Free A Killer in the Rye by Delia Rosen Page B

the place with him. It was like touring a museum, a small one, devoted to the Reid family. I don’t say that in a bad way. There was nothing narcissistic about it. He came from a proud family, and they were rightfully on display here. He wasn’t arrogant about it, either. He seemed truly, refreshingly humble to be a part of it.
    I shuffled beside him on my sore calves as we crossed the cavernous foyer. It was decorated with massive works of art and ancient-looking tapestries and weapons. I looked up.
    â€œNice chandelier.”
    â€œThanks. My grandfather had it imported from Paris after his honeymoon stay with my grandmother at the Hotel Regina. He arranged for it to be removed from their wedding night suite. He wanted every night to be their wedding night.”
    â€œI guess anything’s possible when you’re in love.”
    â€œFor the right price.” He grinned. “Come this way.”
    Robert guided me from the foyer through a small series of hallways that led to the kitchen. My nose tickled, probably from the good dusting this place must get every day. I ignored it as I took in the afternoon sun, which filled the room with calming white warmth that reflected off the gray granite countertops.
    â€œIt’s a lovely space. I can imagine throwing quite a party in here.”
    â€œYes. I prefer the natural lighting in this room. I rarely turn the lights on during the day.”
    Keep those electric bills low, I thought. That was a little bitchy, I admit. I used to feel that way when I was handling Godzilla-size accounts on Wall Street, that it would be nice not to have to watch every dollar you spent.
    â€œYou live alone?” I asked. The girl-brain part of me was anxious about his reply.
    â€œIt’s just me and Nancy,” he said.
    â€œAnd that would be Mrs. Reid?”
    He smiled. “My Nancy is a rottweiler.”
    I assumed he meant that as a noun and not an adjective.
    â€œWhere is she?” I asked.
    â€œOut back. Naturally, she’s high energy, so I fenced in the backyard for her to run around in. If I let her run free, she’d do nothing but birth puppies.”
    â€œThat’d be a strange life,” I said.
    â€œVery.”
    â€œOh,” I replied. That would explain the tickling. I had a flash—a horrible gut burn of a moment—that took me back to the delivery truck, back to Robert being out there the next morning, back to my office and hearing Grant tell me about a canine, then back here. It was like a trip through the Stargate. I told myself the dog situation was unrelated.
    Robert moved to the stovetop, where a fresh batch of pastries was cooling.
    â€œChocolate chip meringues,” he said.
    â€œYou have an on-premise dessert chef?”
    He replied with a half smile that said, “I made them myself.”
    I was impressed—after feeling stupid, yet again, for assuming that he was just a helpless, spoiled rich kid.
    â€œYum,” I said dumbly.
    Robert used the spatula to dislodge the off-white egg-white cookies from the pan and placed them on a nearby serving dish before presenting them to me.
    â€œThese look great!” I gushed. “And they smell wonderful. I should hire you to supply the shop on a regular basis. Business would boom.”
    â€œTry them first.”
    And he was modest. He was too good to be true. That was also girl brain. Beware of men. They lie to get in your jeans. Don’t imagine that he’s any different.
    I bit into the lightweight dessert and a warm chocolate chip melted onto the cradle of my lip as the thin cookie exterior crunched, then softened as it touched my tongue.
    â€œRobert.”
    â€œYes?”
    I just looked at him as I chewed, my closed mouth forming an involuntary smile, my pinkie lightly swiping the chocolate from my lip as I laughed self-consciously. My other arm and my lower back rested against the glistening counter, my right foot and calf flexed backward