Kitabı oku: «First You Kiss 100 Men...»

Chapter One

In my limited experience, I’ve found that the most difficult part of kissing is the approach. Who makes the first move? Are the signals being read correctly? A kiss, especially the first one shared by a couple, involves a delicate dance of uncertainty…and anticipation.

Laughter pealed from the reception area, shaking Hunter’s thoughts from the case he was investigating and making him wish, not for the first time today, that his secretary’s month-long honeymoon was already over.

It was Monday, the first workday since his efficient assistant’s wedding, and things were already going to Hades in a wicker basket. His much-coveted sense of order and calm was already being shattered.

Now someone was strumming what sounded like a ukulele, and a buzz of giggling and chattering voices sounded from the reception area. He had already rescued the company from near-collapse once. It wouldn’t do to let things regress merely because Trudy and his top investigator had tied the knot. Better nip these shenanigans in the bud now and remind everyone to save their fun for the lunch hour.

Hunter closed the file and lined it up squarely with the right, near edge of his desk.

Out front, all the staff from Oltmeier-Matthews Investigation Agency surrounded his elderly business partner, Leonard Oltmeier. In addition, a number of employees from neighboring offices had come over to see what the noise was about, and had stayed to lend even more frivolity to the event.

Hunter stood in the doorway for a moment, hating to be the bad guy again. But if it hadn’t been for his insistence on adhering to the strict policies and procedures he’d drawn up shortly after coming to work here, the company would have gone under a long time ago. Everyone who worked here appreciated the increased efficiency and higher salaries that resulted from following his rules, but old habits were hard to break. And most of the time Hunter was the one who had to remind them.

Like now. He sighed and stepped into the crowded reception room. His partner perched on the arm of the couch and smiled at a young, dark-haired woman who handed him an oversize greeting card. Hunter couldn’t blame the old guy for abandoning work in favor of being serenaded by the lovely siren.

Of course! It was Len’s birthday. Hunter cursed his rotten memory. If Trudy were here, she would have reminded him. But his secretary wasn’t here, so he’d have to make do the best he could until her return. Meanwhile, he’d have to remind Priscilla, Len’s secretary, to keep him posted on such matters.

Having handed the giant greeting card to Len, the brunette hit an off-key note on her ukulele, sang a few notes of ‘‘mi-mi-mi,’’ and then launched into the ‘‘Happy Birthday’’ song. Her voice was untrained but enthusiastic…and somewhat familiar. Hunter moved into the room and positioned himself near the exit, hoping to get a better look at the woman in the Sherlock Holmes hat, but she was intent on giving the birthday boy her full attention.

The back view of her wasn’t bad, though. Her slim-fitting pink body shirt, decorated with large black question marks, showcased the taper from ribs to waist, and a soft black leather skirt skimmed her narrow hips, falling to the middle of her thighs. Hunter drank in the view. By now, she’d switched to Marilyn Monroe’s version of the song, going so far as to act it out by bending forward slightly and placing her palms on the tops of those mind-boggling legs.

The voice, though tickling his mind with its familiarity, left a lot to be desired, but that didn’t matter as long as his gaze caressed her gently rounded rump. Hunter’s body responded in a way that had him thinking of hot, sweaty nights and wrinkled sheets. He turned to leave before his libido led him to do something he might regret.

That’s when the brunette turned, arms outstretched, and milked the final words of the song. ‘‘…to you…!’’

Julie Beth Fasano? No, it couldn’t be. The last time he’d seen his former neighbor, he’d been about to depart for college, and she’d been a barefoot, gangly kid of eleven. A tomboy who untiringly dogged his tracks, often inviting herself to accompany him on dates with her older sister.

He blinked and looked again. This was no tomboy. All traces of the scraggly hair, skinned knees and crooked teeth had evaporated, and in their place was a lovely young woman with below-the-shoulder curls, legs that seemed to go on forever, and sweet pouty lips that dared a man to kiss them.

Hunter took a couple of deep breaths as he assessed the changes that had taken place in his pesky former neighbor over the past dozen years or so. Half a lifetime for her.

