Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) by Susan Fleet Read Free Book Online

stainless-steel refrigerator, dishwasher and stove. Her designer kitchen. Designed for a woman who wanted to stay home and cook all day.
    Ryan thought it was great. He thought her life should revolve around his weekend visits.
    Ten years into the marriage she couldn’t remember why she’d married him. Seemed like a good idea at the time? Whatever. In the beginning he doted on her, buying her expensive presents. But six months into the marriage the bloom left the rose. No more presents when Ryan came home from trips, just critical comments: You better go on a diet, Gina, you’re getting fat. And kinky sexual demands. Do this, do that .
    But she didn’t want to do this or that.
    She gulped some wine and tried not to think about what might happen later in bed. Two weeks after her first wedding anniversary, she’d met Franco. His intense dark eyes made her melt, and his bawdy sense of humor equaled hers. Simpatico from the start, they always had plenty to talk about, and the sex was great, even the first time. Franco didn’t roll over and fall asleep afterwards. She smiled, recalling that first night when she ran a finger over the scar on his chin and asked how he got it.
    “Did something stupid when I was six,” he’d said. “The kid next door dared me to ride down a big hill on my new bike no-hands. So I did. Split my chin open when my bike hit the curb and threw me over the handlebars. My mother had to take me to the emergency room.”
    She loved the story, especially his bashful confession. “It hurt like hell, but that wasn’t the worst part. The blood freaked me out. I thought I was gonna bleed to death.” Then he’d grinned and said, “So I choose a profession where I look at blood and gore almost every day. The weird thing is I can handle that, but even now if I cut myself shaving, part of me still freaks out.”
    She sipped her wine, imagining a newsflash on TV: American Airlines plane crashes in Texas. And instantly felt guilty.
    She didn’t want Ryan dead, she just wanted him out of her life. Maybe she’d leave him. She didn’t make big money like Ryan, but she didn’t need a house with a designer kitchen and a Jacuzzi in a bathroom bigger than most people’s bedrooms.
    “Gina! I can’t take these shirts to Austin. They’re wrinkled!” Louder now and insistent.
    “So take them in the laundry room and iron them,” she muttered.
    But as she mounted the stairs her stomach got that familiar tight-queasy feeling. Their bedroom had mirrors on two walls and a king-sized bed. Last year Ryan had bought a big-screen TV and made her watch porn videos with him in bed.
    When she entered the room, he looked at her accusingly.
    “Gina, I told you not to use Prentiss Cleaners. Look at this.” He held up a white dress shirt. Telltale wrinkles showed where it had been folded.
    “Hey, you’ve got plenty of money. Why don’t you just buy new ones and throw the dirty ones away?”
    Momentarily speechless, he glowered at her, six-three and muscular as a boxer from his daily workouts. Ryan stayed at expensive hotels with indoor swimming pools and gym facilities. Most women considered him attractive, carefully styled dark hair, curly locks falling over his forehead. Lately he’d begun to obsess about losing his hair. In fact, his hairline was receding. His features were ordinary. His wide-set blue eyes were his most attractive feature, when he wasn’t glaring at her.
    “Most wives want their husbands to look good when they go to work.”
    “Ryan, give it a rest. You’ve got ten designer suits in the walk-in closet, Armani suits that cost an arm and a leg for God’s sake. Who sees the shirts? They’re under the suit.”
    “Sometimes I like to take my jacket off. I’m not sitting in a board meeting with high-powered executives looking like a tramp in a wrinkled shirt.” He turned on the persuasive smile he used to cajole clients. “Come on, Gina, be a dear and touch them up for me.”
    A haze of anger