Murder Under the Italian Moon by Maria Grazia Swan Read Free Book Online Page B

Steve knew them. Her brother is in a mental institution. Sad case. We decided to postpone the trip. I drove home. He went to the office to fill out the transfer papers."
    "Transfer papers?"
    "The body—pardon me, the victim had to be taken to Tucson for the autopsy. How did we get on this subject?" He shook his head. "Let's go." He stood and helped me from my chair.
    Outside, a dark sky and a mild night set the tone. We paced, waiting for the skinny teenager to bring Larry's Mercedes around. I couldn't hear or see the ocean from Cannon's parking lot, but I breathed in the brine.
    Larry's profile was an interesting series of strong lines and precise angles. A strand of hair fell onto his forehead. I reached to brush it back but caught myself. He seemed familiar with the streets. I sensed he studied me from the corner of his eye as much as I studied him.
    The teen brought the car around.
    "Nice car."
    "Thanks."
    "New?"
    "Yes."
    How could he afford this kind of car on a detective's salary?
    "You're wondering how I could afford it."
    I nodded, heat rushing to my face as we got in.
    "I won the lottery."
    What? I couldn't see his eyes and his voice wasn't giving me any clue. Was he joking?
    I laughed. The tension was getting to me.
    "What's so funny?" He looked straight ahead.
    I searched for an intelligent reply but couldn't think of anything to say while the sound of my laughter filled the car.
    "Twice a week, every Saturday and Wednesday, someone wins the state lottery. Not always the grand prize, but there are other winners."
    "Larry, you don't look or act nouveau riche. It's as if you were born into it." When did he pull to the side of the road and stop the car?
    The way he looked at me had me gulping for air. Bathed in the amber glow of the dashboard, his eyes held on to mine. Without a word he reached across me and touched something on the car door. My seat hummed and began to recline. He leaned, pressing my shoulders against the soft leather of the seat, his lips on mine, his tongue probing my mouth. My head felt empty, as if a giant vacuum had sucked out my brain, and, with it, all my self-control. Through the light fabric of his shirt, the heat of his body warmed my breasts. And slowly, without logic, I relaxed, wanting more. He pulled me tighter against him, cupped my face with his free hand. His thumb stroked my neck, the tip of his tongue in my ear, circling, teasing.
    "Hmm." The sound escaped from the back of my throat. A whispery, husky response to his kiss. That was all I could get from my frozen brain while my body burned. My hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, holding on to him.
    The heart is an organ of fire. The line from Ondaatje's The English Patient crossed my mind. Blood coursed through my body, and we were as close to spontaneous combustion as humanly possible.
     "Lella," he whispered, his mouth close to the nape of my neck, his breath putting goose bumps all over my body. "Lella." A little louder. Only my name. How long had it been since a man spoke my name in thedarkness of a car ? I couldn't handle the intensity. I pushed him away. He resisted at first then relaxed back against his seat and tucked his shirt in. I lay there a moment staring up at him. I sighed and raised my seat up.
    The engine must have been idling the whole time, because he simply shifted gears and the car began to move.
    We drove in silence. A silence void of uneasiness. I've always been amazed by the different meanings of silence. It could be emotionally charged or empty silence—nothing to say. Angry silence—after a fight. Anyway, it was never just silence.
    My body quivered, still under the spell. He held the steering wheel with his left hand. His right one cupped my knee. What would happen next? Should I ask him in for a nightcap? Or kiss him good night before getting out of the car? This was idiotic. I had regressed into puberty. Because of a kiss? Well, not just any kiss. That kiss was a promise, a beginning. We