Do Wah Diddy Die

Chapter 2-3

“So, how are you related to Unabelle?” Mickey asked, breaking a silence that had ruled for most of the length of the terminal.

Luci looked at him, brows lifting in surprise. “I’m not. She’s one of the aunts’ debs.”

“Debs?” Mickey looked, a puzzled frown putting tiny lines between his well-defined brows.

“Debutantes.” She waited a moment, but understanding still didn’t make an appearance. “Didn’t you know they’re matchmakers?”

“Matchmakers?” He stopped. “For real?”

“For real. For years.” Luci grinned. “They specialize in the...hard-to-launch young ladies. And back it up with a guarantee.”

“Guarantee?” Comprehension was beginning to break in his eyes, like little blue sparks. Very attractive blue sparks.

“They don’t quit until the deb is walking down the aisle. No matter how long it takes.” She hesitated, to smooth the giggles out of her voice. “Unabelle’s been...a challenge. That’s why she’s the last debutante.”

Mickey didn’t try to hold back his chuckle. “How long—”

“Long as I can remember. That’s one reason I had to come and see who—” Her laughter-rich voice made his pulse thunder and the quick flash of her mischievous gaze was a minor lightning strike to his already eager libido.

Mickey tugged at his tie again, this time undoing the knot and the top button of his white shirt. It didn’t help. He lengthened his stride, forcing Luci to recalibrate hers to keep up. That didn’t help either. What he needed was a cold shower. A long cold shower—which just plain wasn’t possible in the doggiest of the dog days of August.

“And,” he said as he swallowed dryly. “Your other reason?”

“Reason?”

Luci’s eyes widened in surprise and a hint of alarm, activating Mickey’s cop instincts. It was almost as good as a cold shower. If gasoline could almost put out a fire.

“You came to the wedding?” he prompted.

Luci’s lashes swept down like a lady’s fan. “It’s been a long time and I was feeling nostalgic.”

He wasn’t buying but was too polite to do more than look skeptical as he turned her toward the baggage claim sign.

As they descended via escalator, Luci studied Mickey. Pretty enough to be a calendar pin-up, he was lean, with shoulders just the right amount of broad, and a body just the right height to create symmetry. His cleanly-honed face was both reassuring and dangerous. The shadow of beard was sexy on his obviously stubborn chin, though she suspected the growth wasn’t a calculated effect but a temporary setback. The crisp cut of his light brown hair hinted at a clean-cut personality, and his tired blue eyes suggested he’d just come off a long stint of something—which probably explained the touch of irritability. Though even the strong and the well rested had tough going in the Seymour zone.

She stole another peek and got caught. He tugged at his now wildly askew tie.

“What?” Another flare of irritation erased the weary in his eyes.

“Excuse me?” She arched one brow, punctuating the question with another admiring perusal of his assets. Red crept out from under his chin and up his face. Dang, the boy was cute.

“Nothing.” He stopped by the luggage carousel and looked at the jumble of people and bags. He was too tired to do the bellboy thing if she had more than one bag. “Here comes the bags. Should I get a cart-”

“Why don’t we wait until we see if my stuff made it. My luggage likes to take side trips to Raratonga or Katmandu.”

“Okay.” He watched a bag circle, then said, “If it does come—”

“Well, will you look at that. There they are!”

Mickey was starting to suspect that she didn’t react to things the way normal people did. Her sincere delight at the sight of her luggage attracted almost as much attention as the pig and her legs. And did she have to bend over the luggage like it was lost children just found?

An unease filtered through tired and lust with distant words of caution. Green eyes, great legs and, a very nice ass—she was presenting it, so he took a good look before going to get a cart—were a temptation with a capital “T.” But trouble started with a “T,” too. If he had any doubts about the wisdom of steering clear, he had only to think of her aunts.

Insanity did run in families. No question it was running amok in hers.

* * * *

“Donald.” Fern grabbed Donald’s arm and pointed as Luci Seymour came out the doors, walking next to a luggage cart. Perched on the two suitcases was a large pig, made lurid by the artificial light. She shuddered. “Someone should put that thing out of its misery.”

Donald compared reality to the photo Artie gave them. “Someone is going to.”