each other. Just for a couple weeks or a month. Something like that. Give us time to think about . . . things." Her throat got tight, but she nodded casually. "I think you're right. I don't want you to feel like I'm jeopardizing your job, and lately I can't seem to stop tripping over bodies. I don't know what it is. Some kind of murder magnet, I guess." One corner of his mouth tucked into a wry smile. "Any chance you can get rid of it?"
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