By Jule McBride
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Sample text
Last night, when Max returned to the cantina where he’d been picking up his mail, he’d found urgent notices from countless credit card companies. As near as he could tell, a guy had broken into the Connecticut cottage months ago, rifled through the mail, then written away in Max’s name for preapproved credit cards. The thief was still using them, too. Even worse, the fellow had probably gassed up and stolen Max’s prized red 1967 Corvette convertible, since there was an Exxon bill. He probably had a heavy girlfriend, too, since there were receipts from women’s wear stores named Extra!
His name’s—” In a panic, she glanced toward the table. What was a good bodyguard-sounding name? Stud? Rod? Her eyes darted down, landing on Max’s feet. ” Lo blurted out. “His name’s Boots…Boots, uh—” Her eyes landed on the stove. “Boots Stover. ” She stared Max straight in the eyes. ” she repeated. ” Lo nodded as if he’d merely spoken the obvious. ” she exclaimed into the phone’s mouthpiece, still trying to ignore the dial tone. “I do not want you to send Boots Stover. Boots Stover is here! This man just said he’s Boots.
Just as soon as she had access to her accounts again. She sighed. All along, she’d thought of herself as a benevolent soul who’d come in the night—like Santa or the tooth fairy, or one of the little men who fixed shoes. But she was a criminal. She knew that now. Even worse, she’d fallen criminally in love with Max Tremaine. There—She garnished his plate with a fat dollop of cranberry sauce. Now, that wasn’t so hard to admit. That he’d kept little Molly Miller’s lock of hair all these years had sparked her imagination.