A Tidbit from Fio's Minnesota Story

Half an hour later, she was ready to head out the door. 

“I should be back about five,” Sigrid announcedd, stopping in front of the couch, which seemed to have become Mik’s office, to strike a pose with her hand on her hip.  Let him see what she’d made of herself—she looked damned good and she knew it. The dark wool Michael Kors mini-skirt set off the simple white silk shirt perfectly, and the short, fitted, rust-colored suede jacket from Peter Jensen provided just the right finishing touch. 

Rechecking one of her gold coin earrings to be sure it was secure, she allowed a slight, sneering smile to cross her face.  “Have fun in Elk River.” 

Mik’s eyebrows went up as he checked her out, which should have reassured her, but actually made her a little nervous. He rubbed his chin for a second, then stood up. 

Sigrid tensed as he walked around her like Tim Gunn critiquing a fashion design, but she refused to give ground.

That damn eyebrow of his went up. “Hmmm.  Let’s see—the cleavage would give a saint wet dreams, and those suede boots are an open invitation to kinky sex.  Are you—uh--meeting someone special for lunch?”

Sigrid felt her jaw tighten as she strove for self-control.  It was a wonder she hadn’t ground her teeth down to nubbins of their former selves since she’d brought Mik home.

“Don’t start anything, Mik.  We’re not married anymore.  I have a right to have male friends, and this one happens to be an assistant district attorney.” 

Let him chew on that.

He grinned and counted on his fingers.  “Let’s see, there’s Mr. Armani, and there’s an assistant district attorney . . . .”  He stared at his erect fingers, then gave her a knowing look.  “A male harem, babe, or just a ménage a trois?”

Somehow, she managed to keep her voice down to a well-modulated snarl.  “Just remember, Mik, I can still kick your ass out of here.”

His hand fell and his face became deadly serious.  “Not unless you want to lose the story.  Not unless you want to find yourself portrayed as a very unpleasant, very identifiable character in my next novel.”

Too furious to reply, she grabbed her purse and headed toward the door, all the time wondering if women could actually be convicted for killing ex-husbands.  Surely not.  Any decent judge would consider it to be merely a moment of temporary sanity.

Mik followed her into the foyer with one last gibe.