The Lovebirds. B.J. Daniels

       CHAPTER ONE

      PEGGY KANE GLARED at the string of naked pink cupids fluttering over the floral shop counter. ‘‘Lovebirds?’’ she demanded into the cell phone as she turned her back to the cupids—and the clerk.

      ‘‘Yes.’’ Oliver Sanders sounded distracted. She could imagine him behind his big mahogany desk loosening his tie, his suit jacket already off and hanging neatly over the back of his chair, the scent of his expensive cologne mingling with the rich smell of leather and wood.

      ‘‘I should have thought of them before,’’ he said. She could hear the scrape of a pen on paper. He must be signing the letters she’d typed for him before he sent her to buy Valentine’s Day presents for his wife. ‘‘You got the good chocolate right, the stuff from Bulgaria or whatever?’’

      ‘‘Belgium. Yes.’’ Only the best for Mitzy Baxter Sanders. ‘‘I went to the little shop you told me to go to.’’

      ‘‘And the flowers?’’ Peggy could tell by his tone that he’d stopped what he was doing and was finally giving her his undivided attention. ‘‘You didn’t forget flowers?’’

      He didn’t call her Miss Efficiency for nothing. ‘‘Roses. Red Beauties. Two dozen. They are the largest, reddest and sweetest ones you can buy.’’

      She could hear the smile of approval in his voice. ‘‘I knew I could count on you. And you’ve got the key I gave you for the elevator to the penthouse. You’re going to have to hurry to get everything there before she gets home. It has to be perfect. You know how important tonight is.’’

      She knew. ‘‘It will be,’’ she said glancing at her watch. How was she expected to get everything to the hotel before Mitzy got home, she wanted to know, but didn’t ask, reminding herself how lucky she was. The day she’d become Oliver Sanders’ secretary, her dreams had finally begun to come true.

      She hung up and asked the florist behind the counter where she could find lovebirds in a resort town like River’s Edge, Montana.

      ‘‘There’s a new pet shop in that mall on the way to the ski hill,’’ the starry-eyed young woman told her. ‘‘Roses and lovebirds?’’

      Peggy nodded as she gathered up all of her purchases.

      ‘‘Oh, how sweet and so-o-o-o romantic!’’ the clerk cooed.

      Yeah. Peggy batted away one of the cupids hanging over the door as she left, sick to death of hearts and flowers. She’d spent years of watching other women get boxes filled with chocolate and big, bright bouquets in pretty vases.

      ‘‘Oh, look, I got flowers! Here, smell them!’’

      Smell them?

      Peggy swore under her breath. What sadist, she wanted to know, had come up with a holiday that so flaunted the fact you didn’t have anyone? Wasn’t it bad enough that all year long someone was trying to fix you up with blind dates? That your mother probably thought you were a lesbian since you were thirty-two and manless? That the man of your dreams was married to someone else and buying her all the wonderful Valentine’s Day presents you’d ever dreamed of? And some presents you hadn’t even thought of? Like lovebirds?

      Lovebirds!