Improper English Read Online Free PDF Page B

smooth BBC-type accent that sounds just too, too teddibly top drawer. I loved them all, even the ones I couldn’t for the life of me understand, and secretly lay in bed at night and worked on perfecting my own English accent.
    I hummed a bit of “Moondance” to myself as I strolled along, wondering what Mr. Dishy Detective Inspector Alex would be doing that evening while I was up visiting his neighbor. Isabella had invited me to meet her friend, the friend, her perfect lover friend who was even more perfect for me. I had agreed to meet him only after I spent two days thinking nonstop about the man upstairs, telling myself with more than a hint of desperation that maybe Isabella was wrong, and Mr. Perfect would be interested in a little summer fling. Mr. Alex certainly wasn’t—I had seen neither hide nor hair of him since he ran off with my cute little spiky (alleged pot) plant.
    “This fascination with him is not a good thing, Alix,” I had told myself sternly the day before when I caught myself staring out the window and picturing Alex lying starkers in the patch of sun that warmed the chaise. “Keep your mind on business. Work, work, work, that’s what you need.”
    I grimaced at my own words—I’d had experience with workaholics and had no desire to become one of those obsessed perfectionists. Life was too short and too uncertain to do nothing but work, especially when there were green-eyed Englishmen reposing seductively on the chaise, offering up their sleek, muscled bodies to be kissed and caressed and licked and nibbled…
    “Sweet Fanny Adams, I’m doing it again! Right, that’s it, I clearly need help.” I scribbled a brief note, marched upstairs, and wedged the paper between Isabella’s door and the frame. I will admit to glaring briefly at the door opposite hers, but went back downstairs feeling much better, convinced that if I met this perfect man of Isabella’s, the less than perfect Plant Thief would be washed from my mind.
    It didn’t strike me until the next day when I was dressing for Isabella’s dinner that the two men might be one and the same. I stood naked, balancing on one foot while the other hovered in the air as I paused in the act of pulling on a pair of underwear, blinking at nothing as the thought swam around in my mind. Alex? My perfect man?
    I finished donning the appropriate underthings while I mused over the pertinent facts, but could find no validity in the idea. All Isabella had said was that the guy was perfect for me, and Detective Inspector Starched Shorts was anything but that. Besides, if she had meant him, she would have surely said so, since he was so handy for introductions. As for him being her lover…I pushed away a vague sense of unhappiness over that idea and shrugged at my image in the mirror on the wardrobe door.
    “So they’re doin’ the nasty—big fat hairy deal. Means nothing to me, nothing at all, and you can just stop shaking your head at me, because that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!”
    I gave my reflection a good glare just to let it know it wasn’t going to goad me into admitting anything, and sat down to apply rarely used cosmetics. I couldn’t remember the last time I wore makeup. Probably one of the few times Matt dragged me out to a corporate dinner.
    “This one’s for you,” I said, saluting the mental image of my ex-husband with a five-year-old container of mascara. It was a bit stiff and clumpy, and I managed to get mascara damn near everywhere, including the bridge of my nose and my left earlobe, but at long last I had severalcoats on, enough to turn my brown lashes the same shade of inky black they wore in the 1960s. It was really, really black, and not a little sticky-feeling. I peered at the small hand mirror I was using and decided it looked better than it felt. I tried to remember if I was supposed to put blush above, on, or under the cheekbones for maximum effect, and decided a bit everywhere would give me a healthy