Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“You betcha.” I glanced at the three interesting men and was impressed despite myself. And maybe I had regressed to high school, because I suddenly felt like I might pass out. Whether it was from the Scotch, my aches and pains, or the men, I couldn’t say, but I had to take a few fortifying breaths to get myself back on track. Passing out would be tacky and a bad way to end a really fun day. Well, fun except for a murder attempt or two.

“Three cutie-patooties,” Robin said, slurring her words. So it wasn’t just me. She took a quick peek at the other table and rolled her eyes. “Minka keeps laughing too loud, then looking right at this table. It’s like she’s dying for attention.”

“That’s exactly what she wants,” I said. “Just don’t make eye contact.”

“Okay.” But Robin couldn’t help casting another glance Minka’s way, then flinched when the evil woman held up her claw and raked the air as she glared daggers back at Robin.

“Gah,” Robin said, staring wide-eyed at me. “Me scared.”

“I warned you,” I said, draining my glass. “Never underestimate the fearsome power of the cow bitch.”

As Tommy called the waitress over for a second round of drinks, I happened to make eye contact with Derek.

Without a word, he stood, held his hand out and helped me up.

The speakers in the pub were blaring vintage U2, so I waved to everyone and said loudly to Robin, “Good night.”

She pouted. “Does this mean I have to leave, too?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. As if she would. “I’m just beat, and I have a class to teach tomorrow afternoon, so I’d better hit the sack.”

“I’ll walk you up,” Derek said, as though anyone doubted his intentions.

“Thank you,” I murmured. I weaved my way around the tables scattered throughout the dark pub and Derek followed closely, his hand touching the small of my back.

Little sparks were igniting inside me, and I was pretty sure it was due to him. I wondered what was about to happen and had to take some deep breaths as we left the pub-and ran right into Mom and Dad.

“Hey, sweets, you look pretty,” Dad said, and kissed my cheek.

“She always looks pretty,” Mom said, kissing my other cheek. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Derek?”

Oooh, boy. Exactly how much wine had they consumed during their anniversary dinner?

“She’s devastating,” Derek said, his voice so deep my toes tingled.

Mom’s eyes widened and she elbowed Derek. “Oh, woof, you sexy beast.”

I gasped.

“How was your dinner?” Derek asked, a broad grin on his face.

“Hey, that place is a gas!” Dad said. “We had a Jordan cabernet tonight that blew me away.”

“Good, I’m glad it worked out.”

“Um, how many bottles did you go through?” I asked cautiously.

“Two, but who’s counting?”

“And a groovy little after-dinner drink,” Mom added. “What’s it called, Jim-Jim?”

Jim-Jim? So not a good sign.

“Drambuie, Louie,” Dad said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Yumbo,” she said in as sultry a voice as anyone could muster while saying yumbo.

“Oh, my God.” This was just too much to take.

Mom laid her head on my shoulder. “I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” I said, frowning at Derek, who was taking way too much pleasure in my parents’ state.

Mom turned to face me and gripped my shoulders. “Now listen, sugar bean: I want you to come with us to Rosslyn Chapel tomorrow. All those ancient Templar vibes will help boost your auric field.”

Trying to get past the shock of being called sugar bean , I finally managed to stutter, “I-I’m not sure I-”

“Either that,” she continued as if I hadn’t said a word, “or we take advantage of the two-for-one irrigation special at the green spa. My treat!” She turned to Derek and confided, “I always say, an impacted colon is one bummed-out pooper shooter.” Then she turned back to me. “Whaddaya say, hmm?”

Derek sputtered with laughter.

“Rosslyn Chapel it is,” I said brightly.

“Dandy!” she said.

“Cool!” Dad said. “See you in the morning, kiddo.” Then he grabbed Mom and nudged her toward the pub. “Come on, baby, what say you and me liven up the place with a little conga line?”

“Ooh, conga!” Mom cried, and swung her arms in the air as she danced her way into the pub.

“Oh, dear God,” I whispered.

“They’re plastered,” Derek said with a laugh.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” I muttered.

The next morning, I awoke feeling refreshed and happy.

And alone.

Okay, not so happy. I stared at the ceiling and thought back to the evening before. My life might’ve been notably different this morning, I suppose, if we hadn’t run into my parents.

Talk about a buzz kill. The way I saw it, one minute Derek and I were insanely hot to jump each other, and the next minute, well, he was howling with laughter and I was mortified and searching the lobby for a potted plant to hide behind.

He assured me in the elevator that my parents were the loveliest and most honest people he’d ever met, but let’s face it, my mother had uttered the phrase pooper shooter, and nothing would ever be the same again.

I understood my mother’s need to maintain regularity while she traveled, but for God’s sake, did she have to bring up the subject in front of the man I might’ve awakened next to this morning? I dare anyone to feel sexy with those two words lingering in the air.

Still, Derek’s kiss at the door to my hotel room managed to curl my toes and heat up my insides so completely that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks fly out of my ears.

He pressed his forehead against mine, stared soulfully into my eyes, and smiled. I smiled back and was about to drag him inside my room, when his smile turned to a grin and he chuckled. Then he guffawed, and seconds later he was leaning against the wall, holding his stomach, laughing and begging for mercy.

So much for the famous unruffled calm of the British secret agent.

“Pooper shooter!” He gasped. “Christ on a cross, she’s priceless!”

That was when I thanked him for the good time and called it a night.

As I rolled out of bed, I felt a small twinge in my lower back, probably from landing smack-dab on my ass more than once yesterday. I did some slow stretches, bringing my knees up, then bending right, left, then over. They seemed to help. The hot shower helped, too.

My sore ankle barely even registered on the pain-o-meter, so that was something to be thankful for.

I popped two ibuprofen and drank my cup of hot chocolate as I dressed. Frankly, I was ecstatic to feel only a slight throbbing in my head, considering the half bottle of wine and Scotch nightcap I’d consumed the evening before. Okay, maybe it was a little more than half a bottle of wine, but the hangover gods must’ve taken pity on me anyway. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the astral plane, where I figured most hangover gods hung out during the day.

My luck ran out when I stepped into the elevator and saw the only other passenger inside: Martin Warrington, Helen’s estranged husband. For once, he was alone, without Helen to hide behind.

“Hello, Martin,” I said, unable to be completely rude and ignore him.

“ Brooklyn,” he said. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I made a face. I guess I could be a little rude, after all.

“No.” He smiled contritely. “I’ve been meaning to track you down and force you to listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to apologize.”

“Apologize?” I said. “For what?”