Killing Time
Killing time in a small town describes how bad boy Mick Winchester has been feeling about his life lately–until a reality TV show by that name rolls into his hometown. And the producer is none other than Caroline Lamb…Mick's college sweetheart and his one true love. But gone is the sweet Southern girl with big-city dreams. This Caroline is a Hollywood hotshot–all wrapped up in a thousand-dollar power suit and killer spike heels.Caroline isn't the barracuda she pretends to be–she's just desperate to make her murder-mystery reality show a hit. And when a real corpse turns up on the set, the network bosses are ecstatic. Think of the ratings! But actual murder is way too much reality–even for Caroline. Especially when getting real with Mick is all that really matters.
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LESLIE KELLY
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“The story is filled with uproariously funny twists, scintillating conversations and steamy hot passion.”
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“[Leslie Kelly’s] characters are the kind of people you would love to hang out with.”
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Dear Reader,
I have to confess: I’m a reality-show junkie. I’ve watched the greats and the stinkers, been enthralled by The Mole and disappointed by Joe Millionaire II. So when Harlequin gave me a shot at writing my very first single-title-length romance novel, you can bet the reality-show idea popped into my mind.
There was someone else who’d been occupying my mind a lot, too.
Mick Winchester is a guy I’ve wanted since I wrote about him in my October 2003 Temptation novel Trick Me, Treat Me (Jared & Gwen’s story). He was so unrepentantly wicked, so sexy and playful and…just bad…that I found him irresistible. When he popped up again in my novella “Thrill Me” (Sophie & Daniel’s story), which appeared in a Harlequin collection called Reading Between the Lines in January 2004, I knew he had to have his own story.
It just remained to find the perfect woman, that blend of sexy, sassy, smart and strong, who could not only capture a man like Mick, but also hold on to him. TV producer Caroline Lamb is just such a woman.
I hope this story makes you laugh. I hope you can’t put it down. More than anything I hope I give you a few hours of real reading pleasure. That’s all any writer can ask for.
Happy reading, and thanks for all your support!
Leslie Kelly
This one’s dedicated to all the wonderful,
supportive people at Harlequin, who have given me so many opportunities. Brenda Chin, Birgit Davis-Todd, Marsha Zinberg and Tracy Farrell, thank you for your faith in me. I won’t let you down.
And to all those reality-show contestants
and crews. Thanks for the laughs and the entertainment.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
“DROP YOUR PANTS.”
Today certainly wasn’t the first time a woman had told Mick Winchester to take off his pants. From playfully suggestive, to wickedly sultry, the sentence conjured up a variety of pleasant memories. Of women. Lots of women.
He just loved them. And he was a lucky enough son of a bitch that they usually loved him back. Usually.
A lot of people had told Mick that women would be the death of him. He’d heard it from ex-girlfriends, from his mother, from buddies who envied his romantic success. Hell, just yesterday his own grandfather had given him a lecture on settling down before some female went Fatal Attraction on him.
He’d laughed off the warnings. How could something he loved as much as women bring about his downfall?
Unfortunately, as he stared down the five-inch barrel of an old Colt .45 handgun, he was beginning to see the possibilities.
“Louise, you don’t want to do this,” he told the woman holding the gun. “Whatever’s wrong, we can work things out.”
“Drop ’em, loverboy.”
She didn’t say another word, merely waiting patiently, watching him the way a hawk might study a tempting bit of prey—with stoic determination and a bit of outright hunger.
He wished he’d opened the blinds as soon as he’d gotten into the office this Monday morning. Perhaps then someone outside might have noticed something odd. Unfortunately, since he had an appointment with an out-of-towner looking for a room to rent, he’d come in early and hadn’t opened the office. He’d left the blinds down and the lights dim in the reception area. No one outside would notice a thing. And his secretary wouldn’t be in for a little while yet.
The out-of-towner wasn’t due for an hour. So whoever the Hollywood woman was, she’d probably walk in after Louise Flanagan finished whatever the hell it was she was trying to do here.
“What are you waiting for?” she finally said, sounding so perfectly reasonable, as if they’d just bumped into one another at the diner or the bank. “I know you’re not hard of hearing.”
“I’m trying to understand why you want to kill me.”
Hell, of all the women in Derryville, this one had the very least reason to hate his guts. And that was saying a lot, since he could easily name several females who would probably like to see him strung up by the nuts.
But Louise? He’d always been polite to the woman, giving her a smile when other people had laughed at her. He’d been nice to her in the old days, when the high school hierarchy had liked to crucify the farmers’ daughters who wore their coveralls to school and smelled of their daddy’s dairy farm.
