Death Du Jour

he took me by the hips, and pulled me to him. I could feel his hardness, and we kissed again.

After a while he disengaged, crooked his knee, and pressed his thigh between my legs. I felt an explosion in my loins and found it hard to breathe. Again Ryan put one hand below the T-shirt and slid it upward to my breast. He made circular movements with his palm, then ran his thumb across my nipple. I arched my back and moaned as the sensation obliterated the world around me. I lost all sense of time.

Moments or hours later his hand dropped, and I felt a tugging on my zipper. I buried my nose in his neck and knew one thing with certainty. Regardless of Harry, I wouldn’t say no.

Then the phone shrilled.

Ryan’s hands went to my ears and he kissed me hard on the mouth. I responded, clutching the hair at the back of his head, cursing Southern Bell. We ignored it through four rings.

When the answering machine clicked on the voice was soft and hard to hear, as though its owner were speaking from the end of a long tunnel. We both lunged, but it was too late.

Kathryn had hung up.

20

THERE WAS NO SALVAGING THE SITUATION AFTER KATHRYN’S CALL. While Ryan was up for giving it a go, rational thought had returned and I was not in a good mood. Not only had I missed the opportunity to talk with Kathryn but I knew I’d have to live with Detective Dick’s new sense of sexual prowess. While the orgasm was overdue and would certainly have been welcome, I suspected the cost was already too high.

I hustled Ryan out and fell into bed, ignoring teeth and my nightly routine. My last image before drifting off came to me from the seventh grade: Sister Luke lecturing on the wages of sin. I supposed my romp with Ryan would goose these wages well above minimum.

I woke to sunshine and the cry of gulls, and an immediate flashback to my roll on the couch. I cringed and covered my face with both hands, feeling like a teen who’d given it up in a Pontiac.

Brennan, what were you thinking?

That was not the issue. The problem lay in what I’d been thinking with. Edna St. Vincent Millay had written a poem about that. What was it called? “I Being Born a Woman and Distressed.”

Sam called at eight to say the Murtry case was going nowhere. No one had seen anything unusual. No strange boats had been spotted approaching or leaving the island in the past few weeks. He wanted to know if I’d heard from Hardaway.

I told him I hadn’t. He said he was going to Raleigh for a few days and wanted to be sure I was taken care of.

Oh, yeah.

He explained how to close up the boat and where to leave the key, and we said good-bye.

I was scraping pizza into the garbage when I heard a knock at the port entrance. I had a feeling who was there and ignored it. The banging continued, relentless as a National Public Radio fund drive, and after a while I couldn’t take it. I raised the blinds to see Ryan standing exactly where he’d been the night before.

“Good morning.” He held out a bag of doughnuts.

“Expanding into food delivery?” I lowered the screen. One innuendo and I knew I’d rip his throat out.

He climbed in, grinned, and offered high-calorie, low-food-value treats. “They go well with coffee.”

I went to the galley, poured two cups, and added milk to mine.

“It’s a beautiful day out there.” He reached for the milk carton.

“Mm.”

I helped myself to a chocolate-glazed and leaned against the sink. I had no intention of resettling on the couch.

“I’ve already spoken to Baker,” said Ryan.

I waited.

“He’ll meet with us at three.”

“I’ll be on the road at three.” I reached for another doughnut.

“I think we should make another social call,” said Ryan.

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can get Kathryn alone.”

“That seems to be your specialty.”

“Are you going to keep this up all day?”

“I’ll probably sing when I’m on the road.”

“I didn’t come out here intending to seduce you.”

That piqued me even more.

“You mean I’m not in my sister’s league?”

“What?”