Free Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine

the doorway was Greg Stanton, the hunkalicious artist I’d seen at Simon’s Steak House. Slim and tan in jeans and a turtleneck, his sun-bleached hair bringing out the deep blue of his eyes, he was a stunner of the highest order.
    Once again I wondered why a guy like Greg needed Joy’s services.
    Joy was instantly at his side, linking her elbow in his in a viselike grip.
    “Greg, my deah!” she squealed in Queen Mum mode. “How veddy lovely to see you!”
    Gazing up at him and batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she was—at last—distracted.
    Taking advantage of the moment, I dashed over to the bar where Travis was busy trying to keep the phony Dom Pérignon labels from slipping off their bottles as they sloshed around in the ice bucket.
    “Hey, Jaine!” he said, catching sight of me. “What can I get you?”
    “Joy’s password.”
    “Huh?”
    “It’s a long, awful story, Travis, but I wrote some horrible things about Joy and sent them to her by mistake. Now I need to get into her e-mail. I’m just praying you know her password.”
    “Yeah, sure. Of course. It’s CuteCupid.”
    “Oh, gaak.”
    “My sentiments, exactly.”
    Filled with gratitude, I slipped Travis a Frugal Fixin’s mushroom cap.
    Now all I had to do was dash across the reception area to Joy’s inner office.
    But how? Joy had relinquished her grip on Greg, who was now surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. Which meant Joy was back on patrol duty, eyes in the back of her head on high alert. I couldn’t risk having her see me put down my tray and leave the room.
    I continued to perform waitress duty for the next half hour or so. Every time I looked over at Joy, I saw her glaring at me.
    Good Lord, did she have nothing better to do than make sure I didn’t eat one of her precious hors d’oeuvres?
    I was beginning to think I’d never escape her eagle eyes when at last I got a break.
    Having run out of hors d’oeuvres, I went to the kitchen to get a refill. But Carl was running behind, and the latest batch of goodies—spinach and cheese-filled filo dough—was still baking.
    When Joy saw me coming out from the kitchen with an empty tray, she went ballistic.
    “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” she exploded. “That’s the last time I ever hire an ex-con to cater a party.”
    So Cassie was right. Carl was an ex-con!
    As Joy took off to the kitchen to give him hell, I threw my empty tray down on the bar and charged out past the reception area into Joy’s office.
    I practically wept with relief at the sight of her laptop on her desk.
    Plopping my fanny in her antique desk chair, I typed her password into her e-mail account.
    Bingo! I was in.
    With trembling fingers, I clicked onto her e-mails. There it was. My Dates of Joy brochure.
    I opened the e-mail and scrolled down to see E. Fudd, H. Lecter, and the rest of the gang smiling up at me.
    “Sorry, guys,” I muttered. “You’re history.”
    And then, with the greatest of pleasure, I zapped my slanderous brochure to oblivion.
    Mission accomplished.
    True, I would have to face the wrath of Joy for not getting the brochure in on time, but that was a small price to pay. In fact, if I hurried home from the party and re-sent the e-mail later that night, she’d probably never even know the difference.
    I sat back, limp with relief, when I noticed Joy’s prized Godivas on her desk. I was just about to do the unthinkable and reach for one when I heard footsteps thundering toward Joy’s office.
    Oh, crud. They sounded an awful lot like Jimmy Choos on a rampage.
    “Shut up, Tonio!” cried an unmistakable voice.
    It was Joy, all right.
    I looked around for a place to hide and saw absolutely nothing.
    So I hurled myself under Joy’s desk. Thank heavens it had a blocked front.
    Curled up with my knees rammed into my chest, I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas—not to mention a moldy pair of slippers and an old M&M’s wrapper.
    There I was,