Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Read Online Free PDF

the willies for a while. So did the chance of acquiring Carleton deHaven's castoffs, until Jack realized his ex-wife's hotshot husband was about twice his size.
     
     
Across the shoulders and trouser inseams, he allowed. Where it really mattered…well, he had no complaints and damn sure hadn't received any.
     
     
"It's been a good year and there's a lot of it left." If you're gonna lie, sport, lie big. "Make that a great year. Business slowed down a little last month, but all in all, I thought I was due a few new threads to celebrate."
     
     
"Threads?" Belle chuckled and leaned back as the server settled a plate of Dover sole garnished with squash and broccoli in front of her. Jack had ordered it for her, as well, timing the arrival perfectly.
     
     
"You are such a dweeb," she said. "Fortunately, it's one of your charms."
     
     
"Thanks." Jack snorted. "I think."
     
     
After assuring the server that he wasn't the dweeb to whom she referred and that nothing else was needed, Belle picked up her fork, then frowned at the still empty place between Jack's elbows. "You're not eating?"
     
     
"Can't." He glanced at his watch. "Got to meet Gerry Abramson at his office in about fifteen minutes."
     
     
She forked in a bite of fish. Her expression inferred it was tasty, but nothing special. "You should've told me when I invited you to lunch."
     
     
"If you hadn't been forty-five minutes late, it wouldn't have mattered."
     
     
"I'm punctual in my own way." She waved at her drink and plate. "You could have eaten something while you were waiting. Grazed at the salad bar, at least."
     
     
Jack shook his head. "Mama raised me better than that." He added, "And I scarfed a stack of flapjacks at the diner, before you called."
     
     
Actually, before Gerry Abramson had called. If Belle had called earlier, Jack wouldn't have gone next door for breakfast. The food at Al's 24/7 Eats could torture Jack's gut, even when it didn't feel like a pretzel that slipped under a couch cushion last New Year's Eve.
     
     
Jack took a drink of ice water and wished it were Chivas. A slug of liquid relaxation would take the edge off his premeeting jitters. He couldn't care less what type of work the independent insurance agent offered. The domestic Jack expected to collect on Monday night had run sobbing from the restaurant. The heartbroken client stuck him with the dinner check, in lieu of a personal one.
     
     
By Wednesday afternoon, the office's quietude had him clicking on the desk phone's handset, hoping the line was dead. It wasn't. In fact, the dial tone had an increasingly mirthful quality, as though Ma Bell were having a few laughs at his expense.
     
     
"Jack," said the gorgeous, similarly named redhead dissecting her entrée. "Are you okay?"
     
     
He hesitated. When someone asks if you're okay without making eye contact, it's probable that he or she is anything but. Misery not only loves company, but it also graciously cedes the floor to yours, so his or her own appears empathetic.
     
     
Except the woman who'd been his wife for eight years and his best friend for twice that was a straight shooter. It had attracted him at the outset. After Belle dumped him for being an immature moron, her brand of honesty was what he'd missed most in subsequent relationships.
     
     
Maybe hanging with the country club set was finally wearing off on her. You can't fake going with the flow forever. Eventually the current sucks you in, or you say "Screw this bullshit" and wade to shore.
     
     
"This year hasn't been that good, and the suit's secondhand," Jack confessed. "This and a couple of Brooks Brothers set me back a friggin' fortune. Not counting alterations."
     
     
"I guessed as much."
     
     
Frowning, he reached under his arm, thinking he'd pulled a shrewd move like forgetting to clip off the price tag. Nope, and nothing up his sleeves but shirt cuffs, either. "So how'd you know?"
     
     
"Guys who can afford designer clothes don't