long before I inserted my key into the lock of my front door. I couldn’t be more exhausted if I’d run a marathon. In a way I had, I guess—a mental marathon, anyway. My heart literally ached from the rapid beating it had been forced to drum during our desert adventure. And my scraped knee throbbed its annoyance at the horrid mistreatment it had suffered under my watch. It was funny. James Bond never came home sore and exhausted. He’d go on high adventures—espionage, chase scenes, gun fights—much more strenuous than mine and still have plenty of energy to pleasure a Bond girl the same night. He must have had better gym habits than I did. I tiptoed into the living room, assuming Lulu would be sound asleep on the couch. At least I hadn’t come home to another wild party; tonight I wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to deal with San Diego’s pierced and tattooed. But Lulu wasn’t lying on the couch.