She played to the audience, and their eyes met. Hunter gave her an embarrassed smile. The girl—er, woman—had always had a knack for getting under his skin. He just hoped she wouldn’t know how much she’d affected him today. She returned his smile with a polite one of her own. Their gazes lingered a mere second longer, but it was enough time for him to notice the quizzical expression she shot him. The message seemed clear. She didn’t recognize him.

It wouldn’t hurt to stay and watch the rest of her performance. He wouldn’t get any work done anyway as long as he knew she was still out here. Hunter joined the others as they applauded her overacted performance. To his surprise, not to mention Len’s, she bent and gave the older man a quick kiss and once again wished him a happy birthday before gathering up her ukulele and car keys.

Lucky Len.

Lingering by the exit while Len’s assistant tipped her for the singing telegram, Hunter moved to intercept Julie Beth on the way out. He would remind her who he was and watch her reaction. And maybe inquire after her grandmother.

But when she approached and gave him that same shy, questioning smile, the words in his head vanished. Neither spoke for a moment, and the silence hung awkwardly between them when he made no move to let her pass.

Her pale blue eyes darkened slightly. The fringe of dark, sultry lashes and the brash, upward jut of her chin reminded him she was no longer a child. Little Julie Beth wasn’t so little anymore.

Seeing her standing there like that, her face tilted as if inviting him to partake in the kiss he’d coveted earlier, he blurted the first words that came to his mind. ‘‘My birthday’s tomorrow.’’

Those dark lashes widened almost imperceptibly, alerting him that his remark had surprised her as much as himself. And then her freckle-spattered face was covered with a broad, uncensored smile. Standing on tiptoe, the ukulele dangling at her side, she whispered, ‘‘Happy birthday!’’ and touched her soft lips to his.

Forgetting about adhering to workplace procedures or saving social pursuits until the appointed break time, Hunter returned the kiss and felt himself respond in a way that was decidedly unprofessional. Not to mention painful.

It was as if she had locked up his brain and handed the key to his mutinous body. He pulled her to him, seeking release in the sweet sensation of her touch, but that only served to fan the flames even higher. And when she lifted her arms to encircle his neck, he didn’t even care that she banged the ukulele against his rump.

Her mouth, which he remembered as being full of sass and mischief, was now sweetly compliant as he explored her tender lips with his own. Her strawberry-flavored lipstick teased his senses, making him hunger for more. The soft curve of her breasts pressed against his chest, and Hunter damned the suit jacket he was wearing for adding an extra layer between them.

It was seconds—or maybe minutes, or even days—later when he reluctantly lifted his head to end the kiss. Julie Beth exhaled deeply and dragged her arms from around his neck. Her motions were slow, almost as if she were drugged.

‘‘Hear, hear!’’ said Len in an appreciative tone. The rest of the staff signaled their agreement with cheers and thunderous applause.

Hunter swallowed. He didn’t regret what he’d done, but he hoped Julie Beth wasn’t embarrassed by the attention. His gaze still fixed on the delicate features of her face, he sought to lighten the mood and, at the same time, cut an escape hatch for himself.

He asked his partner, ‘‘What’s today’s date?’’

‘‘April first,’’ the old guy said.

Julie Beth narrowed her eyes at him as she caught on to what was happening.

‘‘April fool,’’ he told her with a teasing grin. ‘‘Tomorrow’s not my birthday.’’

She tucked the ukulele under her arm and maneuvered past him. ‘‘I know.’’ Shooting him a wink over her shoulder as she headed down the hall toward the elevator, her skirt swaying in a devilish salute, she added, ‘‘Your birthday is in August.’’

‘‘I think Anna is seeing someone.’’

If it were anyone other than his brother making this outrageous statement, Hunter would laugh and tell him to get a hobby and stop letting his imagination run amok. As a judge and a pillar of the community, however, Peter Matthews was not prone to creating fanciful tales.

‘‘She’s been slipping out at odd times of the day and night, and she refuses to tell me where she’s going.’’ Peter’s face tightened in pain. He stabbed at the chicken with his fork. ‘‘And yesterday, when I looked in her tote bag for a pen, I found some racy lingerie.’’

