Here Comes Trouble. Leslie Kelly

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      They walked in silence for a few yards, then Max said, “Just so you know, I’d read your books. You’ve got me convinced to never set foot in Seaton House, much less sleep in it.”

      He wondered if she’d believe him if he told her there was somewhere she could be staying that was even more frightening—the house where they were heading. The one where he currently resided.

      Because hearing a few dozen screaming cuckoos every hour had to be worse than sleeping one thin wall away from the owner of the Seaton House, a man most of Trouble apparently considered a murderer. Or from Al Fitzweather, whose goods, one would hope, would at least be hidden by his beer gut whenever he was walking around the house in the buff.

      “Remind me to do a narrative passage on Al Fitzweather and the Dewdrop Inn, just to keep you safe from that place, too,” she said.

      “If there’s a law against bad pet names, there should also be one against unattractive people getting naked in public,” he said, inwardly cringing at the mental picture of the inn owner, and then of the old lady in his cockpit a few weeks ago.

      “I think there already is.”

      “In Trouble? One can never be sure…”

      “Good point.”

      Thinking about her comments regarding her cell phone, he added, “You know, even with your speed dial, I don’t think any of the three officers on the Trouble P.D. could get here fast enough to save you if I turned into Jason or Pinhead.”

      “You have a thing about horror movies?”

      “You obviously do, too, since you know exactly who I’m talking about, including Norman Bates.”

      They were passing beneath an enormous elm and a bit of sunlight peeked between its leaves to bathe her hair in a warm, soft glow. He wondered if the color was natural and thought it might be—a cascading jumble of golds, blondes and light browns, it probably couldn’t have come from a bottle.

      His body chose that moment to remind him of that lack of breakfast again, because Max felt something roll over, deep inside. Definitely food related. Not female related. Uh-uh.

      “I think I’ve seen every horror movie ever made, even though we weren’t allowed to watch them in our house growing up,” she explained. “My friends would have terror marathons whenever I slept over. I was a bad influence.”

      Oh, right. This soft, curvy-looking woman was probably about as bad as Mr. Peanut.

      “A couple of times I’d go to the movies to see something PG rated but sneak into Child’s Play or another bloody flick.”

      She had a naughty side. He wouldn’t have predicted that—though he should have, given the sarcastic, earthy wit that she exhibited at unexpected moments. “How very shocking,” he said, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

      “Anyway, I learned enough to know that the girl who fights back is the only one who makes it out of the dark and scary house alive, so when I moved to the city I took a self-defense course from an ex-cop. I could hurt you…just so you know.”

      That he wouldn’t have predicted. “You telling me another Butch story?”

      Shaking her head, she lifted a golden brow, as if daring him to find out. That gleam in her blue eyes told him he’d better not. So maybe the pretty blonde wasn’t naive at all—just confident of her ability to defend herself.

      Not that she needed to. Max had never so much as yelled at a woman, much less lifted a hand to one. Seductive whispers or sweet, playful words were so much more effective than shouted ones, in his experience.

      Except with his ex-wife. And with her, his lawyer had done all the yelling.

      Max had stuck to drinking.

      He’d spent a good year completely intoxicated following their shocking breakup. Which was why he currently had a twelve-step card tucked safely in his wallet. And why he hadn’t had anything more alcoholic than a Butter Rum Lifesaver near his lips in three years.

      “He said I was the best student he ever had,” she said. “And I liked it so much, I went on to become an instructor at a local community center.”

      Hmm…a self-defense instructor at a community center? Didn’t sound like the monied type—the type who’d be able to take this albatross called Trouble off his grandfather’s back and let Max and his brothers return to their regularly scheduled lives. Then again, maybe she was an eccentric, altruistic rich person.

      Max certainly was acquainted with a few of those. Some of whom were related to him. Like the one who’d bought this monstrosity of a town to try to breathe financial life into its carcass before rigor mortis set in.

      “You know,” he murmured as they crested the hill, reaching the edge of the tangled, overgrown yard surrounding his grandfather’s new house, “it wasn’t the girl who fought back who survived a night with Freddy, Jason or Norman.” Hiding a smile, he continued. “It was always the good girl. The virgin.”

      He gave her a look of complete innocence, remembering at the last moment that he was not allowed to tread deep into dangerous, sexual waters with any woman just now. Frankly, he thought he’d been doing pretty well at keeping things light, friendly and above the waist with all this talk of blood, murder and psycho killers. But that last comment had shot his good intentions straight to hell.

      He somehow didn’t think she’d mind. He had the feeling that despite her angelic looks, this woman was not the sweet type. Which was good. Max didn’t much care for sweet girls. Not when bad ones were so much more…entertaining.

      “Well,” she replied, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not a Jason or a Freddy, then, or my guts might be hanging from a tree back in the woods right about now. Because my virginity was history long before Jason killed his hundredth victim.”

      Sassy comeback. Damn, he really liked that. On top of everything else he already liked about this stranger, who’d popped into his mind several times the night before when he’d been trying to sleep. “Considering he probably hit a hundred by the second movie, I somehow doubt that. You would’ve been in preschool.”

      “Thousandth victim, then. At least five movies ago.”

      “Okay.” Since they were now discussing her virginity—Lord have mercy on his wicked soul for those mental images—he figured introductions might be good. “What’s your name, anyway? We never did the how-do-you-do stuff. Some self-defense expert you are.”

      “It’s Sabrina. Sabrina Cavanaugh.”

      He stuck his hand out. “Mine’s Michael. Michael Myers.”

      She rolled her eyes, instantly recognizing the name of the psycho from the Halloween movies. Smiling, Max opened his mouth to offer his real name, but before he could, Sabrina—pretty Sabrina—cut him off with a surprised gasp.

      “Oh, my God.”

      Wonderful. The woman had obviously seen Hell House. Sighing, Max steeled himself for her obvious dismay when she realized just how bad it was. She’d run as fast as she could when she saw the kind СКАЧАТЬ