No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) by Shelly Fredman Page B

and husky and erotic as all get-out kept me rooted to the phone. “Brandy Alexander,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. Damn that caller I.D.
    “Um, hi Nick.” Smooth, Alexander, really smooth.
    Nicholas Santiago belonged on the cover of People Magazine under the banner of “Sexiest Man Alive.” It wasn’t so much the way he looked, although he was more than qualified in that department, with long, wavy hair, compelling, almond shaped eyes, sensuous mouth, high cheekbones and a lithe, yet muscular body. No, the man was so much more than the sum of good genes. There was the easy confidence, the quiet air of authority, the calm, almost hypnotic cadence of his speech and the knowledge that he was capable of killing you in an instant should the occasion warrant it.
    I met Nick last month, through the course of an investigation. He helped me out of a jam, which is to say he saved my life, and then he disappeared, but he’d left an indelible impression on me. Enigmatic and dangerous, Nick was the first man I’ve had feelings for since Bobby and the last man I should be feeling this way about. Boy, isn’t that always the case?
    I pictured him now, sitting behind the desk in the office of the martial arts studio he owns, a three days’ stubble on that beautiful face. I heard music playing in the background, Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli.
    “So, uh, I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
    “Actually, it’s perfect timing. I’ve been out of town for a while. I just got in about thirty minutes ago, and I stopped by the studio to check on things. So, I hear you’ve been having some adventures without me.” Again, the smile in his voice.
    “How did you know?”
    “Word gets around.” I’ll bet it does. Nick’s associates range from United States senators and presidents of third world nations, to street thugs named Lefty. There’s not much he doesn’t know.
    “Listen, I really hate to impose on you—especially since you were almost killed because of me the last time out—”
    “What do you need, angel?” My insides flipped at the familiar term of endearment.
    “And I know I said I’d repay you for all you did for me, but then you went out of town, and—”
    “Brandy.” His voice had gone soft as a whisper. “Tell me what you need.”
    The heat in my belly grew, and now that feeling spread to other, more intimate parts of my body. Did that man have any idea what kind of effect he had on me? My guess is he did.
    “Um, I need to run something by you. Do you think we could meet?” I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone, in case it was bugged—and maybe in the back of my mind I was just a little bit excited about the prospect of seeing Nick again. But that was just a bonus. I swear.
    “Do you remember where I live?” he asked.
    Like I remember my own name. “I think so.”
    “Good. How about you come over tonight, around seven. I’ll make us some dinner and you can tell me all about it.” Dinner with Nick? Alone? At his place? Oh boy!
    Nick lives in Center City, on the top floor of an elegant, old world style apartment building overlooking Rittenhouse Square. At ten ‘til seven I pulled into the loading zone, remembering to scoot all the way forward, in order to leave room for Marie. She was following me again. I punched in Nick’s number as the green Honda slipped off into the night.
    “Hey. Where are you?”
    “I’m parked in the loading zone.”
    “Come on up.”
    “But I’ll get towed.”
    “It’s okay. The owner won’t mind.”
    Before I got there, Marie and I stopped off at a chocolatier’s and picked up a two-pound box of truffles, because my mother says you should never show up at someone’s house empty handed. I shifted the chocolates into my other hand and stopped for a moment to check myself out in the beveled mirror, adjacent to the elevator. I was wearing a low cut white silk blouse and a push-up bra (okay, it could have been worse; at