Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

He chuckled and I had to look. The wind had whipped his hair into sexy disarray and put a glow in his face—just in case he wasn’t potent enough to make a girl want to sing, “Baby, I’m yours.”

“Not enough happened last night,” he said.

My throat went dry in a heartbeat. Heat from my cheeks spread like wildfire into other parts of my body. I needed a fire extinguisher. Or a tub of ice. “Does your wife know you flirt like this?”

His gaze narrowed. “I’m not married and you know it.”

I arched my brows. “How would I know that? I don’t know anything about you.”

“Yes, you do. Or you wouldn't have helped me. Isn't that right?”

I wasn't ready to admit anything yet—despite knees turning to rubber under the combined effects of his husky drawl and blue gaze. It's not easy to let go of thirty-something years of caution—especially when one lapse almost got you killed.

“Bel—”

I couldn't stop the slow climb of my lashes, but before our gazes could connect and the violins start up, I spotted Rosemary's car. “There it is. There's her car.”

“Bel.”

He wasn't going to let me get away with it. The cute bum.

“All right. You're probably not married. Are you satisfied?”

His chuckle was rich and devastating. “Not even close.”

But it seemed he could live with not satisfied. He let me go and headed for Rosemary's car. Men. Who could understand them? He expended all that effort in reducing me to rubble, and then left without picking up even one piece. I collected my wits, patched my defenses, and joined him.

“The gun should be under the driver's seat,” if Rosemary hadn't braked too hard at some point, “and I shoved the purse under the other side—”

“Here they are.” He emerged with purse and gun. “My holster?”

I went blank for a minute. “Oh, Mike must still have it. He took off stuff so he could bandage you. I can get it from him tonight if you want.”

“Tonight? Don’t worry about it.”

Was that pique I heard in his voice? I hoped so. He shouldn’t have it all his way.

“I have others.”

That was a bit disturbing to think about. He shoved the gun in the back of his waistband, then looked at the purse like he'd like to shove it out of sight, too. My face must not have been as blank as it felt because he gave me a sheepish grin. “Don't want to be seen walking around with this evidence.”

“Evidence. Yeah. You might get asked out by a Congressman.” How many times in my life had I used a quip to hide my heart from a man I wouldn’t have minded sharing it with? I thought courage would come with maturity. Course, I thought maturity would come with age. He chuckled. It was an infectious sound and it lit his face with charm. I had to look away, so I wouldn’t jump on his chest.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I hope you find out what Mrs. Carter wanted you to know and everything.”

“Yeah.” He slammed the door and handed me the keys.

Jeez, we were as awkward as two teenagers. I sneaked a peek and amended that. I was as awkward as a teenager. He looked calm and in control. I told myself I wanted to slug him, but I didn't believe myself.

“You have my card?”

I nodded.

“You can get a hold of me if you think of anything or need anything—just leave a message with the service.”

“Sure—oh, I have a card, too.” I rummaged through my purse, found the case with a Junior Mint stuck to it, took out a card, rubbed the cookie crumbs off on my jeans and handed it to him. “Marion made me put the little roach on it.”

He took it, his lips twitching. “Very nice. A fax number, too? Very high tech.”

“Yeah, well, I have this weakness for good fax—”

He closed in and I stopped breathing.

“You'll have to…fax me sometime.”

The blush started between my hip bones and headed up. I didn't know how to stop it, so I started babbling to distract him.

“I don't just fax anyone, you know. I mean, we're practically strangers—” I peeked at him through my lashes and gulped. His eyes glowed electric blue, just the way they had just before he started giving me good copy last night—only minus the blurring from the passion—painkiller.

“Strangers? I don't think so.”

He trailed his hands lightly up my arms and settled them around the base of my neck.

Even as he eased me closer as I protested, “Nothing happened last night.”

Maybe if I kept repeating it, it would be true.

“Nothing?”

“Well…not much—”

His mouth closed over mine and it was better than last night. His lips were firm and cool, but they warmed up fast, possibly because of my completely involuntary response. It reminded me of riding a Tilt-a-Whirl and I didn't know I'd wrapped my arms around his neck until he started peeling me off. Was it regret I saw as he stepped back?

“Good-bye, Bel.”

“Bye.”

He disappeared among the cars with the swift grace of a big cat in dangerous territory. If it had been a movie moment, the camera would have moved back, then higher until we were tiny separate specs in a sea of cars, mall and sky. The music, rising in crescendo, would be sad. It might even bring a tear to the eyes of anyone who’d ever watched a lover walk away in a swirl of memories and might-have-beens. Only Kel wasn’t my lover. There weren’t a lot of memories to build anything on. I’d done the right thing, but it was cold comfort on a winter day when you’re thirty-four and write children’s books about a roach.

The wind cut through my coat and mental whine. I saw my hat and gloves in the back seat. I opened the car door and grabbed them. That’s when I noticed a scrap of blue paper on the floor.

The typewriter repair claim ticket from the purse.

I must have dropped it last night. I