Hot & Bothered

by Susan Andersen

  “I realize that. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to all the same.”

  “I know, but I doubt he’d thank you for it. He’s closing in on eighteen, and he’s a guy.”

  “Ergo, the ego.”

  He laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone actually say ‘ergo’ before. But yeah. The famous male ego is especially fragile in the under-twenty crowd.”

  “Unlike your own, I suppose.”

  “Mine’s solid as a rock,” he agreed and wagged his eyebrows at her. “Wanna feel it?”

  “You’re so crude,” she said with well-bred disdain. But she reached out a long-fingered hand and smoothed her palm down the fly of his slacks. Her eyes lit with humor and the corner of her mouth tilted up. “I think I like that about you.”

  “Yeah? I think I like everything about you, darlin’.” Her palm pressing his erection caused a groan to rumble out of his throat and he reached out to pull her to him. It had only been three days since the last time they’d made love, but already it felt like an age. So he took full advantage of the opportunity she offered and lowered his head to kiss her. Sliding his hands into her hair, he held her in place while he tasted his fill.

  To his frustration, however, as always when he had her in his arms, he couldn’t seem to get his fill, and it wasn’t long before his hands disengaged from the safe territory of her soft hair to smooth down her neck, over her shoulders and down the groove of her spine. Finally he sank his fingers into the soft, rounded curves of her butt and, bending his knees, he hauled her closer.

  They both sucked in a sharp breath when his hard-on brushed the soft cleft between her thighs. He pulled her even more firmly against him and was kissing her with rapidly slipping control when the door at his back suddenly opened.

  Only years of honing his reflexes kept him from tumbling into the room behind him. As it was he had to execute some fancy footwork to keep from falling on his ass and dragging Victoria down with him. Catching his balance, he whipped around with Tori securely tucked against his side and saw DeeDee standing in the doorway to the master suite, looking startled.

  She quickly gained her equilibrium. “For God’s sake, you two, get a room. There are children in the house.”

  As if she gave a damn about the kids. But Tori turned a painful shade of scarlet, so John thought her words had probably served their purpose. She always enjoyed hitting Victoria where she lived and she’d accomplished that. Not pleased, he looked Hamilton’s widow up and down.

  She was dressed in figure-flattering tennis whites, complete with two narrow diamond bracelets. Her hair looked as if she’d just stepped out of a salon, her fingernails gleamed with bloodred polish and she wore a full complement of makeup. If she was on her way to a match, sweating clearly wasn’t on her agenda. Mary’s comments from a while back echoed through his mind.

  “Off to do the tennis pro?” he asked ingenuously. DeeDee’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped open and he smacked himself on the forehead. “Jeez, I’m sorry—where the hell did that come from? Tennis lesson, I mean. Off to do your tennis lesson thing with the club pro?”

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “So if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late.” She pulled the door to the suite closed behind her and stalked off.

  He watched her disappear down the stairs before turning back to Victoria. “Don’t look like that,” he commanded.

  She blinked at him. “Like what?”

  He pressed a fingertip into her flushed cheek and watched as the white mark it left behind rapidly filled with hot color. “Like you ought to be wearing a big red letter on your forehead.”

  “But she was right,” Victoria argued. “I told you myself that we couldn’t make love with Esme in the house, yet what’s the first thing I do? Glom onto your, um…”

  “Rock-hard dick.”

  Her color deepened but she nodded and met his gaze head-on. “Precisely. Right out in the middle of the hallway where anyone could have seen us!”

  “So, big deal. We’ll do better. But you gotta know that DeeDee was just pushing your buttons because she knew she could.”

  “Probably so.” She stared up at him. “But the fact remains, I should’ve known better. And I have to tell you, you simply cannot solve this mess fast enough to suit me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  RUMORMONGERS WHO WERE willing to dish the dirt ranked high on John’s list of valuable investigational tools and he hit the mother lode with Roger Hamlin and Frederick Olson.

  But not before a shitload of schmoozing.

