Icing Allison by Pamela Burford

Author:Pamela Burford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: humorous mysteries female sleuth, amateur sleuth, love triangle, romantic comedy mystery, female protagonist, dog mystery, humorous mystery series, amateur female sleuths romantic, humorous dog mysteries, small town mystery and humor, love triangle mystery series, cozy animal mystery series
Publisher: Radical Poodle Press
Published: 2017-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

10

A Couple of Gullible Nitwits

“MARTIN?”

He looked up from the accordion file, his hand jammed into the N section, his irritated frown only adding to his hotness quotient, damn his sexy hide. “What?” he barked, before focusing on the prize I triumphantly held in front of his face.

In one smooth movement he snatched the flash drive, pocketed it, and unceremoniously shoved me toward the doorway.

“Hey!” I dug in my heels. “Give that back.”

“Later.” He marched me down the hall and into the living room. “If we’re caught, I don’t want it found on you.”

Oh my. A gallant gesture from Martin McAuliffe. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t the first time he’d acted selflessly where I was concerned, but in the past it had been precipitated by a life-threatening situation.

We were passing the front vestibule when we heard the door lock turn. Nick was back! I froze. We had no hope of making it out of the living room, much less out of the house, before that door swung open.

Fortunately for me, the padre wasn’t one to stand around waiting to be caught in the act. As the doorknob began to turn, he propelled me across the living room to the staircase. He couldn’t possibly think we had time to make it up the stairs. I started to pull back, only to have him grip my arm tighter, open the door to the little closet tucked under the staircase, haul us both inside, and shut us in just as the front door swung open.

The closet wasn’t empty, as it turned out. We’d had to duck just to get into the cramped space and ended up falling on top of assorted stuff piled in there, impossible to identify in the pitch blackness. I thought for sure the noise would give us away, but at that precise moment a shrill female voice drowned out all else.

“Nick!”

It was Skye who’d entered the house, not Nick. Obviously the grieving widower had given his baby mama a key to his late wife’s house.

The closet was tiny, a wedge of space with a sloping ceiling, impossible to stand up in even if it weren’t half-filled with tennis rackets, balls, and other sports equipment, as I soon learned by groping around, trying to find a position in which to lie still and quiet. Martin was doing his share of groping too, and not the good kind, although we were pressed so close together that some of it ended up being the good kind just by accident.

The musty smell of the closet and its contents competed with the inviting scent of Martin’s skin as I lay with my cheek nestled against his throat, trying to ignore the croquet mallet jabbing my ribs. Our limbs remained tangled from our fall—we didn’t dare move. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, felt the steady beat of his heart right through his clothing and coat. Never before had we found ourselves in such intimate proximity, an intimacy enhanced by the impenetrable darkness, not to mention the all-too-likely danger of getting caught.

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