Foul Play - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,1

lid, spilling the entire dozen eggs into the immaculate glass case. The eggs instantly exploded on their companions, oozing across gleaming shelves, sliming into pristine crevices.

The blonde stared at the eggs as if they were aliens. She shook her head and muttered something indiscernible while Jake doubled over his own cart in an attempt to abort the laughter that was rising in his throat.

In his entire life he’d never come across a female who was that outraged, that clumsy, and that sexy. She wasn’t sexy by centerfold standards, but there was definitely something about her that increased his heart rate. He liked the way her short blond curls bounced when she walked. He liked her peaches-and-cream coloring and her wide cornflower blue eyes, and the way she carried her slight frame. And most of all, Jake was intrigued by the intensity of her fury, the way she could muster her pride and walk away from disaster. She was not a woman whose life would be ruined by a broken fingernail.

A stockboy appeared with a mop and sponge. “Don’t worry about it,” he told Amy. “Happens all the time.”

Amy nodded numbly. Lord, what a mess. Those eggs were like her life—scrambled. She decided she didn’t want eggs anyway. Eggs reminded her of chickens; and you know what chickens do—they steal people’s jobs!

She proceeded down the aisles at a much more cautious pace, selecting fixings for a spaghetti dinner. She intended to go home, brew up some of her fantastic spaghetti sauce, and eat until she burst. Then she would sit in front of the TV and make the most of feeling sorry for herself. She hefted a bag of cat litter into her cart and continued on.

Jake saw the tear in the bottom of the litter bag. He could have told her. He could have introduced himself and explained that she was leaving a trail of cat litter that wound its way through the bulk-food section and staunchly marched through sanitary products, but he didn’t. It was much more fun to observe her at a distance and follow the granules.

Besides, he knew when he would make his move. Calamity Jane didn’t have a purse, and there were no pockets that he could see in her bedraggled skirt. His guess was that she’d gone off in such a huff that she’d left her money behind. He pursued her at a leisurely pace, selecting a bottle of burgundy to accompany her spaghetti dinner and adding a frozen pie for dessert.

He lined up behind his quarry at the checkout, feeling an unsettling surge of affection for her while his anxiety ran amok. What if his plan didn’t work? What if she was married? She didn’t have a ring on her finger, but that was no guarantee. Maybe she lost her ring this morning when she was bathing the baby.

He peered over her shoulder and warily watched the fresh mushrooms and sweet peppers glide along the belt. She’d probably burned down three kitchens and poisoned countless men. Could that be why she wasn’t wearing a ring? Most likely she’d killed her husband—accidentally run him over with her flashy red car. Maybe he should reconsider … Nah.

The checker smiled at Amy. “Forty-three dollars and seventy-six cents.”

Amy froze. No purse. There was a sweep of momentary panic until she mentally retraced her steps and assured herself the purse was safely stowed in her locker at the station. This is what happens when you lose control of your emotions, she thought. You make an idiot of yourself in the supermarket.

Jake waited. Timing was everything. You couldn’t look too eager when you were picking women up at the supermarket like this. Not that he’d ever done it before, but he just knew you had to be cool about these things.

Amy pressed her lips together in dismay. “I’m sorry. I don’t have my purse with me.”

Now. Jake leaned forward. “Is there a problem?” Lord, she smelled wonderful when you got this close to her. Sweet, like honeysuckle, he thought. And her voice was clear and musical. Her laughter would be like that, too, he decided.

The checker looked unconcerned. “She forgot her purse.”

“Oh.” Steady, Elliott, he cautioned. Subtlety, that’s the key word. You have to be subtle. He turned his big soft brown eyes to Amy. “Do you live far away? Maybe you can call someone to bring the money. A neighbor?” Slight pause. “Your husband?” Clever, he thought, very clever. Hold your breath …

She looked despondent. “I just moved into