Killer Chameleon by Chassie West Page B

was also intrigued by the fact that he felt free to call her that instead of Miss or Mrs. Whatever. That was one of the reasons women of all ages fell for him like a ton of bricks. He was always unfailingly polite and never used their first names without permission.
    â€œI’ll be here. Just how old is this Clarissa person?”
    Buttoning, he appeared to think about it. “Got me. Thirty-five, maybe forty. With her kind of face, it’s hard to tell.”
    â€œAnd just what kind of face is that?”
    He smirked and patted me on the fanny. “What’s the matter, babe? Jealous? Well, you should be. I like her.” The smirk segued into a grin. “I mean, I really like her. Man, can she cook!”
    For the first time, I was genuinely concerned. It wasn’t so much that Duck loved to eat as his delight and appreciation of the process of preparing a meal. He had flirted with bankruptcy to stock his kitchen with Calphalon cookware, his most prized possessions. He’d given them to his sister, Vanessa, when he’d taken off back in August to search for his missing father. Once the search was over and he realized he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his life in jail for patricide, he’d taken them back. Vanessa hadn’t spoken to him for a week afterward. In other words, Duck loved to cook, and the only danger I sensed when it came to competition from other women was from some female in an apron with a box of recipes from her mama.
    â€œClarissa has cooked for you?” I asked.
    â€œMan, she makes a mean jambalaya.” He was enjoying himself immensely. “Never tasted anything like it.”
    Eyes narrowed, I sat up. “Well, be sure you tell her what you want for your last meal by her because she won’t be cooking for you much longer.”
    He gave an exaggerated sigh and reached for his slacks. “Oh, well. For you, I’ll give her up. But don’t forget, you’ve got to tell her.”
    â€œNo problem. And since you’ve had so much fun at my expense, I’ll also tell her you’ll give her a month’s severance pay.”
    He slid his feet into the slacks. “Babe, she’s worth it. Gotta tell you, if we weren’t engaged—”
    I grabbed a pillow and whacked him with it, whereupon he snatched it from me, wrestled me onto my back, and kissed me.
    Duck’s a dynamite kisser, the kind who makes your toes curl. I forgot Clarissa, dedicated myself to the task at hand, literally, since his slacks were around his ankles, and, in the process, made him sorry that he had less than ten minutes to hit the door or be late for work.
    He finally left, and I set about filling up the empty clothes pole in the walk-in closet. In my hurry to get here in time to have breakfast with him, I’d managed to bring only two boxes with me. They didn’t make much of a dent, but it was a start.
    I wandered into the living room looking for something to do until this Clarissa person arrived. There were a couple of hours to fill. I debated running back to Janeece’s to bring another load of boxes, but it was rush hour. Not a good idea. I might not make it back in time. She might not wait, and I wanted to meet this woman in the worst way and begin the process of eliminating her from our lives.
    I glanced around and wondered why I wasn’t as content at being surrounded by my own furniture as I thought I should be. The condos in this building, like the building itself, had all the personality of a shoe box. No decorative features, like molding or chair rails, no ceiling lights except in the kitchen. Sick of all-white walls, Duck had at least painted, a soft green in the living room and guest room, a medium blue in the master bedroom and bath, and a sunny yellow in the kitchen. That was the end of it. Except for his bookshelves, he had had no qualms about getting rid of his belongings to make room for mine, since his had come from a