Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Leslie Langtry
driver was a woman. She was kind of hot, actually. Short, curly brown hair with light blue eyes and a sad sort of smile. I liked that but didn't welcome the distraction. Was my need for companionship making me look at every woman as a possible soul mate?
Once I was settled in the sleek, black sedan, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.
"All set, Mr. Bombay?" She asked.
I nodded. "Please, call me Paris."
The driver smiled. "Alright, Paris, you can call me Teri." She started the car and pulled out into traffic.
" Do you want the privacy screen up, Paris?" she asked.
" No. I hate those things." And I did. It made me feel like I was entombed. I wanted to see what was going on ahead. An assassin should always be prepared.
" It should only be about an hour to the studios. Just sit back and relax. There's satellite radio, and the fridge is stocked with sparkling water."
An hour. Was that all I had? In LA traffic? How was I supposed to come up with something between now and then? It wasn't like I could ask Teri to stop at a hardware store so I could pick up piano wire and duct tape. (I didn't want to just rely on the .45 if I could do it cleaner.) Leave no trace was the idea. Okay, well now I just sounded like the Boy Scouts.
I was one though. An Eagle Scout. My project was to set up a handgun class for female victims of domestic violence. It worked pretty well too, that is, until one of them gunned down her ex husband at a Tastee Freez in front of a middle school jazz band. But that happened five years after the class, so I still consider it a success.
The car entered the freeway , and I stared at the miles of concrete barricades under a smog-riddled sky. I never really understood the lure of Los Angeles. Too much pollution, too many cars, and the people all looked like they were molded out of plastic. Especially the women. Why did they do that, anyway? So what if they had a wrinkle here or a frown line there? I liked it. It gave them character. It gave me the creeps when I saw a woman whose face had been "ironed" by Botox.
I stole a glance at Teri through the rearview mirror. She seemed like a natural beauty to me. And the crease between her eyebrows told me that she had lived—that she'd had emotions and knew how to express them. Her eyes caught mine, and I realized I'd been staring.
" Are you staring at me?" she asked.
" Sorry." To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. Why was I acting so desperate? "It's just that you don't look like most women here."
Teri laughed. "I don't know if you meant that as a compliment, but that's how I'm taking it."
" It was a compliment," I insisted. She had a nice laugh. I could appreciate that too.
" Well good. Then I won't let you off here and make you walk downtown," Teri answered. "I hate those stupid, vapid Barbie dolls."
" So you aren't from around here, then?"
Teri shook her head, her eyes returning to the road. "I'm from Chicago. And I'd wear a T-shirt that said that every day, if I had one."
I looked out the window just in time to see a blonde in a convertible pull up next to us. She had oversized sunglasses that were only surpassed by her oversized lips. Her breasts were huge—maybe a quad D, if they made them that large. And she, and the car, were pink. I shuddered and turned my attention back to Teri.
" I could never live here. I'm partial to real people." I hadn't realized I said that out loud.
Teri stared at me for a few moments , and I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I talked too much. Maybe I should close the privacy screen and focus on what I had to do next.
" What line of work are you in, Paris Bombay?"
My mind went into the smooth, well- traveled back-story I'd used for years. "Marketing. I'm a consultant."
" Is that right?" Teri looked back at the road. "And what is a marketing consultant doing auditioning for a reality show?"
That caught me off guard , and I withdrew automatically. I'd already said too much to
Once I was settled in the sleek, black sedan, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.
"All set, Mr. Bombay?" She asked.
I nodded. "Please, call me Paris."
The driver smiled. "Alright, Paris, you can call me Teri." She started the car and pulled out into traffic.
" Do you want the privacy screen up, Paris?" she asked.
" No. I hate those things." And I did. It made me feel like I was entombed. I wanted to see what was going on ahead. An assassin should always be prepared.
" It should only be about an hour to the studios. Just sit back and relax. There's satellite radio, and the fridge is stocked with sparkling water."
An hour. Was that all I had? In LA traffic? How was I supposed to come up with something between now and then? It wasn't like I could ask Teri to stop at a hardware store so I could pick up piano wire and duct tape. (I didn't want to just rely on the .45 if I could do it cleaner.) Leave no trace was the idea. Okay, well now I just sounded like the Boy Scouts.
I was one though. An Eagle Scout. My project was to set up a handgun class for female victims of domestic violence. It worked pretty well too, that is, until one of them gunned down her ex husband at a Tastee Freez in front of a middle school jazz band. But that happened five years after the class, so I still consider it a success.
The car entered the freeway , and I stared at the miles of concrete barricades under a smog-riddled sky. I never really understood the lure of Los Angeles. Too much pollution, too many cars, and the people all looked like they were molded out of plastic. Especially the women. Why did they do that, anyway? So what if they had a wrinkle here or a frown line there? I liked it. It gave them character. It gave me the creeps when I saw a woman whose face had been "ironed" by Botox.
I stole a glance at Teri through the rearview mirror. She seemed like a natural beauty to me. And the crease between her eyebrows told me that she had lived—that she'd had emotions and knew how to express them. Her eyes caught mine, and I realized I'd been staring.
" Are you staring at me?" she asked.
" Sorry." To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. Why was I acting so desperate? "It's just that you don't look like most women here."
Teri laughed. "I don't know if you meant that as a compliment, but that's how I'm taking it."
" It was a compliment," I insisted. She had a nice laugh. I could appreciate that too.
" Well good. Then I won't let you off here and make you walk downtown," Teri answered. "I hate those stupid, vapid Barbie dolls."
" So you aren't from around here, then?"
Teri shook her head, her eyes returning to the road. "I'm from Chicago. And I'd wear a T-shirt that said that every day, if I had one."
I looked out the window just in time to see a blonde in a convertible pull up next to us. She had oversized sunglasses that were only surpassed by her oversized lips. Her breasts were huge—maybe a quad D, if they made them that large. And she, and the car, were pink. I shuddered and turned my attention back to Teri.
" I could never live here. I'm partial to real people." I hadn't realized I said that out loud.
Teri stared at me for a few moments , and I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I talked too much. Maybe I should close the privacy screen and focus on what I had to do next.
" What line of work are you in, Paris Bombay?"
My mind went into the smooth, well- traveled back-story I'd used for years. "Marketing. I'm a consultant."
" Is that right?" Teri looked back at the road. "And what is a marketing consultant doing auditioning for a reality show?"
That caught me off guard , and I withdrew automatically. I'd already said too much to
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