Kill Me Again. Maggie Shayne

      To Lance, my partner, my best friend, my inspiration. You understand my craziness, you weather all my storms and you are my constant, steady, calm harbor. I wrote you into countless novels, never ever realizing that one day you would step off the pages and out of my imagination to sweep me into your strong arms. But you did. You’ve fulfilled my heart’s desire and made my dreams come true. Thank you for loving me.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Epilogue

      1

      Today was the day Olivia Dupree was going to meet the only man on the planet who saw life the way she did—as one long series of disappointments, as a perilous journey best navigated entirely solo—for the very first time, and she didn’t have a thing to wear.

      Not that what she wore really mattered. She wasn’t that sort of fan. Not only didn’t she think he would care what she looked like, but she would also be extremely disappointed if he did.

      And yet she’d given in to the inner idiotic teenager that had never been her and stood on her bed, so she could gauge her appearance in the big mirror that was part of her dresser. She didn’t own a full-length mirror. She’d never thought she needed one and still held that opinion. Her ordinary style was pretty basic. For work she wore skinny, knee-length pencil skirts with matching blazers when it was cool, and sensible pumps with two-inch heels. She kept her dark hair in a tight bun and applied her makeup in the same minimalist fashion every weekday. College English students didn’t really care what their professor looked like, after all. And she wasn’t out to capture the attention of anyone who might.

      On weekends, she traded the suits for jeans, the bun for a ponytail and the makeup for sunscreen.

      Now she needed something in between. Something relaxed but attractive. Not seductive, just attractive. She was not a doe-eyed, adoring fan. But she’d never met Aaron Westhaven before, and she wanted to make a good impression.

      Nothing more.

      Freddy, her very best friend in the entire world—and the only specimen of the male gender, canine or otherwise, she trusted with her heart—tipped his massive head from one side to the other as he watched her standing somewhat unsteadily on the mattress. Standing was not what the bed was for, he seemed to be thinking.

      She glanced down at him. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll get down momentarily. And standing on the bed is still verboten when it comes to you, okay?”

      He heaved a giant sigh and lowered his two-hundred-pound, brindle-patterned bulk to the floor. He was only average size for an adult male English mastiff, but even she had trouble believing how big he was, and she’d had him for three years.

      She hoped Mr. Westhaven didn’t have an aversion to dogs. He hadn’t written dogs into any of his novels, so she couldn’t be sure, but she suspected he would love Freddy. Because anyone with a heart would love Freddy, and Westhaven certainly had a heart.

      She felt as if she knew him well. The reclusive author’s heartbreakingly tragic novels lined her shelves and spoke to her soul. They were her own guilty little secret. But they so reflected the way she felt about life and love. You really couldn’t depend on anyone but yourself. He seemed to understand that. God knew she did.

      And now she was about to meet him—right here in Shadow Falls, Vermont.

      She glanced at the combination she now wore, a pair of dressy black trousers and a lavender button-down blouse with a black blazer over it. Too stiff. She unbuttoned the blazer and thought she still looked too formal. Then she took it off and thought she looked too casual.

      Frustrated, she threw the blazer down by her feet. Big mistake. Freddy saw that as an invitation, sprang upright and bounded onto the bed with a giant “woof” that reverberated through her chest. The mattress sank, the box springs squeaking in protest.

      “I couldn’t see anything from the waist down,” she explained, as she tried to keep her balance. He bounced in response to her words, and the mattress tidal-waved beneath her. Laughing, she fell onto her butt among the rumpled covers, and Freddy moved over her, trying to lick her face as she laughed too hard to breathe. “You’re a lug. Get down!”

      He obeyed immediately, then stood there waiting for her to join him. She got down, traded the trousers for a skirt, slid her feet into a pair of sandals and looked at the clock on the nightstand, then at her wristwatch. “Gee, Freddy. Mr. Westhaven is late.” She frowned as a little knot of worry tightened in her stomach.

      “He’s really late.”

      And she was concerned. Because though she admired him, she didn’t entirely trust him, simply because he was male. The fact that he’d agreed to be the surprise guest speaker at the English Department’s summer fundraiser had been nothing less than a stunner. She’d invited him with every expectation that he would decline, if he replied at all. The man never made public appearances. She’d been shocked—and a little bit suspicious—when he’d accepted the invitation.

      But she’d chalked that up to her own man issues, and tried to count on him to show up as promised and not pull a no-show.

      Maybe that had been a mistake.

      Time would tell, she supposed. She brushed