High Heels and Homicide by Kasey Michaels

willing her cheeks not to go red.
    â€œAm I done now?” Tabby asked Bernie, who was busily inspecting the large tapestry hanging on the wall behind them. “What else did we talk about on the plane?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, Tabby. About being discreet about the thing, maybe?” Bernie grabbed the agent’s arm at the elbow and pulled her toward the East Wing. “Sorry, Maggie. It’s a new act. I usually work alone. But we’ll get better at it.”
    â€œPlease don’t. I don’t know which was worse over Thanksgiving: listening to my mother tell me I’m getting fat or listening to her tell me that I’m not getting any younger and need to tackle some guy when he isn’t looking and get married. I don’t need you two playing matchmaker.”
    â€œWe’d never tell you you’re getting fat,” Tabby said, then bit her lips between her teeth as she looked at Maggie’s figure.
    â€œIt’s eight pounds. Eight lousy pounds. It was ten, now it’s eight. I’ll get rid of them.”
    â€œI’ve lost ten pounds since I gave up the booze,” Bernie said, putting her hands on her hips and turning in a full circle. “Of course, I’ve taken up smoking again. But we won’t mention smoking as a diet aid, will we?”
    â€œNot when I’m within earshot, no,” Maggie said, then she sucked in her gut and headed downstairs, just in time to see Alex entering the main saloon.
    He was wearing a dark blue frock coat, skintight tan pantaloons, high-topped black Hessians (his own, she knew), and pristine white linen, complete with white waistcoat and a perfectly tied neck cloth. She saw his quizzing glass hanging around his neck, the glass itself tucked into a pocket, and he carried his new cane. He moved with grace, his posture perfect, his black hair brushed into the Windswept style she knew so well from illustrations in her research books. Beau Brummell would have wept, the man was so perfect.
    â€œOh, God,” she groaned, leaning on the stone banister for support as her knees went weak. “There goes the libido. And he knows it, too. Everybody knows it. Damn the man…”
    Â   
    Three hours later, after suffering through Alex’s total command of the dinner-table conversation, complete with feminine fawning over him, male sparring with him, and Joanne Pertuccelli’s complete indifference—Maggie could like the woman if Joanne wasn’t such a boring, one-track-mind person—Maggie was wondering how she could kill Sam Undercuffler without anybody noticing he was gone.
    Except that nobody noticed the writers, so maybe she could get away with it.
    â€œOne more time, Sam,” she said as they sat in the main saloon, “zippers weren’t invented during the Regency Era.”
    â€œBut there are zippers on the costumes. I checked.”
    â€œWe’re not talking about costumes here, Sam. We’re talking about zippers. And there weren’t any in the Regency. Saint Just does not turn his back to the lady in the bed, making it obvious he’s zipping his zipper. He buttons his buttons.”
    â€œYes, but if he turns his back and buttons his buttons, anyone looking at him from the back won’t know what he’s doing. It’ll look like he’s maybe playing with himself or something. He’s got to turn, zip up, turn back. It’s as close to sex as we can get with this movie, since it’s network, not cable.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I understand. I can be reasonable. We just rewrite it a little, have him standing beside the bed, looking down at Marianne, smiling wickedly as he buttons his shirt. The viewer gets the same idea, right?”
    Sam started scribbling on his copy of the script. “That’s good. That’ll work. Gives Troy more face time, too, so he’ll like that. But then Nikki’s back is to the camera. She won’t like