She's No Angel. Leslie Kelly

them on.

      It wouldn’t have been the first time his grandfather had walked in and seen him sporting some morning wood. But that hadn’t happened since he was fourteen. The memory of the sex talk Mortimer had insisted they have afterward still gave him chills.

      He would do anything for his grandfather. But he didn’t want to think about the man’s wild sex life, which had, he said, served him well through a few marriages and many love affairs.

      “Good, you’re up. I was hoping you could do me a favor and go down to the market for a newspaper.”

      He certainly didn’t mind, but was curious about the request. “I can’t believe you don’t have the Times, the Journal and the Post delivered to your doorstep every morning anymore.”

      “The town doesn’t carry ’em. Besides, the only paper carrier around here dropped dead of a heart attack when Mrs. Sneed’s pit bull came through her screen door at him.”

      The comment rolled out of Grandfather’s mouth as if he’d been living in this Podunk town all his life. Obviously Mortimer was playing a new role: small-town old-timer. He even had a completely phony twang in his voice.

      “Okay,” Mike said. “I’ll run down there right after I shower.”

      Grandfather frowned. “I could really use that paper.”

      A newspaper emergency? One reason leaped to mind. “Stock issues? Do you want me to check the market on the Internet?”

      Mortimer shrugged. “Roddy does that computer thing for me every day. No, there’s, er, some town business I need to find out about and it should be in today’s paper. So, a bit of a hurry-up would be most appreciated.”

      The old man was nervous. His smile was too wide, his eyes too bright and he was bouncing on his arthritic legs. Whatever this town business was, it appeared to be important. If Mike didn’t go for the paper, he felt sure his grandfather would. And Mortimer Potts and automobiles didn’t go so well together anymore, as several wrecking companies around the globe could testify.

      “Sure. You bet,” he said, grabbing a pair of jeans.

      “Take the back way, left at the bottom of the hill. It’s quicker. Brings you right in behind the market.”

      “You live a mile from downtown either way,” Mike replied, making no effort to keep the dryness from his tone.

      Mortimer didn’t answer, he merely kept his smile in place, then turned and hurried out of the room. Leaving Mike to wonder what, exactly, was going on with him.

      He really began to wonder twenty minutes later. Because after he’d grabbed the paper and a box fan from the ancient drugstore and was heading back to the house, hoping he’d make it before the skies really opened up and dropped the moisture barely contained in the pregnant clouds, his cell phone rang.

      “Michael? I’ve just remembered, that article isn’t going to appear today. There’s really no rush for you to get back.”

      His head began to pound. All he’d wanted this morning was a cold shower to get the sweat off his body and bring his skin temperature back down below a hundred degrees. But he’d been sent out on an emergency errand…which now wasn’t an emergency?

      “So, feel free to, uh, go see the sights or something.”

      See the sights. Right. The Holland Tunnel was the sight he most wanted to see today, but he’d promised to stay through Tuesday. He hadn’t even had a real conversation with his grandfather yet—like the one he’d come here to have, which started with “Why don’t you come back to New York with me?” and ended with Mortimer waving, “Bye-bye, Trouble!”

      “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he finally said with a sigh. Then, something up ahead caught his attention.

      A brunette. Wearing a sexy jean skirt and bright pink top. Walking down the side of the road. “I’ll be damned,” he said, unable to believe what he was seeing. He began to smile, simply unable to fathom how this could be happening. Again.

      “What?” his grandfather said over the phone.

      “Nothing,” he said. “Just, uh, maybe I will see the sights, Grandpa. I’ll be back later.”

      “Good, good. Enjoy yourself. Have fun.”

      Fun? Well, he didn’t know if he’d call rescuing Jennifer Feeney fun. But it sure was entertaining.

      At least this time, she was wearing shoes. And she wasn’t carrying any lethal weapons. Probably only because he still had her tire iron on the floor of his Jeep.

      Dropping his phone back in his pocket, he pulled up beside her. He couldn’t hide his rueful amusement as he lowered the passenger side window. “Good morning,” he called.

      She stopped and swung around, a glare on her face. It quickly faded when she saw and recognized him. Then those pretty cheeks pinkened and she nibbled a hole through her bottom lip.