Here Comes Trouble. Leslie Kelly

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      IF MAX WERE A PSYCHO serial killer or a cannibal or something, the pretty blonde walking beside him through the woods would be in serious trouble. She’d shown up at the old, abandoned park this afternoon, and Max had no sooner said he was ready to take her to meet Mortimer than she’d started walking—away from the main road and possible witnesses. He’d fallen into step beside her, leading her toward the path going up the hill to hell. Er…home.

      He wondered if she was a black belt. Or if she was armed. Or simply very, very trusting. Like a certain little girl with a red riding cape complete with hood.

      “Why did you come with me?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “Weren’t you the least bit concerned that I could be dangerous?”

      Her curvy lips twitched. An invisible string in his chest tugged his heart until it twitched along with them. Either that or his empty stomach was reminding him he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

      Had to be hunger. Max’s heart hadn’t been involved in any relationship with a woman in years.

      “I’m prepared. I have something in my pocket….”

      He shifted away a bit, giving her more room on the dirt path that led to his grandfather’s new white elephant. “Please don’t mace me, I was just asking a question.”

      She pulled her hand out of her pocket, and he saw her cell phone.

      “Were you going to ring-tone me to death if I turned out to be Freddy Krueger in disguise?”

      “I’m pretty sure I’m awake—not dreaming—so you can’t be Freddy,” she murmured, tucking her phone back into the pocket of her white slacks.

      Considering they were delightfully tight, he wondered how she had the room, but quickly figured it out. God bless spandex. Spandex is my friend.

      “I had my finger ready to speed-dial my friend Butch.”

      “Butch?”

      Color rose in her cheeks and she cleared her throat before explaining. “The ex-Marine turned bouncer.”

      It was all he could do not to tsk, knowing she was lying.

      She might have made a flip comeback, but she had also stepped away from him on the path. He hadn’t intended to scare her. Honestly, he found her openness and trusting spirit incredibly attractive…if a bit naive. “There’s no Butch.”

      “Says you.”

      “If there’s a Butch, he’s a five-foot-six engineer trying to counter his geekiness and ninety-eight-pound physique by having a tough nickname.” Her audible sigh of defeat told him he’d hit home. “Sorry if I just offended your…boyfriend?”

      Shaking her head, she reluctantly laughed, and little sparkles of delight seemed to spill out of her and bathe him in her good humor. “No, no boyfriend.”

      Hallelujah. He’d already noticed there was no wedding ring.

      “But there really is a Butch…”

      “Oh, yeah?”

      Instead of meeting his eye, she glanced down at her feet, kicking a small branch away with one sneaker-clad foot. “He’s my dog. A toy poodle.”

      “Is his name really Butch?”

      She tugged one corner of her lip between her teeth before slowly shaking her head. “It’s Giorgio.”

      Max snorted. “Who named him?”

      “Me.”

      Shaking his head, he mourned for poor old Giorgio. “That should be against the law. Saddling a completely hideous name on another living creature.”

      “I like Giorgio. It’s very…Mediterranean.”

      “Bet he gets the snot beat out of him by the other pups at the doggie park.”

      “He’s got a bit of a Napoleon complex,” she admitted. “So he does tend to get in trouble with some of the bigger dogs. That’s why my younger sister decided to start calling him Butch once she moved in with me.”

      A sister who lived with her. He filed the information away for future use. Not that he knew for sure that he’d ever be invited in for coffee and an all-night sex-fest after one of their inevitable dates. But he was hoping. And a live-in sister could make things a little…crowded.

      Now, however, wasn’t the time to be thinking that way. Not until he was out of this whole book jam. Best behavior, he reminded himself. You’re Mr. Boy Next Door. Because, though he wanted to believe this woman was in Trouble for exactly the reasons she claimed, he wasn’t ready to completely discount the possibility that he was being played.

      A player was always on the lookout for anyone who wanted to play him. And once upon a time, Max had been one of the best players around.

      “So whose speed-dial number did you have your finger on?”

      “The Trouble Police Department. They are programmed into my cell phone.” She shuddered lightly, though the day was warm and comfortable. “I put them in there when I arrived and found out my landlord likes to get naked and prune the rosebushes in his backyard on the weekend. Which, to me, seems like a dangerous combination—thorns, hedge clippers and nudity.”

      “Ah. You’re staying at the Dewdrop.”

      “Yes.”

      “Could be worse. You could be staying at Seaton House, which used to be open as a hotel just north of Trouble.”

      Cringing, she admitted, “I saw pictures on the Internet of that place, hulking over the town like a gargoyle hovering over its still-bleeding prey.”

      Good visual.

      “I had this image of a nightmarish version of Satan’s Hotel where demons turn down your bed and you realize it’s full of snakes. You check in and you never check out. It looked as if Norman Bates and his mother lived there.”

      “They might. Or so says the Trouble gossip mill. The hotel closed down a month ago, leaving the Dewdrop as the only lodging option within twenty miles of here.” He grinned. “Nicely worded description by the way.”

      “Thanks. I guess I’ve got a lot of practice trying to paint pictures with words.”

      “Ah. You’re a writer?”

      She didn’t answer right away, staring at the ground in front of them as if afraid she’d trip and fall over a jumbled mound of brush. Finally, though, she said, “I’ve wanted to be a novelist since I was a kid.”

      Though he had no fondness for writers lately, he admitted, “Well, you’re good. As long as you stick to fiction and none of that tell-all crap.”

      Like Grace. But this blonde was nothing like Grace, who wasn’t really a writer at all. She was merely a spoiled brat who was never happy if she wasn’t messing with someone’s СКАЧАТЬ