was still hot. Plenty of companies wanted a slightly older model anyway. She could find work. Look at Cheryl Tiegs. She’d been a spokesmodel for the last zillion years. Of course her own personality wasn’t quite as perky as Cheryl’s.
If worse came to worst, she’d just get fat for nine months and give the kid to someone who would appreciate it. A nice couple. There were hundreds of them out there waiting to adopt. Then she’d get back to work. She just wasn’t mother material. Not with her family background.
She blotted her lips, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and pulled herself together.
She just wanted to go home and curl up with one of Marla’s books and a cup of hot chocolate. Murder so Blue …or Green with Murder —one of the new color-titled ones. That would make her feel better. This just wasn’t happening. She had no proof anyway, and a bad Danish does pop up once in a while. She’d start her period in a few days and laugh about her horrible paranoid moment. Until then she’d just distract herself—keep her mind off it.
Sure.
Paris picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed through the swinging door of the “Lassies” restroom. She marched straight for Turner and Anton.
Grabbing her coat off the chair, she started bundling her shaky self back up. “You,” she pointed at Turner with a wrist snap so quick both Anton and Turner jumped. “You are going home with me, Turner Pruitt. Get your stuff.”
“Paris, queen of tact,” Anton said to Turner.
“On the other hand, I might get lucky,” Turner replied. “All right, I surrender, General Paris. Take me prisoner. Slap me in handcuffs.”
“Oooh, can I come too?” Anton squealed.
“I’m afraid not, my friend. I’ll report in tomorrow.”
“Good luck.”
“I’d be glad to slap you with something, Anton.” Paris made her stone face at him.
“Hurt me. Go ahead.”
Paris waved him off, disgusted, but having just a little bit too much fun playing word toss. She had to get Turner out of here and stay on track.
“I’ll have a word with Stephen and be right with you,” Turner said.
“Hurry it up, will you? I’ve about had it for today,” Paris groused.
“Mrs. Pruitt, we’re going to have to work on your social skills.” He took a long moment and swigged down the last of his dark ale. With that, Turner headed for the bar, leaving Paris fuming.
5
Teddy Bear
Turner dropped his canvas duffle bag on the floor and gaped. “Wow, who’s your decorator, The Dixie Chicks?”
“This from a guy who until recently wore a white rhinestone outfit.”
“You can take the girl out of the country, but the country must stick in your craw something fierce. Is that a real chicken?”
“Stuffed. And programmable. It’s an alarm clock and it crows. The neighbors hate it.” Paris seemed genuinely proud of her odd possession. She flung her handbag on an old beat-up hall tree with peeling white paint. Or maybe that was that distressed country look. The fur coat made it on a hook, her boots went flying on the floor.
Turner took in Paris’s place and realized he was seeing a whole new side to Paris. A really messy, tacky, interesting side. The apartment was a large studio with tall ceilings and a great huge window that let the light in—unfortunately. Because what it illuminated in the daytime was really scary.
Her large bed in the far left corner was draped with a lace curtain canopy, piled high with pillows, along with unmatched pale pink and yellow quilts. It was unmade, and on one end was a stack of clothes she must have shed. There was a chair—he couldn’t tell what kind because it was covered with Paris’s clothes. He could see a few almost empty water glasses on the bedside table, along with piles of books and plates.
There was a kitchen, because he could smell it, dead ahead. Pots and dishes were stacked in the sink and take-out cartons from every cuisine known to man littered the countertops.
She
If worse came to worst, she’d just get fat for nine months and give the kid to someone who would appreciate it. A nice couple. There were hundreds of them out there waiting to adopt. Then she’d get back to work. She just wasn’t mother material. Not with her family background.
She blotted her lips, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and pulled herself together.
She just wanted to go home and curl up with one of Marla’s books and a cup of hot chocolate. Murder so Blue …or Green with Murder —one of the new color-titled ones. That would make her feel better. This just wasn’t happening. She had no proof anyway, and a bad Danish does pop up once in a while. She’d start her period in a few days and laugh about her horrible paranoid moment. Until then she’d just distract herself—keep her mind off it.
Sure.
Paris picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed through the swinging door of the “Lassies” restroom. She marched straight for Turner and Anton.
Grabbing her coat off the chair, she started bundling her shaky self back up. “You,” she pointed at Turner with a wrist snap so quick both Anton and Turner jumped. “You are going home with me, Turner Pruitt. Get your stuff.”
“Paris, queen of tact,” Anton said to Turner.
“On the other hand, I might get lucky,” Turner replied. “All right, I surrender, General Paris. Take me prisoner. Slap me in handcuffs.”
“Oooh, can I come too?” Anton squealed.
“I’m afraid not, my friend. I’ll report in tomorrow.”
“Good luck.”
“I’d be glad to slap you with something, Anton.” Paris made her stone face at him.
“Hurt me. Go ahead.”
Paris waved him off, disgusted, but having just a little bit too much fun playing word toss. She had to get Turner out of here and stay on track.
“I’ll have a word with Stephen and be right with you,” Turner said.
“Hurry it up, will you? I’ve about had it for today,” Paris groused.
“Mrs. Pruitt, we’re going to have to work on your social skills.” He took a long moment and swigged down the last of his dark ale. With that, Turner headed for the bar, leaving Paris fuming.
5
Teddy Bear
Turner dropped his canvas duffle bag on the floor and gaped. “Wow, who’s your decorator, The Dixie Chicks?”
“This from a guy who until recently wore a white rhinestone outfit.”
“You can take the girl out of the country, but the country must stick in your craw something fierce. Is that a real chicken?”
“Stuffed. And programmable. It’s an alarm clock and it crows. The neighbors hate it.” Paris seemed genuinely proud of her odd possession. She flung her handbag on an old beat-up hall tree with peeling white paint. Or maybe that was that distressed country look. The fur coat made it on a hook, her boots went flying on the floor.
Turner took in Paris’s place and realized he was seeing a whole new side to Paris. A really messy, tacky, interesting side. The apartment was a large studio with tall ceilings and a great huge window that let the light in—unfortunately. Because what it illuminated in the daytime was really scary.
Her large bed in the far left corner was draped with a lace curtain canopy, piled high with pillows, along with unmatched pale pink and yellow quilts. It was unmade, and on one end was a stack of clothes she must have shed. There was a chair—he couldn’t tell what kind because it was covered with Paris’s clothes. He could see a few almost empty water glasses on the bedside table, along with piles of books and plates.
There was a kitchen, because he could smell it, dead ahead. Pots and dishes were stacked in the sink and take-out cartons from every cuisine known to man littered the countertops.
She
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