Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) Read Free

like Jack’s, one of those sun-shading ones that crumples up into a pocket without losing its shape because it hasn’t got a shape to lose. The guy turned, lifted his head from his plate, and for a split second, I lost the ability to speak out of pure shock.
    “Hello, Lil,” said the man, and in front of everyone in town, or at least the two-thirds of everyone at the park, he leaned in and kissed me smack on the lips like he had the right.
    A lot of things went through my head, most of them profane, but the town was watching. A few of them with gleaming delight, and I don’t mean the good kind.
    I could feel Punk’s stare like a blow.
    Before I said a word, or kneed the man in the groin for his presumption, Boris arrived. Hissing, he scrambled up my trousers and shirt, and as I automatically cupped him in my arms, he yowled his war cry, tail lashing and ears flattened against his skull. It was bad enough Punk had lip-laying rights, but this was a total stranger. One who hadn’t bothered to bring an appropriate bribe.
    The man drew back slightly, then chuckled, and put out a hand to pat Boris on the head.
    Idiot.
    Boris struck. He scored eight scratches before the man could jerk his hand back to safety.
    Smiling sunnily, I said, “This is Boris. He’s my deputy. Boris,” I said to my cat, “this is Steven Kipling.” I rubbed his forehead with mine briefly and added a soft, “Good baby,” before I turned to my ex-fiancée and said, “He doesn’t like people invading my space.”
    I could hear Aunt Marge approaching, by the clank of thermoses in her big shoulder bag. I could feel Punk’s presence, hovering, undecided. I could all but taste the whispers of speculation rushing around the park. Mostly, though, I could only wonder what I’d done in a past life to earn this kind of karma.
    ***^***
    Seeing Steven Kipling made me sick. Shaking sick. I’d left a lot behind me in my life, and he was part of it. While Aunt Marge renewed their acquaintance, and the town whispered, I stalked blindly toward the creek. By the time I reached Bobbi, Raj had found another camp chair for me, and had made himself blessedly scarce. I dropped into the canvas seat and said in a shudder, “God help me.”
    Bobbi’s face was pink, her eyes glittering as fiercely as Boris’s. Her arm came out and gave me a rough half-hug. She’s the only person who knows the whole story. Not even Aunt Marge had gotten all the truth. Only Bobbi. “Don’t you give him the satisfaction, Lil. Don’t you dare.”
    My lips felt numb. I realized my jaw was clenched, and broke it free with a forced yawn that hurt. “God help me,” I repeated, and took the cup of lemonade she thrust into my hand. It was icy, sweet, and gone in two gulps. “I don’t think I’m up to this.”
    “You’re up to it,” Bobbi told me firmly. “I know it’s a lot, but you got through this Kim thing.”
    I was still getting through that “Kim thing”, as the town called my secretary’s part in the kidnap scheme that darn near saw me dead. Kim had been more than a secretary. She’d been a friend. One of the few women friends I had. Or so I’d thought.
    “Look, you’ve got your job, you have your house, you’ve got Punk…”
    I sort of had Punk.
    “Look at me, hon. Look at me, you hear?”
    I looked. When Bobbi gets all mountain twangy, it’s time to obey.
    Her eyes bored into mine. “I know, okay? Or at least I can guess. And I may not be the one who did your highlights this last time, but that gal up in Charlottesville is a master for a reason, you look gorgeous. Okay?”
    Aunt Marge had never taught me to value appearances over substance, but it felt good to think I looked good. Like a cozy Kevlar vest for the soul. I drew a deep breath and my head cleared of some of the fuzzy panic. I smiled and gave Bobbi a hug. “Thanks.”
    She clung to me, shaking a little. Two shipwreck victims in the same lifeboat, that was us. Always had been, always would