WENDY ROBERTS
was born and raised in Winnipeg, Canada, where she alternated between fending off frostbite in winter and mosquito bites in summer. Her earliest childhood memories are the musky, dusty scent of the local library bookmobile and losing herself in the adventures of Nancy Drew.
At the tender age of eight, Wendy’s writing career sprouted when she penned the poignant tale of a cup of flour’s journey to become a birthday cake. After a writing hiatus that lasted a few decades, she rediscovered her muse, her sanity and a sated harmony in putting pen to paper once again.
Wendy now resides on the west coast of Canada with her five biggest fans—her husband and their four beautiful children. This is her debut novel.
Dating Can Be Deadly
Wendy Roberts
MILLS & BOON
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Deepest thanks to my mom and dad
for showing me laughter through all things.
For my husband, Brent, for saying I could,
and for my children, Sarah, Daniel, Donovan
and Devin, for making it all worthwhile.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
I charged through Seattle’s Memorial Cemetery with my arms pumping and heart pounding. My mouth wheezed in great mouthfuls of dreary afternoon drizzle while I ruined a perfectly good pair of black leather sling-backs. To top that off, the purse snatcher, who was at least double my twenty-six years and probably a heroin addict as well, had easily outrun me.
I had a choice, I could either A) continue to run with the hope that I’d eventually wear the thief down with my persistence or B) give up on ever seeing my shoulder bag, a suede Prada knockoff, ever again.
Exhaustion won. I gave up and staggered to a stop. I apologized to Samuel Harvey, 1910-1973, whose tombstone I leaned against while recovering from the impromptu workout.
“He got away?” Stumbling in my direction, with high heels sinking in the sodden grass and with ample bosom rising and falling in deep gasps, was my good friend Jenny. She propped herself up at the opposite corner of Samuel Harvey’s resting place. “Damn! I thought you had him.”
“This is what happens when you can no longer afford to go to the gym.” I panted. “A senior citizen junky makes off with your bag and leaves you whimpering in a graveyard.”
“This is what happens when your car dies and you’re forced to stand around on Baldwin Street,” corrected Jenny. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the red hair color, Claret Classic, was courtesy of this week’s sale at Neuman Drugs. Next, Jenny dug in her purse and pulled out a cigarette. She lit up then nodded her head in the direction the thief had taken. “Let’s go after him.”
“I’d rather—” stick a pen in my eye, have a pap test, visit my mother… “—not.”
“Well, we should check. Maybe he ditched your bag somewhere?”
“What’s the point?” I asked, sulkily digging up sod with the toe of one of my wrecked shoes.
“Maybe he just snatched the cash and dumped the rest.” Jenny took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long stream. “Of course I’d be able to catch him myself, if I wasn’t retaining all this water.”
I knew Jenny was retaining twenty-five years of fried food, not water, but she was my best friend so I supported her delusions of water retention, just like she supported my fantasy that being able to type seventy words a minute meant I was physically fit.
“Replacing your ID and credit card is going to be a real pain,” Jenny added.
I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Damn! My Visa!”
My credit card was the only thing preventing me from having to beg dinners off my mother until next payday. I had a sudden and nauseating vision of endless meals sitting across from Mom explaining why I haven’t married and have no prospects, why I haven’t a better job and no prospects and why I haven’t cut my hair, lowered my hemlines, taken a class….
I hurled myself down the stone pathway.
“Wait up, Tab! I’ll come with ya!” Jenny flicked her smoke into a nearby puddle and followed in my wake up a narrow walkway.
The path led us between tombstones and grave markers. When we began to climb a slight incline nearing a clump of tall blue spruce, I suddenly stopped walking and Jenny slammed right into me.
“What is it? Do you see your bag?” Jenny flicked her gaze left and right then sidestepped around me to look at me full in the face. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What
