Read Online The Marrying Man by Barbara Bretton - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Bretton
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fascinated, as she looked up at him, then looked through him as if he weren't standing there in front of her. She gave her head a quick shake as if to clear away the cobwebs.
"Sorry," she said. "A great plot idea occurred to me and I didn't want to let it slip by."
"I thought you were writing up your daily schedule."
"I was but as soon as I wrote 'load the dishwasher,' I flashed on a brilliant idea where the perp stashes the bloody murder weapon in the dishwasher with the Thanksgiving dinner dishes and washes away the evidence."
He wasn't entirely sure he liked the way her mind worked.
"You're awfully quiet," she said with a grin. "Do I make you nervous?"
"I went to Harvard, Zaslow. I know the difference between fact and fiction."
The grin widened. "Are you sure you do?"
Truth was, she unnerved the hell out of him, sitting there all innocent and beautiful, bathed in the morning sunshine that spilled through the kitchen windows. "How'd you get started writing murder mysteries anyway?"
"I found a dead body near my rosebushes."
"Right," he said, not believing her for a minute, "and a six foot rabbit on the porch."
"You asked, McKendrick."
Maybe she was telling the truth. "So what were you, a homicide detective?"
"I answered phones and typed envelopes by day and wrote freelance by night."
"Before you got married?"
"No." A shadow flickered across her face. "After David died. I'd been working as a staff reporter at Newsweek when we met but there was no way I could juggle that and full-time motherhood."
"From Newsweek to typing envelopes?"
"Money was tight and I'm not afraid of hard work."
"So where does the body come in?"
"We were still living on the lower East Side of Manhattan in David's old apartment. I was pushing Sarah in her stroller and I saw something funny behind Mrs. Mazzelli's rosebushes."
"Mr. Mazzelli?"
"Bingo, cowboy. And he was clutching the little woman's cat's eye glasses in his hand."
"You look downright nostalgic."
"I am," she said. "It was serendipity."
A beautiful woman who waxed poetic over a corpse. "So what happened after you found the body?"
"I called the police, I hung around, I asked questions. Nobody paid much attention to the little housewife with the new baby and the four rowdy little boys. Eight weeks later I sent Roses Are For Killing on to Max who managed to sell it for more money than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. And the rest, as they say, is history."
"Have you found any more corpses in the rosebushes?"
"No, but I believe we make our own luck."
His eyebrow lifted. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning I'd sleep with my light on if I were you."
He wasn't sure whether to laugh or check his insurance policy. "Admit it, Zaslow, you're not your average mother of five."
"And you're not exactly my idea of the quintessential time management expert." She made a big production out of looking him over, head to toe. She also made it obvious that her inspection was meant to get on his nerves. It didn't. He liked it. "You should have a sunken chest, a high-pitched voice, and a pocket protector."
He struck a Schwarzenegger pose. "I don't."
She swallowed. "I've noticed."
There it was again. That indefinable tug in the center of his gut. That voice in his ear that kept saying, This is the one.
Her gaze was steady as she looked up at him. His grasp on reality was anything but. Her blue eyes seemed smoky, darker than they had a moment ago. He moved closer. His blood pounded in his ears. Her lips parted a fraction. His hunger was a living, breathing force. Kiss her. That's what this is all about. Kiss her and get on with it.
***
He was going to kiss her.
Cat knew it in her head, in her heart, in the way her blood moved through her body like a river seeking its source.
And the amazing this was, she was going to let him.
She was under an enchantment, that's what it was, some kind of erotic magical spell that made normally sane women do things their mothers had warned them against
"Sorry," she said. "A great plot idea occurred to me and I didn't want to let it slip by."
"I thought you were writing up your daily schedule."
"I was but as soon as I wrote 'load the dishwasher,' I flashed on a brilliant idea where the perp stashes the bloody murder weapon in the dishwasher with the Thanksgiving dinner dishes and washes away the evidence."
He wasn't entirely sure he liked the way her mind worked.
"You're awfully quiet," she said with a grin. "Do I make you nervous?"
"I went to Harvard, Zaslow. I know the difference between fact and fiction."
The grin widened. "Are you sure you do?"
Truth was, she unnerved the hell out of him, sitting there all innocent and beautiful, bathed in the morning sunshine that spilled through the kitchen windows. "How'd you get started writing murder mysteries anyway?"
"I found a dead body near my rosebushes."
"Right," he said, not believing her for a minute, "and a six foot rabbit on the porch."
"You asked, McKendrick."
Maybe she was telling the truth. "So what were you, a homicide detective?"
"I answered phones and typed envelopes by day and wrote freelance by night."
"Before you got married?"
"No." A shadow flickered across her face. "After David died. I'd been working as a staff reporter at Newsweek when we met but there was no way I could juggle that and full-time motherhood."
"From Newsweek to typing envelopes?"
"Money was tight and I'm not afraid of hard work."
"So where does the body come in?"
"We were still living on the lower East Side of Manhattan in David's old apartment. I was pushing Sarah in her stroller and I saw something funny behind Mrs. Mazzelli's rosebushes."
"Mr. Mazzelli?"
"Bingo, cowboy. And he was clutching the little woman's cat's eye glasses in his hand."
"You look downright nostalgic."
"I am," she said. "It was serendipity."
A beautiful woman who waxed poetic over a corpse. "So what happened after you found the body?"
"I called the police, I hung around, I asked questions. Nobody paid much attention to the little housewife with the new baby and the four rowdy little boys. Eight weeks later I sent Roses Are For Killing on to Max who managed to sell it for more money than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. And the rest, as they say, is history."
"Have you found any more corpses in the rosebushes?"
"No, but I believe we make our own luck."
His eyebrow lifted. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning I'd sleep with my light on if I were you."
He wasn't sure whether to laugh or check his insurance policy. "Admit it, Zaslow, you're not your average mother of five."
"And you're not exactly my idea of the quintessential time management expert." She made a big production out of looking him over, head to toe. She also made it obvious that her inspection was meant to get on his nerves. It didn't. He liked it. "You should have a sunken chest, a high-pitched voice, and a pocket protector."
He struck a Schwarzenegger pose. "I don't."
She swallowed. "I've noticed."
There it was again. That indefinable tug in the center of his gut. That voice in his ear that kept saying, This is the one.
Her gaze was steady as she looked up at him. His grasp on reality was anything but. Her blue eyes seemed smoky, darker than they had a moment ago. He moved closer. His blood pounded in his ears. Her lips parted a fraction. His hunger was a living, breathing force. Kiss her. That's what this is all about. Kiss her and get on with it.
***
He was going to kiss her.
Cat knew it in her head, in her heart, in the way her blood moved through her body like a river seeking its source.
And the amazing this was, she was going to let him.
She was under an enchantment, that's what it was, some kind of erotic magical spell that made normally sane women do things their mothers had warned them against
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