Foul Play - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,8
A rose-and-turquoise Tiffany lamp hung over a round pine table. A deep-purple African violet in a new clay pot served as a centerpiece. The appliances looked new—as did the countertops and pine cabinets. Lulu the Clown must have commanded a decent salary. The house wasn’t flashy, but it had a feel of well-chosen quality to it. Jake liked it. It was comfy.
He looked at the bowl of meatball gook and scratched his head. He should do something with it, but what? When in doubt, put it in the refrigerator. He poured himself another glass of wine and hummed happily as he slid a frozen chicken dinner into the oven. He remembered Spot and added a tray of frozen lasagna.
Chapter Two
Amy opened one eye and sniffed. A wonderful aroma was drifting into her bedroom. A food-type aroma. That was impossible. She squinted at her clock radio. Seven-thirty. She looked at the multicolored alley cat sleeping at the foot of her bed. “Motley, have you been cooking French toast?”
Motley twitched his ears and looked at her through half-closed eyes.
The ivory nightshirt lying on the floor caught Amy’s attention. If the nightshirt was on the floor—then what was she sleeping in? Her bra and her skirt. A fuzzy memory of being undressed crept into her brain. It was followed by the memory of a conversation about deflowering.
“Oh no,” she said. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have!” Motley was lounging on her white blouse. Good lord, maybe she had.
Jake knocked lightly on the bedroom door before pushing it open with his foot. “Glad to see you’re awake.”
Amy’s mouth dropped open. There was a man in her bedroom. Jacob Elliott, to be exact. She squeezed her eyes shut and told herself this was all a bad dream. When she reopened her eyes, Jake was still there.
A jumble of emotions boiled in Amy. Disbelief, fear, disappointment, embarrassment. Last night, after only one glass of wine, she’d felt scandalously comfortable with Jake. This morning she wasn’t nearly so comfortable.
“What are you doing here?”
“Making breakfast. I’m not much of a cook, but I make a mean French toast.”
“Have you been here … long?” Amy managed, ignoring the voice inside her head screaming, Have you been here all night?
“Only long enough to make breakfast. I took the liberty of helping myself to your house key last night, after you passed out. I thought you might be a little under the weather this morning. I can honestly say, I’ve never seen anyone get so drunk, so fast, on so little.”
Amy pulled the covers up to her chin and watched in dismay as he set a tray across her lap. He’d given her a glass of orange juice, a plate filled with steaming, golden slices of French toast drenched in butter and syrup, and a rose. A delicate, pale pink rose. She didn’t know what to say. Not only hadn’t anyone ever fixed her breakfast in bed before … but a rose! What had she done to deserve this? She was afraid to ask. “Um, about the rose …”
“I had to go to the supermarket for coffee, and I spied this rose. It’s the same shade as your skirt.” He grinned at the blush spreading across her face. “And your cheeks.”
“This rose isn’t for … ah, anything special? I mean we didn’t …”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I remember being unbuttoned out of my blouse.”
Jake helped himself to a corner of toast. “Don’t you remember anything else?”
“I remember a conversation about … gardening.”
“You mean that stuff about flowers, deflowering?”
Amy closed her eyes. She’d hoped it had been a nightmare. She’d told an acquaintance of only two hours her most intimate secret … and she was almost certain she’d then proceeded to attack him. “What happened after the conversation?”
Jake sliced off another corner and fed it to Amy. “You tried to get me to go to bed with you.”
“I didn’t!”
“You did, but I wouldn’t do it. I have my principles, you know. I didn’t want you to think I was easy.”
If she could die from embarrassment, Amy was sure she’d be dead in a minute. She swallowed the piece of bread in one gulp and slumped back against the headboard. “I suppose I’m relieved. I was afraid I just didn’t remember it.”
“It? You mean the momentous occasion?”
She detected a trace of laughter in his eyes, but his voice was low and purposefully seductive. It was a nice combination, she thought; it was playful. He was trying to ease them through an awkward morning after.
She sipped her