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

had breasts. Gazooms. Hooters. Jugs—and every other nickname that man has given the female bosom. Akasma had the Tetons of Tetons, twin peaks of magnificence, that bobbed and undulated as she performed the ancient dance of her forebears with a sinuous grace and even more amazing flexibility.

She could have beat herself to death with her own flesh, but the only casualty this night was my ego. What were a pair of great legs compared to white hills cut by plunging valley a guy could dive down in to his ankles? Mike didn’t just stare with a round “O” of amazement at the center of his black beard. He drooled.

Him and every other man in the room.

It had seemed cool, almost cold when we arrived. Not anymore. By the time Akasma was halfway through her show, you could have fried bread in the air around me.

If that weren’t bad enough, my “flexible and comfortable” body shaper decided it was time to contract to its original ten by three inch, pre-donning configuration. My lungs felt like they were being squeezed up out my nose. Everything else felt like it was getting squeezed out the bottom. I needed air. If I passed out right now, no one would notice.

“Got to powder my nose, Mike,” I croaked. With my elegant three-inch heels, it wasn’t easy to get my feet under me. Through the red haze forming in front of my eyes, my thighs were turning into pencils and my knees into mini-blimps as my shaper continued its drive toward my spine. I figured I’d reach critical mass in about five. At which point, my head and my feet would pop off. The fact that I’d be left with a body a model would envy was small comfort.

“You couldn’t fake that, could you?” Mike asked in awe, oblivious to my inelegant rise from the pillows. Why should he look at me when he had one of the great wonders of the world undulating in his face?

“I’ve never been able to,” I squeezed out before tottering in the direction of the Ladies. My tongue hung out, no room in my mouth anymore. I barely made it in the door, started clawing at inflexible elastic before the door swung shut. With the distant wail of Akasma’s music filtering in, I shimmied out of the shaper and threw it across the room, then leaned on the sink and drew in great, gulping breaths of bathroom scented air and was grateful for it.

I wanted to go home. My battle with the shaper had drained what little enthusiasm I had left. Mike wouldn’t notice me as long as Akasma was shaking her booty. I wasn’t even bitter about it. I could breathe. I left the bathroom, brooding on irony and fate. About halfway along the hallway, as I was passing a narrow side passage, a strong arm hooked around my waist, a hand covered my mouth, and without ceremony I was half dragged, half lifted backwards into the recess.

“Bel?” A familiar voice spoke in my ear.

Kelvin Kapone. Why wasn’t I surprised? For the second time that night I sagged in relief.

“You have got to stop doing that,” I said, turning in his arms to face him. “You’ve already taken twenty years off my life expectancy. At this rate, I’m gonna die last week.”

“Sorry.” He flashed his grin.

I tried to harden my heart against it. A grin should only be able to take you so far, no matter how endearing.

“I wanted to talk to you on the QT.”

“Really?” I arched my brows and stepped back to look him over. He was wearing one of the waiter’s turbans and a flowing burnoose. He looked great. “Have you considered the telephone? Marvelous invention for anonymous communication.”

“Bel.” He put a finger lightly across my smart mouth, reducing it to stupid. “This is serious. What are you doing here?”

Being humiliated. “Having supper. What are you doing here dressed like Ali Baba?”

Not that I was complaining. White was definitely his color, deepening the color of his eyes and showcasing his tan.

“Doing a little unofficial snooping. Isn’t that why you’re here? Because of the message in the matchbook?”

“What message in what matchbook?”

“The one in the purse. You said you looked through it.” He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he waited for my response.

“Why would I look in the matchbook?”

“Considering what happened last night—” I started to puff up and he grinned. “I know. Nothing happened last night.”

I crossed my arms. “I was looking for ID, not clues.” Something nudged at the edge of my mind, something about the purse. “I’m not the sleuthing type.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

That made me bristle. “Why is it okay for you to sleuth and not me? Are you some kind of cop?”

“I’m not any kind of cop.”

“Right.” I leaned against the wall. “And your gun?”

“Don’t ask questions, Bel, unless you’re sure you’ll like the answers.”

I stared at him for a moment as a chill made its way down my back. “That almost sounded like a threat.”

“It’s a friendly warning.” He leaned in, his hands resting on the wall on either side of my head. “So you won’t get hurt. Whoever was shooting last night, got a good look at me. I’m probably not the safest person for you to be seen with.”

“Oh.” The pre-Akasma chill returned in spades. Once more I saw the round-headed guy framed in the open window. Had he seen me? I shuddered, felt the goose bumps pop out on my arms. I wasn’t kidding when I said I wasn’t the sleuthing type. “Then maybe I should get back to Mike.”

“Ah yes, the doc.” He straightened. He almost sounded miffed. “You know, he’s not your type.”

Warm pushed at the chill as the balance of power shifted back my way. “You haven’t even known me for twenty-four hours and you know what my type is?”

His smile had a bit of wolf to it. “But it’s been such a busy day, it seems