Mr. Fix-It Read Online Free

to offer her a medium-dry martini—shaken, not stirred. Instead, he offered an apology.
    “I’m sorry I dawdled back there,” he said as the driver smoothly eased the limousine into traffic. “Jerry makes a lot of runs to and from the brownstone, so I see him fairly often.”
    “Was he surprised to see that you were a passenger this time?” Khela uncrossed her legs and, after carefully rearranging the long skirt of her diaphanous gown, brought her feet up to the seat and made herself more comfortable. To Carter, she looked like a contemporary Aphrodite in repose upon the dark aniline leather.
    He cast an amused glance at the privacy screen between them and Jerry. “Nothing much surprises Jerry.”
    Carter was thankful she had heard none of Jerry’s snickered speculations as to why it had taken Carter so long to “bag” Khela, or his lascivious suggestions as to what activities they would engage in during the course of their “lovers’ getaway.”
    Without disabusing Jerry of his pornographic notions, Carter had responded to his comments with good-natured chuckling. He was spending the weekend with Khela, but she’d made it perfectly clear that this was a legitimate business trip, not a monkey-business trip.
    Not that Carter would mind a little monkeying around.
    The pale apricot of Khela’s gown imparted a warm honey glow to her bare arms and shoulders. The dusky-peach blooms in her cheeks came from nature rather than from a makeup counter; Carter knew that because they intensified in color the longer he stared at her. When she dipped her head, dangling diamond baubles at her ears glittered, and graceful tendrils of her upswept hairdo caressed her long neck.
    He shook his head ruefully. From ingénue to starlit goddess…this possibly could be the longest weekend of his life.
    “Exactly what kind of convention is this?” he asked, eager to think of something other than the way the subtle spice of her perfume made his heart jog faster.
    “Ro—” she started, catching herself mid-word and finishing with “iting.”
    “Ro-iting?” Carter repeated with a James Bond-worthy lift of an eyebrow. “Never heard of it.”
    “I’m a writer, Mr. Carter, and we’re going to a big writing thing.” A rapidly spreading blush softened her prim delivery. “It’s the East Coast Writing Association Convention.”
    “Hmm,” he grunted quietly.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Khela was suddenly second-guessing her decision to bring him with her. To her own ears, the East Coast Writing Association Convention sounded like a gathering of authors wandering from vendor to vendor collecting pens, bookmarks and other promotional schwag from industry folk. There was that aspect to it, but there was the other side—the reason Association members turned out almost in full every year: the writers.
    Every year, fiction and nonfiction authors in every genre arrived en masse in the host city to reconnect with distant friends, attend workshops devoted to their craft and career, celebrate their successes, and bemoan their failures, all in the company of their fellow artists. The pens, notepads, tote bags, T-shirts and complimentary books just happened to be dandy fringe benefits.
    “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “I knew you were a writer, but I didn’t know that you were so big.”
    Stung, Khela stared at him. She’d been amazed and gratified that he had accepted her invitation, but now a stab of regret made her head slightly achy. It wasn’t her style to flaunt her career or her success, but for reasons unknown even to herself, she wanted him to be impressed. She would have settled for interested. Or at the very least, she’d hoped that he would have asked her about her work.
    But in all fairness, they didn’t know each other, not at all. He had come to her apartment fairly regularly lately grateful for her flirty friend. Khela smiled to herself, imagining Daphne’s reaction when she saw her favorite super