Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [69]
“Good. Why don’t you keep it on the whole time?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, partly to flirt with him and partly because I fully intended to keep the man’s attention on me all evening. Not on any other attractive females who might be at the event. Once they realized he was not some dangerous killer, I had a feeling Simon was going to be very popular with the ladies.
When we got to the decorated fire hall, I heard the loud music and laughter coming from inside. Simon had grown more quiet as we’d approached. “It’ll be fine.”
He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. But I knew he had to. It couldn’t have been easy living in self-imposed exile for so many months. Reentering the world of the living was going to require some trust. Trust that had been shot and cut out of him one hot June night.
Walking to the entrance, I grabbed his hand and twined my fingers in his. “You’re totally hot for a serial killer.”
He laughed softly. “And I would so pay big bucks for a chance with you.”
Waggling my eyebrows and licking my lips salaciously, I tossed my curly hair. “Well, honey, for a man who looks like you, I might just be tempted to give it away for free.”
We were still grinning as we walked into the place. That was good. Because it made it a little easier to deal with the fact that everyone within sight stopped talking the moment they spotted us.
Simon, obviously more worried about me than he was about himself, dropped a possessive arm over my shoulder. As if worrying that I, Lottie Santori of the alligator-thick skin, could get my feelings hurt over being snubbed by some yokels wearing witch hats and angel wings.
I was about to make some kind of big “here we are, you narrow-minded, superstitious people” announcement, but suddenly a man appeared, walking toward us through the crowd, which parted for him with every step. Some eyed him with admiration, some with disdain. Some even with fear.
He was tall—very tall, probably six-five—and lean to the point of skinniness. Despite having a youthful-looking face and brilliant blue eyes, his shoulder-length hair was snow-white.
With his build, he would have looked appropriate dressed as a scarecrow, but he instead wore an old-fashioned big-game hunter getup, like I’d seen in old African safari movies.
“Mortimer,” Simon said softly.
Glancing at him, I saw a smile on his face and realized this was friend, not foe. When the older gentleman reached our side and clapped both Simon’s shoulders in enthusiastic welcome, I knew it for sure. And I immediately loved him for it.
“Simon! How marvelous that you came. Couldn’t be happier to see you, my boy.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Mr. Potts.”
“Mortimer, please,” the man insisted with an airy wave of his hand. “Your costume is perfect. I do wish my manservant had had time to find me one. Unfortunately, we’ve been busy with the renovations and I was forced to come without one.”
“He’s not wearing a costume?” I muttered under my breath.
Feeling Simon tighten his grip on my hand, I shut my mouth. Then the old gentleman turned to face me and I swear to God, the guy gave me a look that said even though there was white hair on top of his head, he was still randy male from there down.
“Oh, you devil,” he said, obviously speaking to my date, though he never took his eyes off my face. “My dear, you have brightened up the room with your presence.”
Simon quickly introduced us and we chatted with Mr. Potts for a few minutes. Around us, I noticed conversations beginning again. And then, surprisingly, people began approaching. A couple of them had obviously met Simon and carefully bid him welcome, and he managed to keep his expression pleasant, actually engaging in small talk.
Soon more of the partyers drifted over, some introducing themselves, some relying on Mortimer for introductions. But the ice had definitely been broken.
I didn’t think anyone had figured out who Simon was supposed to be. Fortunately, the old guy from the records office—who’d immediately recognized Zangara’s name—was nowhere around.
Simon was relaxed,