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

daughter was under government protection pretty well. I heard her questioning the suits about their marital status. She married a cop, so a spy wasn't that big of stretch—now that the minister was out of the picture. I was so embarrassed I told her about Jerome's proposal. Horror left her speechless, and I was able to proceed directly to the shower when we got home. I would have sung in the shower but I had a feeling the bug was probably back on. I ate some chocolate instead. I spent what was left of my day watching the war and working on my roach book. Marion wouldn’t consider near extinction a reasonable excuse for missing a deadline. As it got towards evening, I shoved a music tape in my player. As Mama Cass began to wail about friends and lovers and I pondered what might be in my refrigerator for eating, I heard a knock at my door.

Most of my guests enter through the main house, so I wasn’t too surprised—when I’d grabbed Addison’s collar and opened the door—to catch Kel with his government issue lock pick in one hand and holding some bags that smelled Chinese with the other.

It is said one should beware of Greeks bearing gifts and men with etchings, but my mother never told me how to deal with a spy in tight-fitting jeans bearing Chinese food.

So I let him in.

“Éclair?” I held out the nearly thawed treat. I always keep some in my freezer to satisfy sudden cravings. Too bad I couldn’t keep Kel there, too. He was rousing all sorts of cravings that needed satisfaction. He accepted the treat, but didn’t appear to notice the lust that went with it, as he leaned back in his seat for a bite.

“Aren’t you going to have one?” he asked.

“I’ve been eating my dessert first, in case I don’t live through dinner,” I said. I slid off my stool and started cleaning up, shoving cartons and sacks into the garbage or refrigerator, depending on their state of emptiness. As I worked, I subjected Kel to a discreet study from under my lashes.

If I were a romance heroine with a carefully constructed plot to aid me, this would be sack time. My conservative, Baptist self approached this idea cautiously. This was real life. My life. It was one thing to imagine love scenes between imaginary people. Quite another to become intimate with someone I knew—yet didn’t know at all.

Kel got up to help, further disturbing my insides. It unsettled me to stand shoulder to shoulder and wash dishes with him. I kept noticing little things, like the soap bubbles popping on the wet skin of his arm. The way he smelled, a mix of musk, Chinese and chocolate. The shadow of a beard giving texture to smooth jaw line. How comfortable I felt with him even as every inch of my skin tingled with wanting.

I’d seen men roll up their sleeves and wash dishes once or twice in my lifetime. Just this week I’d seen Mike in a robe and had three young bucks in tight jeans lusting after me, none of which affected me like watching Kel in my kitchen, washing my dishes, with no-name soap bubbles on his wet arms. When he dried the last bubble, an activity that shouldn’t have made his muscles flex enticingly, he didn’t roll his sleeves back down. Instead, he dropped on my couch and looped his arms behind his head, an action that stretched his shirt across his chest. It was a good chest, even with the bandage ruining the smooth line of his muscles. I should know. I’d put it under the microscope of my fingertips.

“What a day,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

Trying for the same relaxed air, I sank into a chair opposite him, and without thinking, swept a pile of magazines off the coffee table with my foot so I could stretch my legs out. I saw him looking at me with amusement but was too tired to do anything but grin.

He half lifted a foot. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

I thought it would be easier, more relaxed across from him, but with his legs stretched out close to mine, his eyes studying me, his body “at ease” but still emanating coiled strength, my tension increased instead of decreased.

“So,” I nervously cleared my throat, “how’s everything going? Have you figured out what’s going to happen on Tuesday?”

He rubbed his hair and grimaced. “The shell game. No, not yet. Though I think I’m getting close.”

“You still think that someone is trying to distract you from the real issue?”

“More than ever, after what Willis said. Whoever is behind the con is pretty certain he can keep our focus misdirected until it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“So the embassies may be part of that misdirection? He didn’t seem worried that you’d found that out.”

“It could be the embassies themselves, or it could be the method. If they had what they considered a fool proof method of delivery, it could make Willis feel confident. If we could get him to talk—” Kel shrugged.

“He was careful not to tell me too much, which I thought showed a real lack of trust on his part. Obviously he doesn’t watch enough TV. Or watches too much.” I was still trying to decide which, when I realized that Kel was looking at me like someone with bad news to deliver.

“Bel?” There was a curious note, too. “I’ve been looking into Kenyon Business Machines. It was the last place Mrs. Carter went the night she died. To an executive board meeting for her PAC. She had to have stashed the papers in the typewriter that night.”

My heart did a funny lurch. If she hid the papers there, was it because she felt threatened there? I pulled my legs off the table and leaned forward. “You think the Kenyons are involved?”

He shrugged. “I wish I knew. All the clues