Page 52 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

Mike's brow went up. “A week? I must be better than I thought.”

I smacked his shoulder. “I wouldn't want to stroke your ego by responding to that.”

He took my hand and placed it over the front of his jeans and I felt him. Hard, long, thick. I got a hot flash remembering what he'd done with all that...maleness. “I've got something for you to stroke.”

It was a tossup between rolling my eyes at him in disgust or my eyes rolling back in my head in lust.

“Everyone would definitely know.”

“Having people know you're mine? That's not a problem for me.”

It was for me, at least in the way we were talking about. I dropped my gaze to his six-pack abs. He cupped my chin so I had to look at him, his other hand pushed up the hem of his T-shirt to gently cup my breast.

I sucked in a breath at the contact.

“I don't give a shit what other people think,” he continued. “The only person you should be concerned about is me.”

His fingers plucked at my nipple, making me squirm.

“As a doctor, you have surprisingly little concern for someone else's kitchen counter.”

“For a woman who just had three, or was that four, orgasms, you think way too much. I have to fix that.” He pulled my hips to the edge of the counter, forcing me to lean back with my hands behind me for balance. Dropping to his knees so my legs went over his back, he did just that.

19

“Fishing?”

I laughed at Mike's question about what to do for the day. We were on the kitchen floor, recovering from round four. “Even I can say I'm a little fished out.”

“Then, how about a hike? Nothing too crazy. Just us,” Mike said as he tucked my hair behind my ear.

“That sounds great.”

I put on clothes for a hike since Mike's T-shirt wouldn't do, tugged on my hiking boots. Left the engagement ring tucked away in my toiletry case—I didn't think Mike would mind after the hair ripping incident. Sunscreen, since the sun was actually out, at the moment. Snacks, water bottles and our raincoats were packed into a backpack. We let Jefferson out for a pee break, only after he sniffed both our crotches first, and were about to climb into the clown car when a nondescript, white American sedan pulled into the driveway.

We stood there and watched two men, both dressed in suit pants and white shirts with the sleeves rolled up, climb out. The driver was short and round, egg shaped, like Humpty Dumpty. His hair was short, military style, graying. The passenger wasover six feet tall and string bean thin. He'd blow over in the wind if it picked up. His hair was curly and unruly. The darkness of it had me guessing his age as early thirties. They were Laurel and Hardy, but probably not very funny.

“Hi, I'm Special Agent Clarkson, FBI,” Humpty Dumpty said, opening a small billfold with his badge and ID card in it.

“Special Agent Kronk.” The other man held out his badge as well.

Mike and I nodded our heads in acknowledgement, unsure of what the FBI wanted with us.

“We're looking for a Mr. Robert Jgorgen.”

Mrs. O's maiden name was Jgorgen? My mind randomly went to how much of a mouthful her name was: Claudine Jgorgen Ostranski. No wonder she didn't hyphenate.

“He's not here,” Mike said.

The men looked at the house, maybe thinking Jubal was peeking around a curtain in an upper bedroom window.

“And you are?” Laurel asked.

“I'm Mike Ostranski, Robert's nephew.” Eyes shifted to me. “This is Violet Miller, friend of the family.”

I nodded a hello.

“Do you know when he might be back?” Humpty asked.

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