Without a moment’s hesitation, she jabbed the fork into the cake and then shoved her piece of cake, container and all, across the table and into the wastebasket.
Stunned for half a second, Derek stared at her, then burst out laughing. My God, she had no idea that her biggest weakness, the crutch she relied on every day of her life, was being a major control freak.
When they returned from a moonlight stroll on the beach, they found a gift basket waiting for them outside their suite. Errol lifted the basket while Cyrene opened the attached card.
“It just says Happy Honeymoon.” Eyeing the bottle of wine, the box of gourmet Swiss chocolates, the luscious in-season fruit and a sampling of imported cheeses, Cyrene moaned with anticipation. “I can’t think of anything better than a glass of wine before bedtime.”
Hoisting the gift basket so that he could hold it with one hand, Errol reached out and unlocked the door to their suite. As his bride slipped past him, he whispered, “I can think of something better than wine.”
Understanding the implication of his comment, she giggled and began undressing the moment he closed the door behind them and dumped the basket on the table in the entryway. Taking his cue from Cyrene, he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the floor. By the time he loosened his belt, she had already stripped down to her panties.
He couldn’t get out of his slacks and briefs quickly enough, but for a full sixty seconds, he stood and watched—totally spellbound—as his wife slowly, provocatively slid her bikini panties down, down, down, and off. His heart beat wildly. His penis hardened.
When he reached for Cyrene, she evaded his grasp. Instead, she raced over to the bed, the covers already turned down by maid service, and placed herself in the center. She arched her back, the action thrusting her breasts up and inviting him to touch and taste and enjoy. Errol kicked his briefs aside and moved toward the bed, never taking his eyes off the long, slender naked body of the woman he loved.
He straddled her hips and positioned himself over her. She lifted her arms up and around his neck, pulling him down until it was flesh against flesh. His penis probed for entry. She opened her thighs, lifted her hips and took him inside her body.
“Oh God, baby, you feel so good,” he told her, his voice a husky moan.
“I love having you inside me,” she said and then kissed him.
They made love for the fourth time that day and yet were as hungry for each other as they had been that morning. Errol wondered if he would ever get enough of Cyrene. Probably not. Even when they were old and gray, he would still want her, still love her, still be grateful that she had agreed to be his wife.
An hour later, shortly after midnight, they emerged from the bathroom where they had showered together. Errol belted his white robe and walked over to the entryway table while Cyrene slipped into a red lace teddy and sat on the edge of the bed to towel dry her curly hair.
He picked up the gift basket. “Want some wine now, Mrs. Patterson?”
“Wine would be lovely, Mr. Patterson.” She glanced at the bedside clock. “We can toast to another glorious day of married life. It’s after midnight, so if it’s already tomorrow that means I’ve been Mrs. Errol Patterson for eleven days.”
Errol removed the huge red bow and the clear cellophane wrapping from the gift basket, lifted the wine bottle and inspected it. “Hey, this is some of the good stuff. There’s no twist-off cap.” He chuckled.
“Only the best for us,” she teased.
“I’ve got the best.” He winked at her.
“Want me to get the glasses?”
“No need,” he told her as he transferred the bottle to his left hand and retrieved the two long-stemmed wine glasses from the basket. “Want some chocolate or cheese or—?”
“I want it all,” she admitted, “but I’ll be a good girl and limit myself to one glass of wine.”
He brought the bottle and glasses over to the bed. She took the glasses from him and held them while he rummaged in the nightstand drawer for the corkscrew that he had left there after opening the bottle of champagne the hotel had included in their “Welcome” package the day they arrived. After uncorking the wine, he poured each glass half full before placing the bottle on the nightstand.
He took one of the glasses from Cyrene. “Here’s to our being this deliriously happy for the rest of our lives.”
She clicked her glass to his, said, “Amen to that,” and lifted the glass to her lips.
After he dimmed the lights, leaving the room bathed in moonlight, they sat in bed together, talking, laughing, sipping the wine, and making plans for their return to Tennessee. He knew that Cyrene was eager to decorate their new house in Farragut, a small town not far from Powell Agency headquarters in Knoxville. They discussed how lucky she was that there had been a teaching position open at a local elementary school. With school starting in early August, she would have about five weeks to put their new house in order.
Errol yawned. “Man, I’m getting sleepy. Must be the mixture of great sex and good wine.” He removed the white terrycloth robe and flung it to the foot of the bed.
Cyrene sighed and nodded. “Must be. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
Errol switched off the bedside lamp and then leaned over, kissed her, ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip and stilled instantly. The last thing Cyrene remembered was the sound of her husband snoring.
He had waited patiently. The lights in the luxury villa suite had dimmed over an hour ago, but he hadn’t rushed in immediately. The odds were that Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had been sound asleep for most if not all of that hour, while he had been waiting and watching. But it was better to be certain.
Errol Patterson never left his wife’s side. The two had been inseparable since they arrived in the Bahamas. He really didn’t want to kill them both. Doing so would have meant deviating from the plan. The Carver had never murdered a couple.
His solution to that problem had been to send them a gift basket that included a bottle of expensive “doctored” wine.
He approached the French doors that opened onto the villa’s private patio and pool. He stopped, listened, and peered through the doors into the darkened bedroom. Moonlight cast a glimmering path across the floor to the bed. After removing the small, carbide steel-bladed glass cutter from his inside pocket, he worked several minutes to make a precise round incision near the door handle. Once that was done, he pushed gently on the circle until it fell inward and hit the tile floor with a tinkling crash. He returned the cutter to his pocket. Without hesitation, he reached through the opening and unlocked the door from the inside.
He eased open the door, slipped into the room and managed to avoid stepping on the broken glass. Pausing to allow his eyesight to adjust to the darkness, he heard a mixture of sounds. Snoring. Deep breathing. The ocean waves hitting the nearby beach. The hum of distant music, no doubt coming from the resort’s patio lounge that stayed open until 2:00 AM.
He walked over to the bed. Two bodies. One male. One female. Both deep in sleep. Sufficiently drugged.
He smiled.
The sheet rested at the woman’s waist. Her breasts strained against the sheer lace material of her teddy. He was tempted to touch her, but he didn’t.
The kill would take only seconds, the death less than two minutes. But moving the body would require more time.
He reached inside his jacket pocket and removed the new scalpel, the fifth in a package of ten. Drawing closer to the edge of the bed, he studied the man’s head and neck before choosing the exact spot—the jugular vein. With one quick, precise move, he jabbed the scalpel blade through the flesh and into the vein beneath. Blood gushed. He slid the blade down and across, slicing through the carotid arteries on both sides. He watched the life drain out of Errol Patterson’s body.
Errol Patterson was a rather large man, probably six feet tall and weighing in at around one-ninety. But he could handle Patterson. He had maneuvered larger bodies.
