Poisoned Tarts Read Free

little conviction. If not for the hours spent at the gym and on the tennis court to counteract the effects, their ultratrim physiques would have disappeared long ago.
    And that would have been a shame because lusting after the two of them—hard bodies and all—was one of Savannah’s favorite pastimes, second only to watching Dirk walk away.
    With Ryan’s dark good looks, his six-foot-plus frame, and his impeccable sense of style, he could set any female heart pitter-patting. And although John was older than Ryan, his life partner, John’s thick silver hair and his soft, aristocratic British accent was enough to make a girl melt.
    For all the good it did her, Savannah had been pitter-pattering and melting into puddles in their presence for years.
    â€œHey, Van, bring some of those brownies over here,” Dirk called from the other side of the living room. “And is that fudge? Is it rocky road?”
    Snuggled into her favorite rose-print chintz easy chair, he leaned back and unbuckled his Harley–Davidson belt.
    â€œWhat are you doing there in my chair?” she asked as she brought the plates of goodies to him. “I’ve told you time and again not to sit in it. I’ve got the cushion molded just right for my own hind end, and you’re gonna wreck it. Get out! Now!”
    â€œIt’s comfortable,” he objected as he reached for the plate. “I can see now why you like sitting here, even if it is a sissy, pansy chair with stupid flowers all over it.”
    â€œGet out of it!” she said, kicking him on the shin with her fuzzy red slipper. “You insult my chair and expect me to let you sit there? Move your carcass over to the couch and take those boots off. They’ve got mud and heaven knows what else on ’em.” She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Lord have mercy, boy, what have you been wading through? Meadow muffins?”
    â€œMeadow whats?” He lifted his boot and stared at the sole.
    â€œCow pies,” she said. “You know…bovine biscuits.”
    â€œAh. You mean bull shit,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I—”
    â€œSh-h-h,” Savannah said, seeing her grandmother descend the stairs, a cloud of Hawaiian print in her floor-length pink and red muumuu. “Watch your mouth. Gran’s coming down.”
    â€œI heard that,” Gran said, a twinkle in her eye as she joined them in the living room. “Who’s been tippy toeing through the bullpucky?”
    â€œMe,” Dirk admitted as he quickly stood and offered Gran the chair. “I had to chase a suspect through a pasture yesterday out in Mooney Canyon. I guess I haven’t gotten around to scraping off all the…uh…forensic evidence yet.”
    He held Gran’s arm as she settled into Savannah’s easy chair and gently placed the ottoman under her feet. Then he handed her his brownie and a piece of fudge.
    Savannah smiled, loving him just for a moment, then she said, “Go put those boots out on the front porch and get back in here before my news story comes on.”
    Glancing at the television, she could see that the weather report was nearly finished. And that meant the colorful, local story would be next. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her latest exploits being broadcast for God and everybody to see. With cameras everywhere these days, a body had precious little privacy.
    On the other hand, the footage had convinced the cops who had appeared on the scene that the other guy was the one who had thrown the first punch…or at least attempted to before she’d effectively blocked it.
    There were times when a bit of store security videotape could be a girl’s best friend.
    â€œI don’t need to see it on the screen,” Dirk said as he plodded off to the hallway. “I was there. I saw the whole bloody, gory scene in person.”
    â€œBloody?” Tammy was all ears.