Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

``Michael,'' I warned.

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He slid the gratin in the oven and put a saute pan on the stove to heat. He doused the pan with a splash of olive oil, adjusted the flame with care, then came over to the table, where I sat on one chair in the dress he'd bought for me from Darwin, the dress Popo chose and set aside with my name pinned to the low neckline. She'd been right--I looked fabulous in it. To tone down the glamour, I had my sock feet propped up on the opposite chair.

Michael picked up my feet and sat on the chair, warming my toes with his hands. ``You look beautiful.''

``Thank you. I love the dress. But it's too expensive. You have to take it back.''

He shook his head. ``It's a Christmas gift, and it's worth every penny. Popo really knew what she was doing. It makes me think about what you'll look like when I take it off.''

``What will I get for you? I'm completely broke.''

``You'll think of something.''

We heard Libby laugh again; then a loaded silence told us Santa was well on his way to giving Libby some Christ- mas cheer.

Michael smiled. ``You can't stop love.''

I smiled, too. ``You sure about that?''

``I am,'' he said with conviction. ``Nora--''

``I know,'' I said. ``I'm sorry. I should have waited instead of chasing off on my own. But I saw Calvin coming out of the store and knew it was my chance. I had to follow him.''

He nodded. ``I know what you'll do for the people you care about. But when somebody loves you the way I do, you have a responsibility. You have to take care of yourself now. For me.''

I put my glass down and reached for his hand. I squeezed. ``I will. I promise I'll be more careful.''

He accepted that by kissing my fingertips. ``Are you sorry your friend is going to jail?''

``Not if he really planned Popo's death. I think he actu- ally wanted Haymaker's to fail. If he no longer had the store, he would be free to go to the theater as much as he SLAY BELLES 85 liked. Cindie Rae said he even hoped to buy a theater for himself.''

``Maybe he'll still get his chance. He can afford good lawyers. That makes a big difference.''

I allowed that observation to hang in the air for a moment.

Michael caught my eye and gave a wry smile. ``I'm doing what I can, you know.''

``Are you, Michael?''

He focused on gently kneading the arches of my feet. ``I look at my life and know I've wasted a lot of time. I want to come home to you every night with a clear conscience. But I can't clean up a lifetime overnight.''

Quietly, I said, ``I heard about Pinky Pinkerton's grand- daughter, Kerry. It was on the news. She hurt her hand.''

Michael looked up, but his face betrayed nothing. ``She did?''

``On her way to the airport. A car service driver slammed her hand in a door. She's hurt badly. The surgery is compli- cated and may take over a year to heal. She won't play golf for a long time. And the car-service driver has disappeared. Nobody's even heard of the company before.''

``No kidding,'' he said.

``The good news is that she got a job offer. A sports network starting up in California wants her to do golf com- mentary. So she's moving to the West Coast.''

``Lucky for her grandmother, huh?''

``Michael,'' I said, ``we both want to start our lives over. More than anything, I want us to end up together every night, too. But there are things I can't accept. I have some experience with men who live by their own rules, who are self-destructive, and it's . . . it's too painful to go through again.''

``The last thing I want to do is hurt you,'' he said. ``I'm going straight. I promise.''

``All right,'' I said. ``I trust you.''

``That,'' he said, ``is the best Christmas gift I've ever received.''

He kissed me as if to seal the bargain. Read on for an excerpt from the next Blackbird Sisters Mystery by Nancy Martin

CROSS YOUR HEART AND

HOPE TO DIE Coming in hardcover from NAL in March 2005 I was still in bed recovering from Christmas when the phone rang.

On the other end of the line, I heard the roar of a chain saw.

No, on second thought it was the voice of my boss, Kitty Keough.

``Get your coat, Sweet Knees,'' she squawked. ``And get your ass into the city right away. I need you to cover a fashion show that starts in less than an hour.''

``Kitty,'' I said, ``I could use a little more warning when it comes to assignments.''

``Oh, barf,'' she shouted in the same dulcet tones as be- fore. ``Are you whining? Because nobody's going to kiss your tiara in the newspaper business, honey. You want to stay at home and count silver spoons? Or you want to get paid this week?''

I could hear the blare of traffic in the background and figured she was phoning from a taxi that careened through the snowy streets of Philadelphia, speeding Kitty to a high- society party that somehow outrivaled the assignment she was tossing over her shoulder to me. No doubt her brassy blond hair was blowing in the wind and she was whipping her driver with the moth-eaten feather boa she carried to formal events in the misguided belief that it lent glamour to her appearance. ``Quit playing footsie with the Mafia Prince and get your butt in gear.''

``He's not--'' I stopped myself from giving her further ammo to use against me and reached for a pen. ``All right, give me the details.''

Which is why I threw a fur coat over