Cooking Most Deadly by Joanne Pence

took her dancing last night, and now he wants to mend fences. Why didn’t she just ditch the guy as he suggested? Well, the heck with him. If he couldn’t get her address straight, that was too damn bad.
    Then a wicked thought occurred to him. Why not hijack the flowers? Redirect them to his own apartment and never let Angie know Paavo had sent them. All’s fair in love and war, he reminded himself, feeling good about how clever he was.
    â€œShe lives right here, in Apartment 12…1202,” he said.
    â€œTwelve-oh-two,” the man repeated, his head still downturned as if bowing to Stan. “Thanks. I’ll take them up.”
    â€œI’m going up there,” Stan said. “I live across the hall, so I don’t mind saving you a trip. Anyway, she’s never home in the afternoon.”
    â€œOh…she’s not? Okay, then. Thanks, pal.” The man shoved the flowers at Stan and hurried away.
    By the time the elevator let Stan off on the twelfth floor, he was feeling a little guilty about what he’d done. Just a little.
    Â 
    Paavo knocked on Angie’s door. He had left work promptly at 4:30, almost unheard of for him, driven across town to shower and change, and made it to Angie’s place before their six o’clock date. The last thing he wanted was to be late.
    Last night, he’d phoned and phoned, not giving up until he reached her instead of her answering machine. She didn’t tell him where she’d been, which wasn’t like her at all. It made him feel strange. Suspicious. Where had she gone? With whom? But to show that he trusted her, he didn’t ask.
    Instead, he made a date with her for this evening, and he planned to keep it. Particularly if she was going to star in her own TV show. He wondered if he’d be able to compete with the type of men she’d meet. Or if she was already growing tired of him, and that’s why she’d been out so much lately and not saying where.
    That something about the two of them was troubling her was clear. Since she’d been so secretive recently, he couldn’t help but suspect she’d met someone new or was, at minimum, having second thoughts about their relationship.
    When he heard the doorknob turn, his pulse quickened. She opened the door.
    She wore a lace-trimmed, ivory-colored silk top and matching wide-legged pajama pants. The outfit was soft, expensive, and feminine—just like Angie. She smiled, and in a moment he held her in his arms and kissed her. Hegave the door a shove with his foot and listened for the click of the latch, not even wanting to turn away for the time it took to shut the door properly.
    â€œI missed you,” he said, all his earlier doubts foolishly vanishing in the glow of her smile. “But I don’t want to wrinkle your pretty new outfit.”
    â€œWrinkle it,” she ordered.
    His grin, he suspected, was too wide, too lopsided, and too out-and-out dopey, but that was how she made him feel. How easily she could get him to smile, even laugh, still surprised him. Before meeting her, he’d almost forgotten how.
    â€œWhere are we going to dinner?” he asked, still holding her.
    â€œ Chez Angelina.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe’re eating right here.”
    â€œHere? I didn’t want you to work. I wanted to take you out.”
    â€œYou expect me to give up a chance to keep you all to myself? No way!”
    His eyes crinkled into a mischievous glint as he took off his sport jacket and loosened his tie. “All right, Miss Amalfi,” he said. “If you want me to yourself that much, then you’ve got me.” He dropped his jacket on a chair and stepped toward her.
    She placed her hands against his shoulders, backing up. “Wait! When did you last eat?”
    He kept walking forward and she kept backing up until she backed into her Chippendale desk. He leaned forward and kissed her. “Who cares?” he