Carolyn G. Hart Read Online Free PDF

down the central aisle, her eyes seeking out the shadowy corners, that dark splotch near the doorway to the delivery room.
    A sudden wave of panic swept over her. She remembered something Capt. Mac had said in his talk. “Listen to your instinct. If you ever feel, even for an instant, that something is wrong, dead wrong, run. Run and scream.”
    Terrific advice. Except she couldn’t scream. Her breath was bunched like a pineapple in her throat, and her legs wobbled.
    Annie turned toward the front of the store and crouched,like a track athlete waiting for the starter’s gun. Okay. As soon as she could force a deep breath, she was going to break and run for the front door and …
    Annie blew out the bulge of air in a whoosh and felt like a fool.
    She stood and walked a little unsteadily up the aisle and stopped to look into Agatha’s languorous green eyes.
    “You’d think I wrote mysteries, wouldn’t you, Agatha? What an imagination!” She scooped up the sleek black cat from her basket, which rested on top of the Christie section, and stroked her gleaming fur, knowing Agatha would tolerate the effrontery for only a moment. A predictably independent feline, Agatha never stayed in the same room with a stranger. In fact, with few exceptions, she fled to hide beneath her favorite fern the instant anyone entered the shop. Obviously no stranger had come into the storeroom. She’d probably imagined that noise. Perhaps it was the crack of a broken branch outside. In any event, it was time to stop behaving like a Barbara Michaels’ heroine.
    Agatha growled politely.
    Laughing partly from relief and partly from embarrassment, Annie put Agatha gently back on the shelf. Agatha, of course, jumped down. Everything was okay; it was just another Sunday morning. How absurd to imagine anyone would break into the shop. After all, there was absolutely no reason for anyone to break and enter. It wasn’t as though there would be cash in hand. She’d almost have to borrow money to buy lunch. The whole episode was just a product of her overly vivid imagination. Like reading
My Cousin Rachel
when she was fourteen and, for a doom-laden week, suspecting that Uncle Ambrose intended to do away with her.
    Nevertheless, she checked the back door. It was locked.
    There was nothing to worry about. As for the evening, she would fix Elliot’s wagon. She would take the floor first and point out that the Sunday Night Specials were supposed to have programs beneficial to the writers, and she felt there was a lack of interest in Elliot’s program, and why didn’t they take a vote on it? That would put Elliot in his place, all right.

T he whistle was frankly admiring and subtly erotic. Annie didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t need to.
    “How did you find me?”
    “Dear Ms. Laurance, always so direct. I arrived on the ten-thirty ferry. Since there is only one ferry on Sunday morning, I was forced to count fiddler crabs while waiting. Fascinating creatures. When I reached your snug little island, I immediately rented a condo near the harbor and began my quest. I will confess I was surprised to find that the proprietress of Death On Demand is so slothful that she doesn’t open on Sundays, but I recalled that said proprietress is tiringly vigorous and deduced that she would probably be found on the beach, either jogging or swimming. How disappointed I am to find her stretched out on a beach towel with her face covered by the latest issue of
Vogue.”
    Annie yanked the magazine aside, opened one eye, and squinted. “I just ran three miles on the beach. How did you know it was me?”
    “As has been said in perhaps another context, I would know that body anywhere.”
    She opened both eyes and laughed. He looked wonderful, of course. All six foot two inches of him. And she would know
his
body anywhere, every lean, muscular inch of it. To distract herself, she waved him down beside her.
    Max flipped out a blue-and-white striped Ralph Lauren towel and