Copyright © 2007 Babe King
“You do know the hottest parts of hell are reserved for tree killers?”
Grant groaned as Kate’s cheeky freckled face appeared over the top edge of his Sydney Morning Herald, his sister’s grin almost as nauseatingly optimistic as their sunshine yellow kitchen. With a groan, he laid the newspaper aside and slurped steaming Arabica from his stainless-steel mug, letting the bitterness and caffeine punch roll over his palate. Black. Straight up. Sugar and milk were for wimps, and adding them took time he didn’t have.
“I hire contractors,” he drawled. “I never murder in person.”
“Then why are you flying down to Tasmania this morning?” she asked, one fine dark eyebrow bouncing.
He narrowed his eyes. “And you know this how?”
“I saw your ticket. Please tell me you’re not after the old-growth forests again.”
He glared at his twin. Evil twin, in this case. “You just found the ticket I left in my room, huh?”
She twiddled with the edge of his newspaper, turning it into micro origami. “I was ...dusting.”
“Inside my briefcase?”
“I take my dusting very seriously.”
Her origami took a turn for the worse. Did a thousand broken-backed cranes mean wishes got revoked? He lifted an eyebrow. Her face flushed hot pink with guilt.
“So bro, since you’ll be in Tasmania anyway, I need a favor.”
“Uh-huh?” he said slowly. Requests from the enemy camp. This couldn’t be good.