by Anne Stuart
“She’ll probably push him overboard somewhere in the Orient,” Jane said, letting her hand run down his flat stomach. “Maybe in Australia, where they still have great white sharks.”
“I’ve tried to curb this bloodthirsty streak of yours,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.
“I’m impossible to curb.”
“Thank God.”
Her hand slid beneath the elastic waistband of the thermal long Johns, but before she could reach her destination his hand shot out and caught hers, stopping her.
“Wait a moment,” he said with mock sternness.
“Don’t worry, Sandy, I’ll respect you in the morning,” she assured him with an impish smile.
“It is the morning,” he pointed out. “It’s after two, and I’m exhausted.”
“Too tired for me? That doesn’t sound like a promising beginning for our life together. Maybe I’d be better off with the real Jimmy the Stoolie.”
“Come here, Jane,” he growled, “and stop teasing me.” He released her hand, caught her shoulders and hauled her up so that her face was level with his.
“It’s fun to tease.” She kept her voice light, waiting.
“Not at two-something in the morning, after we’ve been through hell and back at the hands of that drunken old man downstairs. You owe me, lady.”
“What do I owe you?”
He caught her face between his hands, his thumbs smoothing her taut cheekbones and he looked into her eyes. “Anything you want to give me,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it.”
She couldn’t play games anymore, she couldn’t summon up any lingering vestiges of outrage or hurt pride, she couldn’t feel anything more except what she had to tell him. “Okay, you win,” she said. “I’m in love with you.”
He shook his head. “We both win, Jane,” he said softly, placing his lips on hers in a featherlight kiss. “We both win.”
*
It was after midnight two days later when they arrived back at the Park Avenue apartment. Sandy insisted on carrying her over the threshold, even though they weren’t officially married yet, and Jane went willingly, losing her shoes in the hallway, dropping pieces of clothing as she headed for the master bedroom. She stopped halfway down the hall, wearing nothing but a pair of lace bikini panties and her glasses, and turned to look at Sandy.
His shirt was off, his pants were unzipped, and he was hopping on one foot while he was trying to take off his other sock. In the background the phone rang and his answering machine clicked on.
“Are your calls more important than me?” Jane demanded. “Whoever it is can wait.”
“You’re right,” he said, reaching to turn it off, when Jimmy the Stoolie’s nasal tones stopped him.
“Listen, pal, you owe me. I’m calling from the twelfth precinct. They’ve got me on a charge of grand theft, auto, and I need you to bail me out of here, pronto. There’s an old friend of mine in here who’s got no reason to feel too friendly, and a person of indeterminate sex who’s fallen in love with me. Get me out of here, Caldicott, and I won’t say a word to the little lady about who you really are. Come on, what’s a car between friends? The MGB was a piece of crap, I’m sorry I totaled it, but you owed me for getting you in to see Jabba. Save me, pal.” The answering machine clicked off.
Jane just looked at Sandy. “Are you going to leave that poor man rotting in jail? After all, he brought us together.”
Sandy pulled off his other sock and stripped off his pants. “Does that mean he gets to be best man?”
“At least we don’t have to leave the church in an MGB,” Jane said brightly. “We wouldn’t have gotten two blocks in that car.”
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Sandy said, stalking her down the long dark hallway, “or I’ll buy another.”
“How about an Edsel? Or maybe a nice little Chevy Vega? Mavericks had a certain je ne sais quoi... or we could—”
He caught up with her by the door, scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. “We’ll use taxis,” he said. “Or walk.” He dumped her on the king-size bed and followed her down.
“Or maybe,” she said, “we’ll stay right here and not go anyplace at all.”
“Now that sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” Sandy said.
“And if I get bored I can always burn down the apartment. I still haven’t had my chance to commit a crime. You were always so repressive.”
“Someone has to keep you in line. That’s what a partner in crime is for.”
“I thought it was for aiding and abetting.”
“There’s that, too.” He ran a string of kisses down her neck. “And at least I’ll give you a discount on my fees if I have to defend you on a charge of arson.”
“Big of you.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re indecent, you know that?”
“I try my best.”
“And you get spectacular results,” she said fervently.
“What can I say?” He was all modesty.
“Say good-night, Sandy.”
“Good night, Sandy.”
“Indecent,” breathed Jane in a pleased voice. And then all was silence, but the sound of the phone ringing and the plaintive voice of Jimmy the Stoolie wailing away on the answering machine.
About Anne Stuart
Anne Stuart is a grandmaster of the genre, winner of Romance Writers of America's prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award, survivor of more than thirty-five years in the romance business, and still just keeps getting better.
Her first novel was Barrett's Hill, a gothic romance published by Ballantine in 1974 when Anne had just turned 25. Since then she's written more gothics, regencies, romantic suspense, romantic adventure, series romance, suspense, historical romance, paranormal and mainstream contemporary romance for publishers such as Doubleday, Harlequin, Silhouette, Avon, Zebra, St. Martins Press, Berkley, Dell, Pocket Books and Fawcett.
She’s won numerous awards, appeared on most bestseller lists, and speaks all over the country. Her general outrageousness has gotten her on Entertainment Tonight, as well as in Vogue, People, USA Today, Women’s Day and countless other national newspapers and magazines.
When she’s not traveling, she’s at home in Northern Vermont with her luscious husband of forty years, an empty nest, five sewing machines, and when she’s not working she’s watching movies, listening to rock and roll(preferably Japanese) and spending far too much time quilting and making doll clothes because she has no intention of ever growing up.
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