Free The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington Page A

couldn’t remember all those faces. Or was he hoping to see one particular person? Someone of interest in the Alexander case? A suspect?
    Me?
    For an instant, the possibility chilled my blood, but Rossi wouldn’t think of me that way. I was sure he wouldn’t. Furthermore, I had passed the polygraph with flying colors. I told myself to relax, and the fear slowly faded.
    Besides, I had something more immediate to consider. Simon. After all the finger food and champagne, I begged off making another stop. As we approached Surfside, I began to tense. What now? A good-night kiss like a couple of teenagers on prom night? A handshake? Or the whole Monty? His bed or mine? As he pulled into the carport and doused the headlights, to my disgust a fit of virginal panic seized me.
    I had my palm on the door handle when he said, “Wait for a minute, Deva. It’s still early.”
    “It’s been a long day.”
    “They’re all the same length. Twenty-four hours apiece.”
    In the dim glow from the lights lining the parking lot, I could see the humor flitting across his features. He knows. I hoped he wasn’t aware of the flush heating my cheeks.
    When he rested a staying hand on my left arm, I forced myself not to flinch. “I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked tonight. How proud I was to have you with me.”
    “Thank you, I—”
    His hold on my arm tightened. “There’s more.”
    The fingers of my right hand clutched the door handle.
    “Your business will succeed beyond your wildest dreams. You have the skill to make that happen. And you will. What I’m truly sorry about is getting you involved with the Alexanders, with that whole investigation thing.”
    “Don’t blame yourself, Simon. Who would have guessed? Besides, I have confidence the case will be solved soon.”
    “I agree.” His hand slid up my arm and wrapped around my shoulder. “Why don’t you take your hand off the door handle?”
    I stared at him without moving a muscle.
    “Go ahead, take it off.”
    Wary, reluctant, I let my hand drop into my lap.
    “Now put your arms around my neck.”
    Quickly, before I had a chance to refuse, he leaned toward me and gathered me in his arms. He lowered his mouth to mine, the tip of his tongue darting out to touch my lips, urging me to open to him. To my surprise, I succumbed to his urgency and opened my mouth, sucking him in, clinging to him, my own sudden need a shocking recognition of how lonely I had been.
    But was this what I really wanted? Or was Simon a Band-Aid on my bleeding heart? I squirmed in his embrace, and his arms loosened around me.
    “That was amazing, Simon. Thank you, but—”
    He reached out and put a finger over my mouth. “No, don’t say any more. If it was good, that’s enough for now.” His smile returned. “There’s more where that came from, but not tonight.”
    He opened the driver’s side door and stepped out. Weak-kneed, I slid out the passenger side, not sure I was disappointed or relieved as he walked me to my door, handed me the briefcase, and with a quick kiss on my forehead said, “Good night. See you on Christmas Day. I’ll bring the wine.”
    I keyed my way in, dumped the briefcase on a chair and headed for the shower. A cold one.

Chapter Eight
    All night I had long, vivid dreams of Simon, but toward dawn, Rossi entered the picture and drove him away. Interesting and annoying. What was Rossi doing in my psyche? Even more important, what was he doing in the Alexander case? No clue either way.
    At ten o’clock I set the arrow on the shop window sign to two, locked up and drove to Dr. Jones’s house in Bonita Bay, an upscale gated community a few miles north of Naples.
    The Bonita Bay gate guard admitted me and gave me directions to the Jones property. The day couldn’t have been more beautiful, full of sun, full of promise as I followed a winding road through a lush, jungle-meets-Palm Beach landscape. Every acre or so, a sprawling house, usually faux Tuscan in design,