One for the Money (Stephanie Plum, #1)

by Janet Evanovich

There are some men who enter a woman’s life and screw it up forever. Joseph Morelli did this to me—not forever, but periodically.

The clock on the dash told me I was seven minutes late, and the urge to scream told me I was home.

The way I see it, living in New Jersey is a challenge, what with the toxic waste and the eighteen-wheelers and the armed schizophrenics. I mean, what’s one more lunatic shooting at you?”

“Listen,” I said, following him down the stairs. “I may be new at this apprehension stuff, but I’m not stupid, and I’m not a quitter. I told Vinnie I’d bring you in and that’s exactly what I intend to do. You can run if you want, but I’ll track you down and find you, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to apprehend you.” What a load of bull! I couldn’t believe I was saying it. I’d been lucky to find him this first time, and the only way I was ever going to apprehend him was if I stumbled upon him already bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious. Even then, I wasn’t sure how far I could drag him.

“I like the way you’ve let your hair go curly,” he finally said. “Suits your personality. Lots of energy, not much control, sexy as hell.” “You know nothing about my personality.” “I know about the sexy as hell part.” I felt my face burn. “Tactless of you to remind me.”

Not surprising. I’d roared down the street not once, but twice. My muffler had fallen off first thing this morning, and my engine noise had rumbled off the Stark Street brick storefronts. This wasn’t what you’d call an undercover operation.

“Get off my case. You want a career in law enforcement? Fine. Go for it. Just don’t learn on me. I have enough problems without worrying about saving your ass.” “No one asked you to save my ass. I would have saved my own ass if you hadn’t interfered.” “Honey, you couldn’t find your ass with both hands.”

In my opinion, the only good spider is a dead spider, and women’s rights aren’t worth dick if they mean I can’t ask a man to do my bug squashing.

I wasn’t much good with a gun, but I was bitchin’ with an aerosol can.

Burg Catholicism was a convenient religion. When the mind boggled, there was always God, waiting in the wings to take the rap.

I had an alarm, I had nerve gas, I had a yogurt. What more could anyone want?

quality. I wasn’t sure exactly how prostitutes determined price, but if men bought hookers by the pound, these two would be doing okay.