She's No Angel. Leslie Kelly

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      She’s No Angel

      Leslie Kelly

      To Bruce. Just Bruce.

      I’m so glad you like that I’m no angel.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      OF ALL THE PLEASURES in the life of Mortimer Potts, he’d have to call being the patriarch of a small Pennsylvania town among the finest. In the single year that he’d been living in Trouble, having purchased the bulk of it to save it from bankruptcy, he’d watched the place emerge from its cloak of depression the way a pretty flower might pop out amid a field of weeds and scrub. Not fully in bloom yet, it merely offered a hint at the color curled within its tightly wound petals. Observing it blossom had become his favorite pastime.

      But the town wasn’t his greatest pleasure. It couldn’t compare, say, to spending time with his family—his grandsons and new granddaughter-in-law. Or having an eighty-one-year-old body that could perform all its necessary functions without benefit of odious amounts of fiber or Viagra. At least, most of the time. There had been that one occasion with the Feeney sisters when he’d discovered what the hoopla over that little blue pill was all about. It was a wonder his heart had survived the unexpected adventure. Still, watching the town emerge from its sleep was infinitely better than needing the obituaries to see who he’d outlived.

      “I heard that sigh,” a disapproving voice said, the clipped British accent unaltered by decades of life in the U.S. “You’re thinking of those wretched sisters again, aren’t you? Either that or the time we rescued the harem in forty-six.”

      Mortimer smiled in reminiscence. “A noble adventure.”

      Roderick, his manservant—and best friend—sniffed, the same supercilious sound of disapproval he’d made since the day they’d met. “I doubt the sheikh would have been so quick with his golden reward if he knew how many of his wives thanked you personally.”

      Ahh, yes. He did enjoy being thanked.

      His fond memories quickly faded, Roderick’s words suddenly making him feel very old. Gone were his journeys to other continents, where he and his majordomo had been freewheeling adventurers. Or even, in his later years, where they’d been freewheeling parents, the two of them raising Mortimer’s grandsons.

      Having lived life as a citizen of the world, he’d seen no reason to bring the boys up any other way. So while other youngsters their age studied faraway places by reading about them in textbooks in stuffy schoolrooms, his grandsons were visiting those spots. South America. Africa. From sampans in Shanghai to digs of ruins in Greece, Mortimer and Roderick had taught the boys not merely how to think, but how to live.

      Now, however, there were no more adventures. No more trips to other continents. If he were foolish enough to get on a horse today, he’d be more likely to break a hip than to win a race across the desert.

      “Is everything prepared for Michael’s arrival?”

      Roderick nodded. “Right down to his favorite dish.” His brow scrunching in disgust, he added, “Chili. How very—”

      “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Mortimer replied, his tone dry. “Pedestrian?” It was one of Roderick’s favorite words.

      “I was going to say uninspiring.”

      “No, you weren’t.”

      “You can’t read my mind, Mortimer.”

      Chuckling, Mortimer said, “I know you well enough to know how it must have pained you to shop for canned kidney beans.”

      Rod laid one hand on Mortimer’s broad, oak desk and leaned over, as if exhausted. “You’ve no idea. It is impossible to purchase fresh chili peppers, or even cumin, in this town. I had to settle for a few of those dried-up, yellow envelopes full of mystery spice.” He sounded as disgruntled as if he’d been forced to substitute Chicken of the Sea for beluga.

      “How very pedestrian,” Mortimer murmured, purposely gazing at his paper, though he saw Roderick puff up like a porcupine out of the corner of his eye.

      What a funny, prickly man. And the truest friend anyone could ever ask for. They’d been together since the Second World War, crossing the globe in search of adventure. Mortimer’s family money and high spirits had led the way while Roderick’s common sense had kept them out of trouble. Well, it hadn’t kept them out of trouble, but it certainly had extricated them from a few…tricky…situations.

      Even when the occasional marriage had divided them, they’d remained close, and Rod had been the first person a widowed Mortimer had called when he’d experienced the second great loss of his life—the death of his daughter. As always, the stoic Englishman had come to his side, stepping forward with Mortimer to parent three orphaned little boys, who’d lost their father less than a year before in the first Gulf War.

      “The point is,” Rod said, as usual changing the subject when he was losing an argument, “Michael has developed horrifyingly middle-class tastes.”

      Mortimer smiled, lifting his drink to his lips, eyeing the amber-colored whiskey and suddenly wishing he’d helped himself to one of the beers he’d put on ice for his grandson. “Yes, he has, but considering he is a New York City police officer, I’d say that’s probably appropriate.”

      “A police officer.” Roddy couldn’t have sounded more disdainful if Michael had decided to become one of those male go-go dancers. “If he had to go into law enforcement, couldn’t he at least have gone into the MI5?”

      Grunting, Mortimer lowered his drink, still wanting that beer. “Aside from the fact that he’s an American, not a Brit, and would therefore have been more likely to choose the CIA, my grandson could never be a spy. He’s far too noble.”

      Roderick’s СКАЧАТЬ