I wheeled the Cad off the street and stopped by the sign, “Gordon’s Tropical Fish.” This was Sunday, and the whole clientele of “Sheldon Scott, Investigations”—that’s me—was taking a much-needed day of rest. I cut the engine and turned in the seat to look, for the umpteenth time, at Donna.
Donna was Donna O’Reilly of the shimmering black hair and soft, tender mouth, and eyes green as the sod of her native Ireland. Donna was five-three of sweetly curving temptation, a breath of brogue, and full of cute little tricks like laughing warmly into your ear while biting on it.
That last sensational sensation I had experienced only a couple of times, since I’d met Donna less than eighteen hours ago when I’d made the date for today, but I had stratospheric hopes because we were miles out of Los An
