Sunday, August 02, 2009
“You told me to pinch you.”
Kay Diggs rolled over in bed and went nose to nose with her husband. “I’m not dreaming, am I?” She giggled. “I really pulled it off this time, didn’t I?”
“You did. And probably broke the record for advances on a first book.”
Kay flung herself onto her back and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of another rush of adrenaline that made her tingle from head to toe.
Once the exhilarating sensation settled down, she flipped back toward her husband. “Just how many zeroes are behind that five?”
Bill Diggs’ answer was an amused chuckle. Then he wrapped his powerful arms around his wife and eased her close to him.
They cuddled and kissed for the next thirty seconds before the alarm clock buzzed and Bill reached over to the night stand and tapped the button to shut off the annoying sound.
“We can play hooky today,” Kay suggested.
Sky blue eyes looked down into darker ones. “You can. You deserve to. But this old man has a house to get under roof.”
A short kiss and Bill tossed back the sheet with the intention of getting up. That is until Kay’s fingers tiptoed along his firm, tanned chest, then downward, getting the response twenty-five years of marriage had taught her to expect.
This round of lovemaking was without the foreplay the earlier one had, but the result was just as sweet.
Kay lingered in bed, watching and admiring her husband as he pulled on faded jeans and a tee shirt. When he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his work boots, she ran her hand up and down his spine.
Bill twisted around and gave her a quick kiss. “Gotta go, babe. We’ll celebrate some more tonight.”
Kay waited until he was through the bedroom doorway to call out to him. “One more thing.”
Bill poked his head inside. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not an old man, lover boy.” She winked and sent him off with a smile.
Once Kay heard Bill’s pickup engine groan before kicking on, she flung off the sheet and got to her feet.
If she was going to cram everything she wanted to accomplish into the day, there wasn’t time to lie around thinking about what she was going to do with all that money.
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Something moved across my back.
Shoving the quilt off my head, I not
only heard Kitty's angry meow and
hiss, but a persistent buzzing. When
I reached for the alarm clock on the
nightstand, my cherished calico sprang
off the bed, obviously peeved. As my
fingers fumbled for the off button,
my eyes focused on the red glow
of the numbers. It read a little
after three in the morning. Then
it dawned on me, the annoying
buzz was coming from my front door.
Sliding out of bed, I shivered from the cold and shrugged
into my furry robe and slid my feet into my slippers. I made
my way out into the hallway and down the open staircase.
What sensible person calls at such an ungodly hour? It had
to be Mitch.
I flipped on the porch light, but my fingers fumbled with
the door lock.
"Open the door, Fay. It's cold out here."
When I swung the door open, Mitch, a gentleman when it
suits him, took off his Stetson, exposing a mass of graying
waves. However, the gentleman didn't bother to wipe the
snow from his cowboy boots before entering my house.
I followed him toward the kitchen, deciding which question
to ask first. When he opened the upper cupboard door, where
I keep the hard liquor, I gritted my teeth.
"Don't do it, Mitch."
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Jackie’s gaze wandered from headstones to somber faces. But not to the casket that held the body of her only true friend Desmond Sinclair. She recognized all of the people standing around her. Except for…
Now she knew she hadn’t worn the black net veil because it matched her black suit. She’d worn it to hide her eyes. She continued to stare at the man. The handsome stranger who looked familiar even though she was positive she’d never met him. She searched her memory until it came to her. Andrew Michaels. She saw his picture in her
How dare he show up here? Thanks to her Desmond couldn’t harm anyone anymore. A cold chill rolled through her. Perhaps the district attorney had come for her.
Undecided if she should bolt or approach the man, Jackie was suddenly frozen in a time past when Marcus DeMario stepped into view.
The sight of him took her breath away just like the first time she saw him all those years ago. She watched him step away from the limousine and weave around headstones in her direction. As he neared, she saw his features had changed little. What had changed was the hardness in his composure, a coldness that sent another chill through her.
With her chin tucked into her chest, she watched him step up to the casket to pay last respects. Once or twice his steely eyes glanced her way. But he showed no signs of recognizing her.
Of course he wouldn’t recognize you, she reminded herself. You were just a disposable piece of property to the man.
But Marcus did recognize her. Not the first time he glanced in her direction. The second time his gaze traveled up her black nylons he knew of only one pair of legs so perfect. But what was Jackie Bertoni doing at Desmond Sinclair’s funeral? What was she doing in
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