Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

She shook her head. "I'm still in pain. Agony, even. But I really liked those pain pills, which is why I'm not taking them anymore. I'm being a good little soldier. Stiff upper lip, and all of that. Don't you feel sorry for me?"

"I've been feeling sorry for you for a week, although around verse eighty-six last night, I began to see the benefits of us not sharing the same domicile. At any rate, I believe it's time you began putting on a brave face."

"I don't want to. I want to lie here and play Camille. I've no more new Lee Child books to read, Oprah's a rerun, and the news only depresses me, except for Keith Olbermann, and he's a rerun tonight, too. Nobody works over the holidays. How the heck do you rerun the news? And how could my mother still insist that we show up tomorrow? And she's mad at me, Alex. Like I broke my foot on purpose, just to ruin her life."

Saint Just averted his head. "I do believe I read somewhere that there are those who believe there are no accidents. That, in point of fact, you may have broken your foot in the hope that you then wouldn't have to travel to Ocean City for the holidays."

Maggie struggled to sit up higher on the couch. "That's ridiculous. Nobody breaks a bone on purpose—especially not an important one. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to get that damn walker through the bathroom doorway? I can't shower because I can't do that on one foot without slipping and killing myself, the cast inside a stupid trash bag. I can't bathe because I don't own a tub, and if you offer one more time to help me with my sponge bath, I may have to hurt you. And this cast? I go to bed with it, I wake up with it—I hate it. I'd have to be a masochist, to break my foot on purpose."

"Then again, there's the rather recent, um, development, between us. A deepening of our relationship, a new closeness ..."

"Whoa. You just hang on a minute, Alex. Are you saying—suggesting—that I broke my foot because you and I have been ... well, you know, and that maybe I'm having second thoughts?"

"It's only a theory," Saint Just told her, amazed to find himself feeling not quite as calm and collected as he would like her to believe he always was. The idea of a true romantic attachment was new to him, completely outside his experience. He was also evolving, as he reminded Maggie whenever possible, attempting to become more his own man rather than simply her creation, and this evolving business had turned out to be slightly uncomfortable. How on earth did people function, feeling insecure about themselves? He much preferred the confidence of a hero.

"Well, you can take that theory and—never mind. I did not break my foot on purpose. I broke it on a doorstop, which is bad enough to admit. Can we change the subject now, please?"

Saint Just, as eager to change the subject as she, held up the thick sheaf of papers he'd been reading. "Perhaps you can fill in these forms, just to take your mind off your misery? For some reason, your bank feels it necessary to know everything about you from the time you were in the cradle, and they want this information all verified by a second party."

"That's because I'm a self-employed woman, and one who actually makes money. Nobody really wants to admit that's possible. Bankers are all male chauvinists, Bernie says so. They'd believe you before they'd ever believe me, and you aren't even real. But you're a man."

Maggie held out her hand for the papers and Saint Just gratefully turned them over to her, and then continued on his way to the drinks table, to pour himself a restorative glass of wine. Maggie was the delight of his life, but all-in-all, it had been a long week.

"Maggie? We could pool our resources, you know, and simply pay over the purchase price. Fragrances by Pierre has been exceedingly kind to me."

Maggie was bending over the top page, frowning. "No, we can't. I need the deduction. And we have to do this in my name only because I was only joking before—your forged documents only take us so far."

"And so far so good, as I've heard the term. I am a most upstanding citizen of this metropolis. I look forward to filing my federal income tax forms in a few weeks."

"Yeah, yeah. Right now you're upstanding in my light while I'm trying to read this. Go sit down."

He did as she had commanded, only because it suited him to sit down—he hoped she was clear on that.

"You know," Maggie said, eyeing the application, "much as I hate to say it, Alex, you did a heck of a job with Miss Kudzu of 1998. What a great price. Do I want to know how you managed it?"

"Charm, wit, my usual undeniable attractions," Saint Just told her, smiling over the rim of his wineglass. "I stand in disbelief of the power a simple kiss on the hand is to you American women. I should really give lessons on the proper way to court the modern female."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Yeah. You could have your own TV show: Regency Eye for the Hapless Guy. Gimme a break. Oh, hello, Sterling. Flowers? For me?"

Sterling Balder carefully nudged the door closed behind him as his hands were full, holding tight to a rather large crystal bowl filled with exotic cut flowers. "No, Maggie, I'm so sorry, but no. These just arrived for you, Saint Just, but I thought Maggie might like to look at them, shut in as she is."

"They're for Alex? Put them down over there on the table, Sterling, and give me the card."

Saint Just got to his feet. "I believe I'm capable of reading my own card, thank you, Maggie," he said.

But for a woman who spent most of her days with her casted left foot riding the top of the couch, Maggie had become very fleet of arm, and she had already snatched the card from the bouquet as Sterling walked past her.

She swiveled her body so that she was in a seated position and pulled the small card from the small envelope. She read the few lines, then glared at Alex.

"Tell me again. How did you get such a good price?"

"Ah. Then I can assume that those lovely blooms are courtesy of Miss Rodgers?"

Maggie flipped the card in his general direction, and he snagged it neatly out of the air.

Loved working with you, sugar, he read, and then smiled at the three lines of numbers—Kiki's home, office, and cell numbers.

"Oh, stop grinning like the village idiot," Maggie told him, jerking on the walker until she had it where she wanted it, and then got to her feet. "You're impossible."

"On the contrary, I'm irresistible. Just as you made me. Miss Rodgers vows I have a career in selling, and I'd have to agree with her, if it weren't for knowing my title would be reduced from Viscount to Salesman. Posing for photographs cannot really be considered work, not in the least smelling of the shop, an anathema for those of us whose bloodlines can be traced back to William the Conqueror. There are only so many sacrifices one man can be expected to make, you understand, no matter what his altered circumstances."

Maggie jutted out her jaw. "Listen to me, Alex. One more time. You're ... not ... a ... real Viscount. You're a figment of my imagination, you and Sterling both. Got it?"

"Oh, I say, Maggie, that was rather cruel. Wasn't it, Saint Just?"

Saint Just looked to Maggie, who had been in the act of rising to one foot with the aid of the walker. "Maggie?"

She sat down once more. "I'm sorry, Sterling, sweetie. You're real. You really are. And I'm a pig."

Sterling, who had risen to his feet as Maggie tried to stand up, then subsided onto the facing couch when she plopped down, got to his feet once more. "No, you're not. Police are pigs. I remember distinctly."

"Alex?" Maggie pleaded, looking desperately at Saint Just.

"With pleasure, my dear," he said, bowing to her. "Sterling, pigs was a term often used in the Regency Era to describe the local constabulary. Bow Street Runners, Bow Street Pigs. The term was considered offensive then and it is deemed to be even more offensive now. Please do not employ it again."