Read Bonnie of Evidence for Free Online Page B

him.
    “Well, would you look at you,” I said as I joined him. I looked him up and down then twirled my finger for him to turn around.
    “What do you think?” he asked, holding his breath expectantly.
    “I think if every man looked as good as you do in a kilt, we’d see the rapid demise of three-piece suits in corporate America.” The tartan he’d selected was a brilliant rose and navy blue that neatly hugged his flanks from waist to knees, accenting his flat stomach and narrow hips, and exposing his dough-white legs.
    “Oh, thank God.” He fanned his hand in front of his face in obvious relief before pausing to give me a tentative look. “You’re sure you’re not saying that just to be nice?”
    “No. Really. It’s you.”
    “I bet she’s just being nice,” taunted a voice that floated out from the adjacent room.
    “Oh, hush,” Alex scolded the voice’s owner. “And can you believe the prices, Emily? Forty percent off ! I’m in heaven.”
    Alexander Hart was a nuclear engineer who’d looked pretty dull on paper, but who, in person, was anything but. He was a fastidious dresser, neatly tucked in and buttoned up, who sported polo players on his shirts and knife-edge creases on his slacks. His salt-and-pepper hair was razor cut, his face clean shaven, and his fingernails buffed to a gleaming shine. His career might revolve around mathematical equations and proofs, but his “life” apparently included frequent visits to high-end clothiers and Asian manicurists.
    He studied his reflection in the wall mirror, turning to observe his backside. “Are you sure this thing doesn’t make my butt look big?”
    “Give the girl a break,” protested the disembodied voice. “She has better things to do than check out how much junk’s in your trunk.” The fitting room curtains suddenly parted and out stepped Erik Ishmael in all his highland glory. “Ta da!” He nailed a manly pose despite the fact that he was wearing a wool skirt. “I think it has my name written all over it. What do you think?”
    “I think you should stop showing off,” quipped Alex. “Emily doesn’t care that your bare torso once graced the cover of hundreds of romance novels. Your legs aren’t ready for prime time. You need a wax job.”
    Erik lifted his kilt above his knees to peer down at the tangle of dark hair that matted his legs. “Forget it. Not happening. But you know what might work?” His expression brightened. “A can of shaving cream and a bag of disposable razors. Plus several boxes of bandages. Razor nicks bleed all over the place.”
    Alex rolled his eyes. “I hope you’re fond of prickly stubble because you know it’s all going to start growing back in less than an hour. And it’ll probably itch. Did you remember to pack anti-itch cream?”
    Erik flashed me an anguished look. “My ancestors were part gorilla. Seriously. But at least they weren’t albino.” He lowered his gaze to Alex’s legs. “He looks like he’s descended from a family of popsicle sticks.”
    Erik Ishmael’s modeling days had probably ended a decade ago, but I could see why he’d been able to make his living in front of a camera. His face was sharply angled, as if the underlying bone were chiseled from granite, creating hollows and rises that a camera lens would have adored. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped, his hair long and purposefully tousled, his complexion a warm café au lait color that seemed a blend of every exotic ethnicity from Spain to the South Pacific. I didn’t know how many covers he’d posed for, but if women chose books for their covers alone, the ones featuring Erik Ishmael had probably sold a bazillion.
    “Why don’t you do what the Scots do?” I suggested, nodding toward a mannequin that boasted full Scottish regalia, from jacket and brooches, to hose and leather brogues. “Buy yourselves some knee-length socks. They even come with nifty little tassels. How cute is that?”
    They stared at me. They