Free High Heels and Holidays by Kasey Michaels Page B

chin in her hand as she called up her Solitaire program. There was no sense getting involved in anything else, not with Alex bound to show up for babysitting duty any moment.
    Where could she take them? Some place that had the potential to drive him crazy would be nice, some place that would bore him out of his mind up until the moment she melted into a crowd and watched as he went nuts looking for her . . . which would serve him right for growing in her mind.
    â€œSince puberty? Jeez . . .”

Chapter Six
    S aint Just’s meeting with Steve Wendell had been, at the very least, interesting. At the very most, it had been unsettling, not that he had been about to inform the good lieutenant of that particular reaction to hearing the NYPD’s conclusion as to the details of the passing of one Francis Oakes.
    Even hearing what he’d heard, Saint Just had been reluctant to share his own knowledge with the man, as it would seem to serve no clear-cut point. What Steve had given him was another small piece of a puzzle that, unfortunately, now had only two or three pieces, not even enough to make all four corners, let alone a reasonable border he could then fill in as his investigation proceeded.
    Which, to Saint Just, along with the firmly held conviction that he was more than capable of both protecting Maggie and solving any case with which he might be presented, was enough to tuck away any thought of mentioning the package that had been delivered in Maggie’s absence.
    After all, if he, the Viscount Saint Just, could not as yet prove whether or not there had been a crime committed, what hope did the New York City Police Department have? Less than none, Saint Just had decided.
    So he’d thanked Steve for the information and then asked him about his evening with the unknown Christine, and then gently chided the man when he’d told him they’d had a “great” night. They’d gone to Brooklyn. On the subway. To go bowling.
    There’d never been any hope for the man if Steve had been serious in his pursuit of Maggie Kelly. None. Saint Just knew he could picture Maggie in Brooklyn. He could even picture her bowling. He could not, however, picture Maggie Kelly voluntarily on a subway at night, traveling to Brooklyn to bowl, even if her date did carry a pistol.
    â€œChristine has her own ball and shoes,” Steve had told Saint Just, obviously pleased to impart what had to be a part of the woman’s attraction.
    â€œAs do you, I’m sure,” Saint Just had responded smoothly. “A match fashioned in heaven, Wendell, you lucky devil.” He’d then reminded Steve that Maggie was not to see him or even hear from him for at least another few days—part of that “letting her down slowly” idea he’d planted in the man’s head—and the two men had parted ways.
    Whether Steve Wendell had believed everything Saint Just told him, swallowed it all whole, or whether he was playing the simpleton again remained to be seen. It was difficult to know with the lieutenant.
    Then again, the man had used the never to be repeated opportunity of a first date and first impression to take the woman of his choice—egad—bowling.
    â€œI have an idea,” Maggie said now, interrupting Saint Just’s reverie as he sat at her computer, catching up on a few of the news blogs he enjoyed. “Let’s go bowling.”
    He swiveled slowly on the chair and lifted his quizzing glass to his eye as he looked at her. “Surely you jest,” he said, seeing the unholy gleam in her eyes. “Ah, heaven be praised, you do.” He let the quizzing glass drop to the end of its black grosgrain ribbon. “I must say, for a moment there, Maggie, you had me worried about you. Wearing shoes worn by hundreds before you? I think not. Perhaps if we were to equip ourselves with all of the necessary paraphernalia, but surely not until then. Whatever possessed you that