Page 4 of A Date With Death

He whirled around, then stumbled and had to steady his shin against the coffee table to keep from tipping over.

She boldly looped her tawny-brown arms around his neck and stared up at him with a look of concern. “I’m not sure you should be holding me like this without your cane. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Plus, even as gorgeous—with a capitalG—as you are, I still think we should get to know each other better before we jump into each other’s arms. Don’t you?” She fluttered her impossibly long, thick eyelashes.

Actuallyflutteredthem.

“Has anyone ever accused you of insanity?” he asked.

“All the time. It’s one of my best qualities—the ability to act crazy while I outmaneuver and outsmart everyone around me.”

He scowled down at her.

She tightened her arms around his neck. “I could literally do this all day. We fit together perfectly. My soft curves, your hard muscles. Very comfy.”

“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Ray?”

“I believe I am, Mr. Anton.”

“Because you’re trying to confuse and outmaneuver me so I’ll let you stay?”

“Mostly. Is it working?”

“The jury’s still out on that. But my hip’s starting to hurt like the devil again, so I’m either going to drop you or set you down. I’m leaning toward dropping.”

“I prefer setting.”

“No sense of adventure.” He let her legs slide down until she was standing. Then he gingerly let her go, trying not to move too fast and lose his precarious balance.

She grabbed his cane and handed it to him. “Is this one of those cool FBI things? Like if you twist the head it opens and becomes a rifle? Or maybe the tip has poison in it? You jab the bad guy and he dies a horrible death a few minutes later. Am I right?”

“It’s a gun, of course. Poison is so beneath an FBI agent.”

Her grin widened. “James Bond has nothing on you guys.”

He rolled his eyes. It was all he could manage with the pain slicing through his muscles. When he thought he could shuffle across the room without falling to the floor in an embarrassing heap, he headed toward the kitchen. He eyed her morosely as she used her two perfectly healthy hips to hop onto one of the bar stools at the marble-topped island.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned. “You haven’t achieved victory. Once I liquor up enough to be able to haul you to the front door, I’ll be throwing you out as promised.”

“I consider myself forewarned.” She motioned toward him. “Mind if I ask what’s wrong with the leg? I noticed the ramp outside, and a wheelchair in the corner of the family room.”

“You canaskall you want. And I can choose not to answer.” Bypassing the scotch that he preferred for late-night drinking—alone—he grabbed a bottle of tequila along with a shot glass.

She motioned toward the cabinet. “Can you at least pretend that you have some manners and act like a host for a few minutes?”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t lookthatyoung.”

He sighed and reached for a second glass. After pouring two generous helpings, he set the bottle between them. “Ms. Ray. You seem like an intelligent young woman—”

She grimaced. “You say young as if you think I’m a child. I can’t imagine that I’m more than ten, maybe eleven years younger than you.”

He arched a brow. “Meaning that while you were in elementary school, I was losing my virginity to the homecoming queen at my high school.”

She hesitated with a shot glass halfway to her mouth. “Can’t top that. But I did have my first kiss quite early. Third grade. Behind the jungle gym. Ricky Southernton.” She tossed her shot back with one gulp.

“On the lips?”

“On the cheek.”