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

frowned. It was hard to see what a broken typewriter could have to do with a suburban shoot out, particularly a typewriter in the tender care of the saintly Flynn Kenyon’s company. But it was Kel’s now. I’d have to get it to him. I realized I was smiling and gave myself a shake. I needed to get a life, meet some men, and maybe even kiss them.

Wasn't it lucky I happened to have date tonight? I stuffed the slip in my coat pocket and went to find Rosemary. I was going to need that body shaper. I just hoped Mike would appreciate it because come hell or high water, he was going to get kissed until my lips forgot Kelvin Kapone’s.

8

It was seven-fifteen when I finally turned my Honda into the driveway. I wanted nothing more in my life than to crawl between cool sheets and become unconscious, but I had a date. Three hundred and sixty-four days in a year I would have been happy to have a date with someone like Mike—even someone worse than Mike. But no, I had to have a date the one day I'd rather be premenstrual than go out.

This is one of the reasons why I have never married. Men have abysmal timing.

I passed through the kitchen to let my mother know I wouldn't be eating supper with them, but got side-tracked when I heard a chocolate chip cookie calling my name.

“How do you expect me to teach the children to eat properly when you set such a bad example?” my mother asked. She snuck up better than Kel.

I thought for a minute. “I’m a good example of the results of poor eating habits. Surely that helps a little?” I got an unamused stare.

“Dinner is ready. You couldn't make it into the dining room?”

“I have a dinner date.” Let the inquisition begin.

“Really? With Reverend Hilliard?”

“No. With Mike Lang.”

“Who?”

“Addison's veterinarian.”

“A dog doctor. Couldn't he get into a real medical school?”

“He’s an over achiever. He wanted something harder than a real medical school.” I made a show of looking at my watch and exclaimed in horror. “He’s picking me up at eight and I don’t want to be late.”

She let me pass, but followed me down the hall.

“Have you known him long?”

“Just since I got Addison.”

Now she was following me up the stairs.

“Does he live alone?”

“As far as I know.”

We were heading down the hall. I could see my door.

“Maybe he’d like a home-cooked meal? I’ll bet he eats out a lot. You and your young man could eat with us?”

My young man. If only she knew how true that was. Mike had to be at least five years younger than me. I opened my door and turned to face her.

“I don’t think so.”

“You could ask him, Isabel.”

“We’ve already got reservations at his favorite restaurant.”

“Oh?” She didn’t say it, but the question was there, hanging in the air between us. I tried to fight it, but I’ve been giving in to the woman for thirty-four years.

“It’s this quaint little place called,” my mind raced, but instead of quaint it produced, “The Tandoor Club.”

I groaned inside as the name from the matchbook slipped out. Maybe Mike liked Moroccan food. And if he didn’t, perhaps the exotic dancers would distract him.

On the outside the Tandoor Club looked plain and uninteresting. Inside it was a bona fide Arabian Nights. A silk-draped opening held back with gold tassels gave the illusion of entering a tent. A huge mock brazier gave the impression of a fire while music filtered out of a snake charmer’s flute at the center of the room. Persian rugs were spread beneath low tables surrounded by heaped pillows and lounging bodies that struck a wrong note with their Western clothing. Dancing girls weren’t dropping grapes into mouths, but turbaned waiters glided around the room holding large trays of exotic looking food.

I was used to strange scents. I’d lived in New Orleans. But this was like nothing I’d ever smelled. The tangle of incense, tobacco smoke and rich spices carried hints of magic and mystery, stirring my latent sleuth instincts like a mischievous finger. What if the matchbook was The Clue? It certainly made more sense than the adult diaper coupon.

As Mike and I settled on our pillows, I scanned the murky interior for suspects. Next to me Mike shifted cushions, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Are you okay?”

“No. But the view helps.”

Thanks to the ruthless combination of body shaper, little black dress and the pile of cushions, there was a lot of leg for his to leer good-naturedly at. I tugged at the hem. It slipped higher.

“Don’t be stingy,” he advised. “You have great legs.”

“Really?” I surveyed them doubtfully.

“It’s one of the first things I noticed after you pulled your dog off me that day.”

Well, what’s a girl to do after a nice compliment like that? Particularly in light of my new determination to get kissed? I smiled and let my hem wander where it wanted. Never let it be said that I was stingy with my legs.

Mike settled into the cushions and surveyed our surroundings with something like awe. “So, this is your favorite restaurant?”

“Actually, this is your favorite restaurant.” He looked surprised, so I added, “My mother.”

He’d met my mother when he picked me up and didn’t need further explanation. He grinned. “I have interesting taste.”

Since he was sitting here with me, because of me, I had to agree. We did the polite chit-chat see-saw, this took us through ordering, but then the floor show started, effectively ending chit, chat, and Mike’s focus on me.

I have this theory that there was only so much available bosom to be divided among the women of the world. Since I didn’t get my share, I’ve often wondered who did. The floor show answered that question.

Akasma, the climbing flower of Casablanca got mine, plus that of a few dozen other girls. These were not mere boobs attached to her chest. She