Love Can Be Murder

her back. She allowed him to direct her hand, but suddenly the act of inserting the key took on a sensual connotation. He seemed to hesitate over the opening, waiting for her to complete the task. But when she pushed the key forward, he put his weight behind it and sent the key home. Desire whipped through her body, heightened by the tendrils of uncertainty where B.J. was concerned. Perhaps the man didn't mean her danger intentionally; perhaps she was only picking up on the transient vibes the man exuded.
    Besides, she'd been willing to spend the night with him within hours of knowing him, hadn't she? Why the hesitation now—because she knew him better?
    The door swung open, and the lamp she'd left burning in the living room was still going strong. She stepped inside, both relieved and vexed to be away from him. Then a new panic set in—what were they going to do until bedtime?
    "Do you mind if I get my laptop from my car?" B.J. asked.
    "No," she said, immensely relieved.
    He left, then returned a few minutes later. He settled in at the dining room table, dwarfing the furniture. "Don't feel like you have to entertain me," he said. "Do whatever you normally do."
    Penny flushed and glanced around her apartment. How embarrassing for a stranger to see how little she truly had going on in her life. She could read a magazine, or watch television, but neither seemed particularly appealing. "Actually, I'm hungry. Can I fix you something to eat?"
    His head popped up. "Don't go to any trouble."
    A smiled curved her mouth—he was hungry, too.
    And perhaps if she was able to satisfy one appetite, the other wouldn't get out of control. She went to the tiny kitchen, and while he typed on the keyboard, she prepared a spinach and arugula salad with garbanzo beans, sprouts, and flax seed, served with whole wheat rolls and, just for B.J., a side of soft tofu drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil.
    "Soup's on," she said, setting their plates on the table around the laptop.
    He was absorbed in something on the screen as he scribbled notes on the back of one of his missing persons flyers. He looked up and studied the salad and gelatinous tofu gingerly. "Where's the soup?"
    "Figure of speech," she said, suddenly enjoying herself. "I thought this would be a perfect opportunity for you to try tofu."
    One side of his mouth slid back. "If you wanted me to leave, all you had to do was say so."
    "Just try it," she said with a laugh. "What would you like to drink?"
    "Strong coffee or beer, if you have it."
    "How about green tea or water?"
    His mouth twitched downward. "I'll have water, thanks."
    She poured a glass of filtered water for him and one for herself, then sat at the table and spread a napkin on her lap. B.J. followed suit, still wary of the food on his plate.
    Penny cut into her tofu, to set a good example. "What are you working on?" she asked, nodding to the screen.
    "Researching dimethyl sulfoxide. The chemical has, shall we say, a checkered past." He put a forkful of the tofu in his mouth, then stopped, grimaced, and swallowed.
    "It grows on you," she said encouragingly.
    "I'll bet this stuff would grow on just about anything," he said, turning to the salad.
    She bit back a smile. "So what did you learn about the chemical?"
    "It's a by-product of wood pulp, used commercially in paint thinner and antifreeze."
    She made a face. "I thought the man in the square said it was used to preserve body organs."
    He nodded. "The medical grade of the substance was used for organ transplant preservation in the 1960s, but there were side effects, and the close kinship of the chemical to harsher commercial grades made it suspect. Apparently the cheap and potentially harmful grades were popping up at roadside stands and general stores." He grimaced. "I imagine it tasted like this tofu."
    She laughed. "But it's good for you."
    "What is it exactly?"
    "It's made from soybean milk."
    He scratched his temple. "I didn't realize soybeans had nipples."
    She burst out laughing; he was so male.
    "But," he said, taking another bite, "I'm always willing to try something new. The salad is good," he added. "It's probably the most healthful thing I've had to eat in my entire life. Thank you."
    "You're welcome," she murmured, struck once again by his easygoing manner. B.J. Beaumont probably had a woman in every town in Louisiana. She averted her gaze to her plate. "So, this chemical isn't used in the medical field anymore?"
    "Not widely. But the commercial