Janet Evanovich - Foul Play

“I could be your first?”

“Don’t you want to know about the tingles?”

“No. I want to know about the momentous occasion.”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s never happened.”

“Wait a minute,” Jake said, “don’t tell me you’ve never-”

“Never.”

“You mean, you’re a-”

“Yup.”

A virgin, for Pete’s sake. A twenty-six-year-old virgin. He’d thought they’d gone the way of the dinosaur. Jake held her at arm’s length. What the devil was he supposed to do with a drunk virgin? Not that he was in the habit of taking advantage of defenseless women-but he had plans for this particular woman. Romantic plans.

“D’ya know, some men don’t like that I’m a… um, inexperienced person.”

Jake gently tucked an errant curl behind her ear and realized, with chagrined shock, that he wasn’t one of those men. It had caught him by surprise, but the more he thought about it, the better he liked it. It was refreshing to find a woman who’d decided to wait for marriage. And if Amy had decided to wait for marriage, then that was fine with him-because he’d already decided to marry her.

Suddenly, she went slack in his arms, as if some great weight had descended upon her shoulders. “Amy?”

“Wow,” she said. “Wine sure makes me tired.”

Jake scooped her up into his arms and grinned. The little tyke was out on her feet. “Where’s your bedroom?”

She nuzzled against his shoulder. “You animal.”

“That’s me, Jake the Animal. Is your bedroom upstairs or downstairs?”

“Downstairs.” Amy’s eyes opened wide. “Are you going to… deflower me?”

“Not tonight.”

“Darn.” Amy was surprised at that. Virginity had been fine this morning. It had felt comfortable last night and last week. It was all the chicken’s fault, she thought. Somehow, the chicken had made her dissatisfied with virginity. Gosh, her head felt funny.

“I think you’ll feel differently in the morning,” Jake said, smiling. He gently set her down on her bed and set off to find a nightie for her to change into. He opened a dresser drawer and found red silk teddies, flimsy panties, and wispy lace bras. Didn’t look like virginal clothes to him. “Uh, you sure-”

“Trust me. I’m as pure as you can get.” She gave him a big wink.

“So where are your sensible nightgowns?”

Amy looked at him with unfocused eyes. “Jake? I have the whirlies.”

Jake shook his head. “How could you get so drunk on one glass of wine?”

“I never drink anything stronger than root beer.”

“So why did you have wine tonight?”

“I wasn’t thinking. You have that effect on me. I get all flustered, and then I do dopey things.”

Jake felt his heart skip a beat.

“And you make me tingle. I’ve never tingled before. You know what? I like to tingle.”

“Maybe you’re hyperventilating.”

“All by myself?”

Jake grinned. “Usually hyperventilating is a solitary activity.”

“Well, I’m tired of solitivity actarities.”

“Okay, maybe sometime when you’re sober we can hyperventilate together.” He selected an ivory nightshirt from her lingerie drawer. It wasn’t sensible, but it wasn’t totally decadent, either. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to carefully unbutton Amy’s blouse.

“I thought you weren’t going to deflower me.”

“I’m not deflowering you. I’m dedressing you. I’m putting you to bed. Alone.”

“Party pooper.”

“Don’t push me.”

Jake slid her shirt off her shoulders and groaned at the sight of her in a practically transparent, filmy lace bra. This was torture. Retribution for cheating on his third-grade spelling test. Penance for running yellow lights. And there was Mary Ann Kwiatkowski. When he was in the sixth grade he’d traded a three-page book report for a peek under Mary Ann Kwiatkowski’s skirt. She’d gotten a D on the report, and now God was getting him for swindling Mary Ann Kwiatkowski.

Amy grabbed the nightshirt. “I don’t think it’s proper to dedress someone unless she asks you to.” Amy smiled. “Will you?”

He clenched his teeth. Elliott, don’t even think of it! “Will you be okay if I leave you alone?”

“I suppose so, but, well, this has been very disappointing, Jacob. I finally decide to ask for help dedressing, and what happens? I can’t find anyone to do it.”

Jake smiled and closed the bedroom door. He suspected this was not an ordinary day in the life of Amy Klasse. Amy Klasse was obviously intelligent and gutsy. She had high professional and personal standards and possessed the self-discipline to maintain those standards… until tonight. Her self-discipline had done a definite nosedive halfway into the meatballs.

He returned to the kitchen and took time to examine the room. Like the rest of the house, it was bright but serene. 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.

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…”