The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington Read Free Book Online Page B

compensate for it by wearing rather conservative clothes—no super minis, no sky-high platforms, no XS sweaters. After all, I
was
in the taste business, although I’ve been known to tell my clients that style begins where the rules end, at least as far as interior design is concerned. But I digress.
    From Fifth Avenue we headed north on the Tamiami Trail, past the street leading to the Naples Beach Hotel, then past the Community Hospital and through two stop lights until we reached a set of stone markers that read Calista Sands. Rossi turned in between the markers and drove slowly along a lush, curvy street lined on either side with gracious, low-roofed houses of a comfortable but not ostentatious size.
    Quietly residential yet near enough to Fifth Avenue and Old Naples to be centrally located, Calista Sands was one of the neighborhoods in town I most admired. Too bad I couldn’t afford to live there.
    In fact, driving by one well-groomed property after the other, with their manicured lawns that even in the torrid midsummer heat were as green as if it were early May, I was drooling mentally.
    “Look at that one, Rossi,” I said, pointing to a house I especially liked. “And that one. It’s beautiful in here.”
    “I know,” he said, taking his attention from the road for a second to glance across the front seat and treat me to a big, white Chiclets grin.
    He was happy about something. That much was plain. But
what?
    Rossi never drove fast, always five miles under the speed limit, never five miles over it. Tonight he was outdoing himself, driving the Maserati as slowly as if it were a sightseeing bus loaded with tourists. For some reason, he didn’t want me to miss a thing.
    We kept heading west, toward the setting sun, or more precisely, toward a wide finger of water, an inlet that marked the end of Calista Sands and the beginning of the Gulf of Mexico. At an empty waterfront lot covered with stubbly sawgrass and sprouting a For Sale sign, he stopped and turned off the motor.
    “What do you think?” he asked, turning to me. “Do you like it?”
    Though a light bulb had popped on in my head, I said, “Like what?”
    “The lot. It’s empty.”
    “I can see that.”
    A frown replaced his grin. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
    “Rossi.” I took his hand in mine. “Are you saying you want to buy this lot?”
    “Yes.”
    “And build a house on it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Am I in the picture?”
    “Triple yes. You’re the reason I’ve been looking.”
    “You
have?
I didn’t know that.”
    “The surprise,” he said.
    “Oh. Right. How long?”
    “Three hundred feet deep by one fifty wide.”
    “No, I mean how long have you been looking for land?”
    “Since the day you proposed.” The grin was back.
    I had to smile, remembering how the duvet cover had slipped and... “I
did
propose to you, didn’t I?”
    “Positively, and I accepted. So don’t try to wiggle out of anything.” His grip on my hand tightened. “You’re mine, and I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day we met. I think it was those little green shorts you had on that did it. And your sorrow over losing Jack. I knew in that moment you were a woman for a lifetime and...” his voice faltered, “...I’ve never told you this, but I envied Jack that day. And there’s something else, too...I was grateful to him for dying and leaving you free for me.” He let go of my hand and stared into my eyes as if he could still look but had lost the right to touch. “Do you hate me for that?”
    Tears sprang into my eyes. I swiped at them with the back of my hand. “No. Never. I love you for your honesty.” And I did. Life had taken Jack, my first love, but had given me a second chance at happiness. I’d be a fool to let it slip away. I retook Rossi’s hand and squeezed hard, letting my fingers tell him what I was too soggy to say. We spent the next several minutes acting like teenagers in love before he said, “Shall we get out