Foul Play - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,2

the neighborhood. I don’t know anyone, and I don’t have a husband.”

Whew! She didn’t have a husband. Jake tried to control the smile that was twitching across his mouth. “Maybe I can help. I’d be happy to loan you the money.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I couldn’t let you do that. You don’t even know me.”

Jake studied her flushed face, allowing his gaze to roam from her cap of shiny curls to her slightly upturned nose and kissable bow-shaped mouth. Her neck was smooth and elegant, her breasts small and round.

His gaze lingered at the torn skirt, wondering at the slender legs hidden within. “That’s true. I don’t know you, and you do look a little … um, unkempt.”

Amy looked down at her skirt. “It was my car. It ate my skirt.”

Jake nodded sympathetically. He glanced at the bags of groceries sitting in her cart. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you. It looks to me like you’ve got the makings of a spaghetti dinner there. As you can see”—he pointed to his cartful of TV dinners—“my culinary skills stop at defrosting. I’ll pay for your food, if you’ll make me a home-cooked meal. Fair?”

Now it was Amy’s turn to take a long hard look at Jacob Elliott, six feet tall with broad shoulders, slim hips, and running shoes held together with surgical tape. A few crisp black hairs curled from the open neck of his shirt. His sleeves had been rolled to the elbow, displaying strong corded forearms, and Amy guessed that the shirt hid muscles in all the right places. He was perfectly yummy. Coffee-colored hair waved over his eyes and along his neck, giving him a slightly rugged look, which was substantiated by a five o’clock shadow. Perfect teeth flashed white against a dashing smile any pirate would have been proud to own.

Amy felt a shiver run along her spine and instinctively checked to make sure her blouse was buttoned. “I don’t think so,” she answered, trying to ignore the fact that her mouth had gone dry as sand.

The checkout clerk shook her head in disbelief. “What a ninny.”

Amy felt her jaw drop. “I beg your pardon?”

The older woman stood with her hand on her hip and grinned. “Wouldn’t catch me turning down a chance to cook his dinner.”

“I don’t know this man. He could be an axe murderer.”

“Honey, this is Dr. Elliott. Everyone knows Dr. Elliott. He owns the veterinary clinic just around the corner.”

The checker one aisle over leaned across her cash register. “Dr. Elliott saved Sarah Maxwell’s cat when it was run over by a truck. Cat was a terrible mess, but Dr. Elliott worked on that poor little thing and stitched it together like new.”

“And Frannie Newfarmer’s beagle,” a woman two carts behind Amy added. “He nursed her beagle back to health when it was poisoned by the gardening service. Dr. Elliott slept in the office every night for almost a week, watching over that dog, till he was sure the little fella would live.”

Jacob Elliott smiled down at Amy. “See, you can trust me.”

Not by the hairs on your chinny chin chin, she thought. There was unmistakable mischief in his liquid brown eyes—bedroom eyes. And his wide mouth had a sensual curve to it that went straight to the pit of her stomach. He might be great at saving beagles, but she’d bet he was hell on single women. “I don’t live far from here,” Amy explained. “I’ll drive home and get some money.”

Jake slouched against his cart, counting the seconds until she realized her keys were locked in her car. When the startled expression appeared in her eyes he calmly paid for both their groceries and escorted her to the parking lot. “The large jeep-type vehicle,” he told her. “The purple job with the big black dog.”

Amy stumbled slightly at the sight of the “purple job.” It was big and square, more maroon than purple, splattered with mud and riddled with rust. A coat hanger antenna zigzagged crazily from the hood, and a bashed-in rear bumper sported a faded sticker that read HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR VETERINARIAN TODAY? She’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she wasn’t sure about being hauled home in a car Fred Flintstone would have rejected. It was definitely past its prime … by about three hundred years.

Jake opened the door and put the groceries in back with the dog. “This is Spot. Spot, meet—”

“Amy Klasse.” She