Dead Man's Bones by Susan Wittig Albert Read Free Book Online Page A

Work, however exciting, is not the only wonderful thing in the world.
    All that did not make me want to criticize her, though, and especially not to McQuaid. I rinsed my mouth. “Maybe she just doesn’t think it’s the right thing to do.”
    The shower came back on, and McQuaid ran his hands through his hair, vigorously. I could see the shape of his lean body through the translucent glass of the shower door, and the sight of it made me shiver. We’ve been lovers for a long time, but that hasn’t diminished the pleasure I take from his touch or staled the excitement of his body against mine. I can never get enough of him.
    “If that’s it,” he went on, beginning to soap himself, “Sheila oughta tell him so, and stop all this mealymouthed monkey business. How the hell is Blackie supposed to make plans for the future if she keeps stringing him along?”
    McQuaid was speaking out of his own needs. He’s the kind of person who likes to look for answers, likes to make plans, likes to organize the future, likes to leave nothing to chance. He’s good-looking, in a craggy sort of way: dark hair, dark brows, steely blue eyes, a broken nose earned when he threw for extra yardage against Texas A & M on Turkey Day, a zigzag scar across his forehead, relic of a fight with a doper in a parking lot at the Astrodome. But it isn’t just McQuaid’s looks that you notice when you meet him. It’s his commanding presence, his self-confidence, his boldness, his personal authority. He always knows what he wants, what it will cost, and how to go for it. And he has a nice tight butt.
    I could smell the erotic fragrance of ylang-ylang and sandalwood, rising in the steam. I had already taken my shower, but I let my robe slide off my shoulders and slid back the glass door.
    “I can see Blackie’s side of it, too,” I said, stepping into the shower. “You’re right. It isn’t fair. Maybe calling it off is the best thing to do. For both of them.”
    McQuaid looked down at me, smiling. “Hey,” he said. His eyes lightened with pleasure in a way that gives me goose bumps. “You’re naked. Naked wife.”
    “Naked husband.” I put my arms around him. He was slippery with soap, and I moved my hands over his back, his shoulders. The warm water ran over both of us.
    “Mmmm,” I murmured, licking a trail of scented suds from his shoulder. “You taste good. Smell good, too.”
    His voice was husky. “You know where this leads, don’t you?”
    I feigned innocence, about as successfully as Jack the Ripper. “No, where?”
    He chuckled. “Wild, unruly, uncontrollable sex .” He brought his head down and kissed me, hard, his fingers kneading my neck, my shoulders. I arched against him, loving the feel of his hands, his chest, his narrow hips, his thighs, feeling our hearts beginning to pound together.
    “Show me,” I said.
    “You don’t have to ask twice,” he said, reaching over to shut off the water.
     
LATER, when we were lying together among the damp, tumbled sheets, he went back to the previous subject.
    “About Blackie and Sheila,” he said. He kissed the tip of my nose. “I guess I just wish they had some of what we’ve got. Remember that Kenny Rogers’ song? ‘I feel sorry for anyone who isn’t me tonight.’”
    “I remember,” I said, and ran the tip of my finger across his dark eyebrow. “Me, too.”

Chapter Four
    Pumpkins aren’t just for Halloween jack-o’-lanterns or pumpkin pie. In central America, the seeds ( pepitas ) of this native American herb were used to cool fevers, treat kidney and bladder ailments, and purge intestinal parasites. And recently, scientists have begun to investigate the use of pumpkin seed oil as a treatment for osteoarthritis, or degenerative joint disease. In osteoarthritis, the cartilege breaks down, causing the bones to rub together. Animal studies suggest that adding pumpkin seed to the diet may be as effective in reducing joint inflammation as the use of nonsteroidal