Poisoned Tarts. G. A. McKevett

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      “Hey, your news story is coming on next,” Tammy called from the living room. “They said they’ve got film and everything!”

      In the kitchen, Savannah grabbed plates laden with rocky road fudge and peanut butter chip brownies and scurried into her living room.

      Her guests were stretched out on the sofa and across the floor, holding their bellies and moaning in pain. They were soldiers laid low, not from battle but from Savannah’s determination to make sure that every morsel of food possible had been consumed—and then some.

      She wasn’t content until the aftermath looked like the scene in Gone with the Wind, with casualties stretched as far as the eye could see. When no one could move, or even breathe, only then would her job as hostess be finished.

      “A little post-dessert repast,” she said.

      The chorus of groans mingled with pleas of “No, no! I couldn’t eat another bite!” as they snatched up the offerings.

      Even the svelte and health-conscious Tammy took a piece of the fudge before passing the plate to Ryan Stone and John Gibson.

      A couple of Savannah’s closest friends and honorary members of her Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency, Ryan and John had fought the urge to eat every delectable morsel that Savannah had forced on them for years—but with pathetically little conviction. If not for the hours spent at the gym and on the tennis court to counteract the effects, their ultratrim physiques would have disappeared long ago.

      And that would have been a shame because lusting after the two of them—hard bodies and all—was one of Savannah’s favorite pastimes, second only to watching Dirk walk away.

      With Ryan’s dark good looks, his six-foot-plus frame, and his impeccable sense of style, he could set any female heart pitter-patting. And although John was older than Ryan, his life partner, John’s thick silver hair and his soft, aristocratic British accent was enough to make a girl melt.

      For all the good it did her, Savannah had been pitter-pattering and melting into puddles in their presence for years.

      “Hey, Van, bring some of those brownies over here,” Dirk called from the other side of the living room. “And is that fudge? Is it rocky road?”

      Snuggled into her favorite rose-print chintz easy chair, he leaned back and unbuckled his Harley–Davidson belt.

      “What are you doing there in my chair?” she asked as she brought the plates of goodies to him. “I’ve told you time and again not to sit in it. I’ve got the cushion molded just right for my own hind end, and you’re gonna wreck it. Get out! Now!”

      “It’s comfortable,” he objected as he reached for the plate. “I can see now why you like sitting here, even if it is a sissy, pansy chair with stupid flowers all over it.”

      “Get out of it!” she said, kicking him on the shin with her fuzzy red slipper. “You insult my chair and expect me to let you sit there? Move your carcass over to the couch and take those boots off. They’ve got mud and heaven knows what else on ’em.” She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Lord have mercy, boy, what have you been wading through? Meadow muffins?”

      “Meadow whats?” He lifted his boot and stared at the sole.

      “Cow pies,” she said. “You know…bovine biscuits.”

      “Ah. You mean bull shit,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I—”

      “Sh-h-h,” СКАЧАТЬ