Partners in Crime by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t fancy having him stagger to the door in rumpled pajamas, or even less.
    She picked up the phone and dialed the desk. For a moment her mind went blank, forgetting his last name. She could hardly ask the bored-sounding clerk for the room of Jimmy the Stoolie, could she?
    Calvin, that was it. Jimmy Calvin.
    “No one by that name,” the gum-popping voice replied, and the phone slammed down.
    Jane counted to ten, dialed 0 once more, and said in her sweetest voice, “I know he’s registered. He’s in the room next to me.”
    “Then why don’t you go and knock on his door?” Slam.
    Jane counted to fifteen, dialed 0 and said, “Because I don’t want to disturb him. Could you please ring his room for me?”
    There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line, accompanied by a loud snapping of gum. “There’s no one in 4-A, and the man in 6-A isn’t James Calvin. He’s registered as Alexander Caldicott.”
    *
    Someone was chasing after him, someone with a huge mallet, twice the size of an average man, and that person was slamming the mallet down on the ground, causing a major earthquake. It was Yosemite Sam, his red handlebar mustache bristling, shouting and cursing as he slammed the mallet down and the entire landscape hopped. It didn’t hop as fast as he did, and he realized without much enthusiasm that he was Bugs Bunny.
    The pounding continued, the dream faded, and Sandy sat bolt upright in bed, realizing he wasn’t Bugs Bunny racing through a Southwestern desert, he was Alexander Caldicott in a motel in New Jersey.
    The flimsy door was trembling with the force of someone’s fist. “Wake up,” Jane Dexter said fiercely from the other side and Sandy had one more realization. He was neither Bugs Bunny nor Alexander Caldicott, he was Jimmy the Stoolie. And he sank back into the pillow with a groan.
    “Go away,” he said weakly. It was too early and he was too hung over to face her and the truth he knew would have to come out. He’d have to tell her—sometime during the sleepless night he’d come to that conclusion. He’d take her out somewhere, not a cafeteria like that godawful steak house but someplace restrained and elegant, where she wouldn’t dare throw a scene. She’d be embarrassed at her mistake, but he’d be charming, and they’d both end up laughing about it.
    She didn’t sound like she was laughing right now. “Wake up, Jimmy!” she said, still pounding. He could see the cheap panel vibrate, and he knew she wouldn’t give up.
    “I’m coming,” he groaned. He’d resorted to finishing the bottle of Scotch around four-fifteen, when sleep had still eluded him. He didn’t know whether he’d finally drifted off or blacked out, but the end result was the worst headache he’d had in his entire life.
    He stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and stood glaring into the sunlight. Jane was glaring just as fiercely. “It’s about time.” She bit off the words, stepping into the room. He reached beyond her and shut the door, shut out the blinding sunlight that was threatening to split his skull. “I have something to ask you.” And then her voice trailed off as she noticed what he was wearing.
    Sandy ignored her, collapsing back on the bed. The weakened frame shook beneath the force of his body, but he didn’t care, just lay face down in the tangled covers as he waited for Jane to pull herself together.
    It wasn’t as if he was stark naked. He’d slept in his briefs and T-shirt—both were a sedate navy blue, and if she’d been married she’d been bound to see someone in a lot less. Hell, there was more to his underwear than he usually wore swimming. God damn all librarians and people who pounded on his door demanding answers when he had the world’s worst headache...
    “Why are you registered under the name Alexander Caldicott?”
    All self-pity vanished, and he stared down into the creased white sheets, his beleaguered brain working overtime. He’d always had the