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cup out of the pot.
After a minute or two, Jonty backed into the room bearing a tray with the drinks and some shortbread
he d discovered. Orlando had coaxed the fire into a cheerful blaze and had then dropped onto the mat
before it, looking rosy and content in the glow. They ate and drank again in companionable silence, Jonty
reflecting all the while that his aunts had probably been absolutely right to swear by the civilising and
restorative effects of afternoon tea. Being before the fire together felt absolutely blissful.
Orlando broke the tranquillity. I feel a bit of an idiot sitting here in a towel, with you fully dressed,
Jonty. Should be getting dressed myself, I suppose. Despite what he said, he didn t show the slightest
inclination to take his own advice.
There is another solution, of course, Jonty ventured, for your embarrassment. Another way to
solve the problem. Bear with me for just a moment. He rose and went into the bathroom, feeling a bit of
an idiot as well. This was either going to be a masterstroke or a complete disaster. He found himself a large
towel and began to undress.
He hadn t dared do this in front of Orlando; it would have given the man too much time to become
skittish and object. Anyway, the act of disrobing was never an elegant one. The top half was fine, very
alluring it had been to watch Orlando stripping off his jacket and waistcoat, but the bottom half presented
all sorts of logistical difficulties. There was the significant risk of hopping around with one leg still in your
trousers, which made a very unappetising sight, or worse still, being left in just your socks, which was a
complete passion killer. Better to show yourself in the best possible light, he mused, removing the last item,
the offending socks, and draping the towel around himself. He took a very deep breath and went back into
the main room.
Now we re equal. Jonty took his place next to his friend in front of the hearth. Orlando s jaw had
dropped when he saw his friend, draped like a Greek statue, entering the room. Jonty could imagine him
struggling to regain his composure but failing.
You absolute oaf! Orlando started to laugh, which was a rare enough occurrence at any time and
one that always set Jonty off giggling as well. They didn t stop until the tears were streaming down their
faces.
Oh, Orlando your face. I ve not seen you so shocked since that lady from Girton invited you to step
outside with her and admire the wallflowers.
Orlando blushed at the remembrance. Jonty knew he really did hate talking to women and this one
had been rather too persistent.
Orlando looked across at his friend and noticed the small, exquisite gold crucifix around his neck.
May I? He reached over and began to finger it gently. This is a lovely piece of workmanship. Do you
wear it often?
Always. Jonty smiled. My grandmother bought it for me when I came up to Bride s as a student.
I ve worn it every day that I ve been at the college, now and before.
Orlando kept rubbing the delicate gold chain until his fingers must have grown numb and sought for
softer contact. Letting the necklace go, he tentatively traced the line of Jonty s collarbone. This is a lovely
piece of workmanship, too. And this. His hand worked its way down his friend s chest, toying with the
hairs that were sparsely scattered along the way.
The road back to bestsellerdom can be deadly.
Somebody Killed His Editor
© 2009 Josh Lanyon
Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1
Thanks to an elderly spinster sleuth and her ingenious cat, Christopher Holmes has enjoyed a
celebrated career as a bestselling mystery writer. Until now. Sales are down and his new editor is allergic to
geriatric gumshoes.
On the advice of his agent, he reinvents his fortyish, frumpy, recently dumped self into the sleek, sexy
image of a literary lion, and heads for a Northern California writers conference to try and resurrect his
career. A career nearly as dead as the body he stumbles over in the woods.
In a weirdly déjà vu replay of one of his own novels, he finds himself stranded in an isolated lodge
full of frightened women and not a lawman in sight. Except for J.X. Moriarity, former cop and bestselling
novelist. The man with whom he shared a one-night stand okay, maybe three long ago. The man who
wants to arrest him for murder.
A ruthless, stalking killer, or a hot, handsome ex-lover. Which poses the greater danger? It s
elementary, my dear Holmes!
Warning: This book contains a washed-out bridge, an isolated hunting lodge, desperate writers,
guilty secrets, a killer on the loose, and one very hot ex-cop who wants his former lover in handcuffs for
all the wrong reasons!
Enjoy the following excerpt for Somebody Killed His Editor:
Someone was howling a thin, breathless cry that was, in fact, more breath than cry.
Me.
Far from splitting the night, my bleat barely carried three feet, so I had no trouble hearing my
attacker s exasperated, What. The. Fuck?
I knew that voice.
I bit off the rest of my screech and sat up, wincing as pain shot up my spine. I was sitting in a puddle,
ice-cold water soaking through my trousers. The last time I remembered being decked had been a
playground rumble at Our Holy Mother. I d been thirteen. My bounce had been better back then. Now I felt
like I d wrenched every muscle in my already worn-out body. And my back& I d be lucky if I wasn t
crippled for a month. I wiped the mud off my face.
I am so going to sue your ass, I spluttered.
Well, what the hell are you doing out here? J.X. demanded.
No apology seemed forthcoming. Also, I couldn t help noticing, neither was help from the lodge.
Were we too far away to be heard? Not a happy thought.
What do you think I m doing? I m going to my cabin.
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