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

guilty, she snuggled into her pillow with a contented sigh. Nigel was a wonderful lover.
    After last night’s concert she’d come straight home to her North End apartment, glowing from the compliments she’d gotten for her solo. Nigel had made his obligatory stop at his hotel and hadn’t arrived until midnight. As her busybody Italian landlady no doubt noticed. The nosy old bat sat by the window in her first-floor apartment every night, checking up on her.
    She sat up as Nigel entered the room, slim and trim, a white bath towel wrapped around his waist. He said conducting kept him fit. Damp curlicues of ginger-brown hair swirled over his chest. He didn’t look forty-one, she decided, even if he did have a bald spot on top.
    He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “That was a lovely farewell nudge this morning.”
    She giggled. “Nudge? Is that the Brit word for it?”
    His face lit up in a smile, displaying even, white teeth. He’d had the front ones capped when he was living in Hollywood with his wife, ex-wife now.
    “No, but it suits us.” He took his suitcase out of her closet and set it atop the rumpled bed. “Okay to leave my suitcase here till next Sunday? Baggage claim is a bloody nuisance.”
    “Sure,” she said, smiling mischievously. “Then you’ll be sure to hurry back and see me.”
    “No doubt about that, luv. The Rhapsody is a great showpiece for you. Your solo was superb.”
    “Think it’ll land me the second clarinet chair with the BSO?”
    “Should do. You deserve it.”
    “But three hundred clarinet players will show up for the audition. What if they pick somebody else?”
    “I thought you liked freelancing.”
    “Nigel, I’m thirty-three. I’m sick of living in the North End and paying rent. I want to buy a condo.”
    “And I’m sick of traveling. This Iowa gig Hale booked is absurd. Rehearse all week, do four performances of Music Man and fly back for next Sunday’s Pops concert.”
    “Why did you take it?”
    He opened his suitcase, frowning, then flashed her a grin. “It’s not Music Man I’m worried about, it’s the bloody Gershwin. Conducting Rhapsody in Blue and Concerto in F from the keyboard is no cake walk.”
    “No kidding. I don’t know how you do it.”
    He shrugged. “I’ve done it before, but not in Boston. That’s why they hired me. Why pony up big bucks for a soloist when they can pay me ten percent more and get a soloist and a conductor.”
    “Have you conducted Music Man before?”
    “No, but Hale sent me the score. Piece of cake. But I hate these bloody road trips. If I got the Pops job, I’d be in Boston with you.” He shrugged. “Time will tell. Should know in a couple of weeks.”
    He took a stack of clean underwear and socks out of the suitcase. “I’ll sling these in my suit bag, but I need something to take them to the hotel.”
    “Use that.” She pointed to a shopping bag with a Lord & Taylor logo beside her bureau. “Can you start the coffee while I take a quick shower?”
    He kissed her forehead. “Will do.”
    She got in the shower, luxuriating in the steamy spray. The building was old and sometimes when other people took showers, the water pressure in her second-floor apartment slowed to a trickle. But not now.
    When she emerged, ringlets of damp, dark hair curled around her face. She put on her glasses and stepped on the scales: 140 pounds. She wished she were tall and slim like her sister, but she had inherited her father’s stocky build. Nigel didn’t seem to mind though.
    She put on a bathrobe and went out to the kitchen, a tiny alcove with a stove, refrigerator and a sink. The only counter space, a Formica-topped breakfast bar, separated the alcove from the living room. Dressed in gray-tweed slacks and a blue shirt, Nigel stood at the stove pouring coffee into two mugs. The first time he stayed over, she had offered him tea for breakfast. Didn’t all Englishmen drink tea? But he’d said, “Never touch the stuff.