Read Online Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw - Free Book Online Page B

and clasped it to his lip again. Gramps dashed over to me. No sad and worried look on his face; my grandfather was quaking with laughter. He’d had two belly laughs in two hours. That was beyond his legal limit, especially since they were both at my expense.
    He motioned for the journalist. I swear the guy cowed. Heck, would you blame him? Yet Carl obeyed and came within ten feet of me while every other bystander in that entire room took ten giant steps back. Who knew who I’d throw myself at next? They feared for their lives and reproductive organs.
    “Carl, my friend, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Pastor Jane Angieski. You two certainly hit it off.” Whatever else he was going to say dissolved into laughter, and now the entire class, middle-aged and older, was joining in, suddenly less fearful of Rocket Girl, Jane the deadly projectile of the dance floor. I guess because I was sitting.
    Carl was the genuine article, all arm candy and even better looking when I wasn’t piercing his lips with my front teeth. His eyes were not too bad, either, sultry brown like bitter chocolate, the kind that melts on your tongue. He might have a Polish last name, but he was one hundred percent American male in my book.
    He nodded and looked at me — not too close, mind you. He dabbed his lip and said, “Wait. I know you.”
    Words to make a girl’s heart turn to jelly? Yeah, until he said, “You’re the fighting minister, aren’t you? Love to get an interview while you’re in Vegas. Make a great feature piece. You pack a wallop.”
    I dusted my hands. “I’m a lethal weapon,” I said, and then it hit me. “You know me?”
    Carl’s smile was sly. “Blame everything I know on Henry. He and I found our families lived in the same area in Poland and we talked about you, too. I’d like to hear some time about your efforts in Los Angeles since I saw you on the Internet. You’ve got a story, Pastor.”
    “Really?” I cooed much like some cooing I’d overheard Vera doing in the telephone one day. The thought momentarily made me queasy.
    “You’re some minister always digging up dirt. I want to be kept in the loop, okay? So if you hear anything, just call me.”
    What had Gramps told him? In a highly caffeinated moment I might have forgotten the slip from grace straight at his lower-than-middle and grabbed the hunk’s arm for a spin around the dance floor, minus the deadly twinkles. Then I happened to look at Petra, who was looking at Carl, who was looking at Petra. It was goo-goo, ga-ga all around. My fears that Petra was about to whisk Gramps off to the honeymoon delights of Aruba seemed as non-reality-based as my unexpected talent for dancing.
    I rubbed my knees and dusted off my backside. “I’ve hung up my Super Minister cape and mask. I’m going to become a professional dancer.” Heads spun in circles as the entire class looked in horror.
    I always say why make a fool of yourself unless there’s a really good crowd? I tried that giggling, joie de vivre sounds you hear actresses do on Access Hollywood. “Just kidding, Carl. Nice meeting you. Let’s hope we bump into each other again.” I wiggled my hips and heard him gasp. Then added, “In different circumstances? Gramps, isn’t dance time over?” Like the parting of the Red Sea, a path cleared between me and the exit and I boogied. Can’t blame them. When I dance, people are harmed.
    We waved our good-byes, and I attempted to leave with whatever dignity I had still intact. Attempted is the operative word because I assumed I was stepping toward an automatic door. My nose will tell you that wasn’t the case.
    I was still rubbing my forehead as I walked into the condo, with Gramps limping behind me. He was still laughing — not all the time, only when he looked at me. There was no sign of Harmony. I called her name and then the place exploded. It was filled with a yapping dust mop hitting my shins at four hundred miles an hour. Wait, make that a shag