Hunter’s sister-in-law had been a devoted wife and mother during her eighteen years of marriage. As much as Hunter tried, he couldn’t imagine her hurting Peter like this. Not intentionally, anyway. ‘‘There must be a reasonable explanation for her behavior.’’

‘‘Things haven’t been well between us for a while.’’ Peter met his eyes and then looked away. ‘‘I want you to follow my wife. Find out what she’s been up to. It’s important that we keep this unpleasantness out of the media.’’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. ‘‘With the reappointment coming up, I can’t afford a messy scandal.’’

Hunter set his napkin on the table. He had no wish to get in the middle of their marital difficulties, but an impartial third party might be able to help them. ‘‘You don’t need an investigator,’’ he said gently, ‘‘but a good counselor could probably help.’’

Peter clenched his jaw. ‘‘I already suggested that to Anna. She wouldn’t go.’’

‘‘Did you offer to go with her?’’ He immediately answered his own question. ‘‘What am I thinking? Of course not.’’ Despite the fact that Hunter had always admired his high-achieving older brother, he recognized that Peter often had difficulty believing he could ever be less than one hundred percent right. Perhaps that’s what had led him to become a civil court judge. It allowed him to have the final say on most of the cases that came through his courtroom.

Peter’s high-handed attitude softened for a brief moment, long enough to make Hunter realize that his brother was deeply concerned. ‘‘We have two teenage sons who need their mother.’’

If Hunter hadn’t already been swayed by Peter’s worried expression, mention of the boys would have been enough to make him agree to take the case. ‘‘After all you’ve taught me about collecting airtight evidence for my clients, I suppose I owe you a favor in return.’’

The smile of relief that greeted his response was clearly heartfelt. Hunter didn’t like what he was about to become involved in, but it would be worth the sacrifice if the results of his investigation provided a healing salve for his brother’s marriage.

Hunter left the restaurant and walked the long way back to the office. He told himself it was because he needed the extra time to think about his brother’s situation, but the decision had more to do with the fact that the Merry Messengers telegram shop lay along this route.

Curiosity was his motive, he told himself as he walked past the bagel shop and an independent bookstore. As he approached Merry Messengers, he slowed his pace and casually glanced in the window to see if Julie Beth might be there, waiting to deliver her next kiss-o-gram. As for what he would do if he should happen to see her, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Holding a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes, he squinted into the dark store. A middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled and waved him in.

It wasn’t Julie Beth. He took her invitation anyway, and once inside, glanced around the small shop.

Real and silk flowers adorned a shelf near the counter, and on the back wall sat ceramic figures and plaques with cute sayings. A spinner rack near a door marked Employees Only offered an assortment of greeting cards, a few of the less attractive ones gone yellow with age.

Still no sign of Julie Beth. He turned to leave, but the proprietress would have none of that.

‘‘How may I help you today?’’ The woman spoke in an overly perky tone, as though she felt the need to demonstrate the enthusiasm with which their telegrams would be delivered. ‘‘We’re having a special on birthday-grams this month.’’

‘‘Uh, no, I don’t think so. I was just looking for someone who was at my office earlier today.’’ He glanced around for a sign of the miniskirted imp who’d kissed him this morning. ‘‘But Julie Beth’s apparently out on a delivery.’’

The woman did a spaniel impersonation and cocked her head. ‘‘Julie Beth?’’

‘‘Julie Fasano. She’s about so tall.’’ He held his hand at shoulder level. Maybe the size of the shop was deceptive, and the lady had employed so many merry messengers that she couldn’t keep track of them all. His guess was confirmed when someone came into the building from a back entrance and made a small commotion beyond the Employees Only door.

He continued his description. ‘‘Long dark hair, petite figure,’’ he said, emphasizing the latter with a wavy motion of his hands, ‘‘and short leather skirt. Really great legs…and an even better kisser,’’ he added with enthusiasm. ‘‘Oh, and she wears strawberry-flavored lipstick.’’

The woman’s perky demeanor vanished. ‘‘You were the, er, birthday boy?’’

‘‘No, actually, I was just a bystander who happened to get lucky.’’

Her tone fairly bristled now. ‘‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with your search.’’

