Free High Heels and Homicide by Kasey Michaels Page B

interest. Just call me Nikki.”
    â€œThat would be my honor, Nikki,” Saint Just said, fairly certain that if Miss Campion were to hold out her hand and he was to bow over it, kiss it, his life expectancy could most probably be measured in the minutes it would take for Maggie to get him alone and kill him.
    So wasn’t he lucky that Miss Campion didn’t hold out her hand? She merely pressed herself up against him, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him on his left ear. “If you screw as good as you look, see me later,” she breathed into that ear, then turned and walked away in a manner that left no doubt that she felt every male in the room watched her every step.
    Sir Rudy made a sort of whimpering sound in his throat, turned on his heels, and quit the room.
    Saint Just looked at Maggie—not that he, the perfect hero, was actually afraid of the woman—and was surprised to see her looking at him in some sympathy.
    â€œI’d be pretty disgusted by having to watch that, and hear it—the woman obviously doesn’t know how to whisper—except it wasn’t your fault. And because we’re down to the last man, that one very tanned and blond man has to be playing Saint Just. You want to call that nice Miss Browning with the tinkling-bells laugh and ask her to book us on the next plane home? I can’t believe you want to stick around to watch surfer dude over there in action as you.”
    Saint Just would have blanched if he was the sort who blanched. He turned his attention to the man awkwardly lounging at the mantel just as the fellow made some sort of flourishing motion and then went to rest one elbow on the mantel, missed, and nearly came to grief before righting himself.
    â€œI have to work with this,” Arnaud said, shaking his head, as obviously he’d also seen the actor’s clumsiness. “Troy? Give us a wave, why don’t you, and try not to kill yourself when you do it. People, meet Troy Barlow, our Viscount Saint Just. Our blond beachboy turned dark-haired, sophisticated sleuth. Does Hollywood know casting or what?”
    Sterling nearly danced in place. “I know him! That’s Brick. Brick Lord. He’s in one of my favorite soap operas. He’s Dyson’s identical twin brother, and Brittany thinks Dyson’s the father of her unborn child, but it’s really Brick who—oh, my!”
    â€œI play both parts, yes,” Troy said, advancing only as far as the couches, where, as Saint Just manfully stifled a wince, he sat down with all the grace of a lobster navigating an escalator. “You thought Brick and Dyson were really twins? You hear that, Nikki? I’m a working actor. A craftsman. While you’re humping transmission repairs. Now do you understand why my name comes first on the credits?”
    Nikki looked at Arnaud, pouted. “You told me last night that you’d fix that, Arnie.”
    â€œThat’ll teach you to screw short, bald men,” a female voice said, behind Saint Just. “Like he’s in charge of credit placement? I am, sweetheart. And don’t bother shaking that silicone at me because I don’t think you’re that hot.”
    Saint Just stepped to one side to allow a slim woman as tall as Bernice Toland-James—as thin as Bernice, as red-headed as Bernice, presenting as powerful a presence as Bernice—to push past everyone, to pose directly beneath the main chandelier. “Joanne Pertuccelli here. In charge of production. Who the hell are you people?”
    â€œOh, no, not again. I’m getting bored,” Maggie said in her marvelously mulish way that so endeared her to Saint Just. “Is anyone else going to crawl out of the woodwork or are you it? Because this is the last time I want to hear, ‘Oh, it’s only the writer.’”
    â€œYou’re Cleo Dooley? Name looks pretty decent above the title. Good use of O s.” Joanne frowned, fingering