“Good word for it. Sludging. We’re sludging, and the killer is laughing — but hell, I’m a bright guy. I can translate Latin platitudes into English! That’s worth something. Isn’t it?”
I was laughing with Rich as he joked himself out of his blue mood when I saw a black sedan crawling slowly up the street in search of a parking spot. It was Joe.
“Oh, look. Stay and meet Joe,” I said. “He’s heard a lot about you.”
“Nah, not tonight, Linds,” said Rich, standing up, grinding out the butt of his cigarette on the pavement. “Maybe some other time. See you in the morning.”
Joe’s car stopped.
Richie’s car pulled out of the spot.
Then Joe’s car pulled in.
Chapter 48
“YOU EVER USE THIS THING?” Joe was asking me about the stove.
“Sure I do.”
“Uh-huh? So what’s this?”
He pulled a user’s manual and some Styrofoam packing out of the oven.
“I use the stove top,” I said.
He shook his head, laughed at me, asked if I could open the wine and start the salad. I said I thought I could handle that. I uncorked the chardonnay, tore a head of romaine into a pretty blown-glass bowl Joe had given me, and sliced up a tomato. I reached around Joe for the olive oil and spices, patted his cute behind. Then I settled onto a stool near the counter, kicked off my shoes.
I sipped my wine and with a Phil Collins CD playing in the background, listened to Joe talk about three accounts he’d landed for his new disaster-preparedness consultancy and his upcoming meeting with the governor. Joe was happy. And I was glad that he was using his modern, larger, fancier apartment as his office — and making himself at home right here.
And my apartment was a darned cute place, I have to say. My four cluttered but cozy rooms are on the third floor of a nice old Victorian town house, and there’s a deck off the living room where the sun sets on my sliver view of the bay. It was becoming our sliver view of the bay.
I topped up Joe’s wineglass, watched him stuff a couple of tilapias with crabmeat and slide the pan into the oven. He washed his hands and turned his handsome self to me.
“The fish will be ready in about forty-five minutes. Want to go outside and catch the last rays?”
“Not really,” I said.
I put down my glass, hooked my leg around Joe’s waist, and pulled him to me, grinning as I saw my better idea flash into Joe’s blue eyes. He drew me closer, slid me off the stool, and gathered me up, cupping my butt and grunting theatrically as he carried me down the hallway, saying, “You’re a load, Blondie.”
I laughed, bit his earlobe, said, “You didn’t think 130 was a load when you were younger.”
“Like I said. Light as a feather.”
He dropped me softly onto the bed, crawled in next to me, took my face in his big hands, and gave me a kiss that made me groan. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and Joe did the almost impossible, pulled off his shirt and kissed me at the same time, tugged off my pants, and also somehow managed to kick the door shut to keep Martha out of our private moments.
“You’re amazing,” I said, laughing.
“You haven’t seen anything, yet, baby doll,” my lover growled.
Soon we were both naked, our skin hot and slick, limbs completely wrapped around each other. But as we grappled together, making the delicious climb to ecstasy, an image of another man came winging into my mind.
I fought it hard, because I didn’t want him there.
That man was Richie.
Part Three
HOME COOKING