‘‘But you must know her.’’ How could anyone meet Julie Beth and not recall her exuberant spirit and playful attitude? ‘‘She was the one who delivered a kiss-o-gram to the Oltmeier-Matthews Agency this morning. Perhaps you could check your receipts. It’s bound to be in there.’’

‘‘There’s no need for that,’’ she said, her voice curt and cold. ‘‘Merry Messengers is a respectable business. We don’t deliver…kiss-o-grams.’’ If a person could sneer her words, that’s exactly what she did. ‘‘And we don’t encourage fraternizing between our employees and the clients. I’m afraid you’ll have to find some other way to enlarge your social circle.’’

She stepped out from behind the counter as if to escort him to the door, but he moved to one side to gain an opportunity to set straight her misperception. ‘‘No, it wasn’t like that at all. You see, it was only a birthday song and greeting card, followed by a little peck on the birthday boy’s cheek…sort of a congratulations kiss.’’

The woman folded her arms across her chest. ‘‘I’m going to ask you to leave now.’’

He didn’t need a two-by-four over his head to get the message. It had been a stupid idea to come by here and an even stupider idea to try to reconnect with his former neighbor. If he really wanted to find her, it would be a simple matter to look her up through other methods. After all, he was a private investigator.

But he convinced himself it was best they hadn’t reconnected. As a kid following her wacky impulses, Julie Beth had driven him crazy. He consoled himself about the aborted search with a mental reminder that, despite the passage of years, she probably hadn’t changed much in that regard.

Julie waited until the bell jangled over the main door to signal Hunter’s departure before she eased into the front room. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on their conversation, but the familiarity of the customer’s strong masculine voice had captured her attention, and when he’d spoken her name, she’d been hooked. Julie couldn’t help smiling as she remembered what he’d said about her legs.

The look on Mrs. Quarles’s face melted the happy expression from her own. She was really in for it this time.

‘‘First there’s the ongoing matter of your attire,’’ her supervisor said. She gestured toward the door Hunter had left through, indicating the matter he had brought to her attention. ‘‘And now this.’’

‘‘I can explain….’’

‘‘Will it be as imaginative as your excuse for stopping traffic on Main Street by swinging like Tarzan from the stoplight to deliver a rush-hour proposalgram?’’

Julie thought she had made it clear why she’d donned the silly costume and stopped traffic for the occasion, but she explained once again. ‘‘The client’s girlfriend works at the zoo. It seemed the logical thing to do.’’

‘‘So you said. And then there was that incident of the adoption-gram on horseback on the courthouse lawn.’’

‘‘The little girl loves horses. The adoptive parents wanted to celebrate the event with something fun that the child would remember.’’ Her supervisor wasn’t any more impressed with her reasons today than she’d been shortly after they had occurred. Julie wrung her hands.

‘‘You can still see hoofprints in the rose beds.’’

‘‘They say rose petals are very tasty, so you can’t really blame the poor horse for wanting to sample them.’’

‘‘Those weren’t the only unscripted performances you’ve given,’’ Mrs. Quarles said, ‘‘but kissing the clients will certainly be your last.’’

‘‘The way he told it sounds worse than it was,’’ she began. Her boss seemed cynical, but Julie gave it her best shot. ‘‘You see, I’m actually doing serious research on the subject of kissing, so I don’t wind up with a dud of a dude. So I got this spiral notebook and numbered the lines from one to a hundred and drew columns for the date, the name of the kissee and where it took place.’’ She paused. ‘‘Do you want to see it?’’

‘‘Absolutely not.’’

‘‘Anyway, I’ve got something like forty-seven names in my book now. Most of them—especially the ones I got while delivering my singing telegrams—were just little dry ones on the cheek. I don’t really know how that would tell me anything about the guy, but I suppose they all count.’’

‘‘I’ve heard all I need to know about this.’’

‘‘But wait, I haven’t finished. The scoring column is where it gets difficult. People with B.O. get the lowest rating…thank goodness I haven’t run across that yet. The highest score is a ‘Zinger.’ Only one has come close to that.’’ With an uncharacteristic display of prudence, she decided not to volunteer that Hunter had been the one to earn that particular honor.

‘‘You may pack up your belongings, Miss Fasano. Merry Messengers won’t be requiring your services any longer.’’