Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

presence though I stood ten, fifteen feet away. As with most creative people, time and space have no meaning for her when her mind's engaged.
     
    I came closer, stopped at the far end of the bench. Mahogany eyes widened, she placed the chisel on the workbench and the ivory flash of those two oversize incisors appeared between full, soft lips. I smiled back and held out a cup, enjoying the contours of her face, heart-shaped, olive-tinted, decorated by a few more lines than ages ago when we'd met, but still smooth. Usually, she wore earrings. Not this morning. No watch, no jewelry or makeup. She'd rushed out too quickly to bother.
     
    I felt a nudge at my ankle, heard a wheeze and a snort. Spike grumbled and butted my shin. We'd both adopted him, but he'd adopted her.
     
    "Call off your beast," I said.
     
    Robin laughed and took the coffee. "Thanks, baby." She touched my face. Spike growled louder. She told him, "Don't worry, you're still my handsome."
     
    Setting the cup down, she wrapped both her arms around my neck. Spike produced a poor excuse for a bark, raspy and attenuated by his stubby bulldog larynx.
     
    "Oh, Spikey," she told him, snaring her fingers in my hair.
     
    "If you stop to pet him," I said, " I'll start snorting."
     
    "Stop what?"
     
    "This." I kissed her, ran my hands over her back, down to her rear, then up again, grazing her shoulder blades. Starting at the top and kneading the knobs of her spine.
     
    "Oh that's good. I'm a little sore."
     
    "Bad posture," I said. "Not that I'd ever preach."
     
    "No, nothing like that."
     
    We kissed again, more deeply. She relaxed, allowing her body— all 110 pounds of it— to depend upon mine. I felt the warmth of her breath at my ear as I undid the straps of her overalls. The denim fell to her waist but no farther, blocked by the rim of the workbench. I stroked her left arm, luxuriating in the feel of firm muscle under soft skin. Slipping my fingers under her T-shirt, I aimed for the spot that tended to pain her— two spots, really, a pair of knots just above her gluteal cleft. Robin's by no means skeletal; she's a curvy woman, blessed with hips and thighs and breasts and that sheath of body fat that is so wonderfully female. But a small frame meant a back narrow enough for one of my hands to cover both tendernesses simultaneously.
     
    She arched toward me. "Oh . . . you're bad."
     
    "Thought it felt good."
     
    "That's why you're bad. I should be working."
     
    "I should be, too." I took her chin in one hand. Reached down with my other hand and cupped her bottom. No jewelry or makeup, but she had taken the time for perfume, and the fragrance radiated at the juncture of jawline and jugular.
     
    Back to the sore spots.
     
    "Fine, go ahead," she whispered. "Now that you've corrupted me and I'm completely distracted." Her fingers fumbled at my zipper.
     
    "Corruption?" I said. "This is nothing."
     
    I touched her. She moaned. Spike went nuts.
     
    She said, "I feel like an abusive parent." Then she put him outside.
     
    • • •
     
    When we finished, the coffee was long cold but we drank it anyway. The red scarf was on the floor and the wood shavings were no longer in a neat pile. I was sitting in an old leather chair, naked, with Robin on my lap. Still breathing hard, still wanting to kiss her. Finally, she pulled away, stood, got dressed, returned to the guitar top. A private-joke smile graced her lips.
     
    "What?"
     
    "We moved around a bit. Just want to make sure we didn't get anything on my masterpiece."
     
    "Like what?"
     
    "Like sweat."
     
    "Maybe that would be a good thing," I said. "Truly organic luthiery."
     
    "Orgasmic luthiery."
     
    "That, too." I got up and stood behind her, smelling her hair. "I love you."
     
    "Love you, too." She laughed. "You are such a guy. "
     
    "Is that a compliment?"
     
    "Depends on my mood. At this moment, it's a whimsical observation. Every time we make love you tell me you love me."
     
    "That's