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Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. “I want two words—with Miss Pellissier alone,” Hill pleaded. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover.
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