  Frank played up the fiancé angle as he reintroduced him to the older men on the first tee. Both had been at the bogus engagement party and John’s suspicion that they’d accepted today’s invitation because they were dying to find out who’d be handling Ford’s estate proved prophetic. Hamlin and Olson were patently determined to be the first in the know.

  It didn’t take five minutes in their company to discover they were a couple of dyed-in-the-wool chauvinists and without a qualm he made sure he gave the impression he was handling matters for Victoria. The sage nods with which they greeted that little charade made it clear it was an arrangement they wholeheartedly endorsed.

  That was the upside. The downside was that they were a lot more interested in collecting information than in dispensing it. It took him fourteen holes of hacking divots in the fairways, muscling golf balls out of sand traps, and spreading charm like a load of high-grade fertilizer before he managed to promote even a smidgin of reciprocity.

  He wasn’t sure what the problem was, because it was clear they weren’t adverse to being on the receiving end of a spot of gossip. They hadn’t even had to open their mouths for him to know that—it had been obvious the minute he’d realized there wasn’t a single caddy attached to the group. Neither man struck him as the kind to eschew a service he clearly considered a God-given right without a damn good reason—and in this case that could only be the desire to discuss subjects they didn’t want spreading like a rash through the caddy shack.

  Yet avid as they were to hear the latest, it never seemed to fail: every time he managed to get them relaxed enough to start talking freely, their foursome would finish up the current hole. Then the older men would climb into their little golf cart and speed off to the next tee, leaving Frank and John no choice but to get in their own cart and follow.

  They reminded him of roosters he’d once seen at a cock-fight in the Philippines, strutting and posturing to impress each other with their consequence. The two men took turns driving and it was clear from the way they bickered once they climbed out again that neither was satisfied with the way the other one handled the cart. It took most of the next hole just to get their bristling egos under control once again.

  If not for the fact that throwing in the towel ran contrary to his nature, he might have simply declared the day a bust. As it was, he and Frank finally wised up and began ignoring the old men’s bizarre ritual, letting them hash it out in their own way, on their own timetable. And apparently the lack of interference worked for the duffers, too, because the arguments seemed to take less time after that.

  On the sixteenth hole he actually made a decent shot and grinned at Olson, who gave him a constipated smile in return and generously refrained from saying it was about time. Hamlin said it for him, muttering something about how maybe he and Frederick would make it on time for the bridge game they’d signed up to play that afternoon after all.

  Frank rolled his eyes at their humorless attitude and said, “Nice shot, John,” as he stepped up to the tee.

  He did manage to promote a little further give-and-take from the pair but it was an uphill battle. At one point he caught Hamlin eyeing his ponytail.

  The old man, seeing he’d been caught, asked, “What does Victoria think of you having hair longer than hers?”

  “She hasn’t complained.” He fingered the long tail thoughtfully. “Although I have been thinking lately about having it cut. I only grew
it in the first place as a response to fifteen years spent in a Marine reconnaissance unit—I wanted to see how long I could get it after all those years of buzz cuts.” He gave them a wink. “Then I discovered how much the ladies like it.”

  By the eighteenth hole he’d run out of time. He’d tried to work his way gently around to what he wanted to know, but these two seemed to want to talk about everything but that. So he might as well just go for it.

  Giving them his best sympathetic glance, he said, “It must have been a terrible shock to find yourself at a dinner party where the host turned up dead.” What the hell. They’d either take the bait or stare at him like he’d just tossed a rotten herring at their feet.

  They took it. In fact they snapped it up and ran with it with such alacrity it left him wondering why he hadn’t simply used it in the first place.

  “You have no idea,” Hamlin said fervently, launching into an account of every thought and emotion that had crossed his mind upon discovering that Ford had been stabbed to death.

  “Yes,” Olson interrupted. “At first, when the maid screamed, we assumed she must have dropped the cognac Ford sent her to fetch. After all, she was merely a temporary hire for the night—”

  “And you know how unreliable they can be,” Hamlin put in.

  “Completely and utterly—or so the wife tells me is the universal opinion, anyhow.”

  “So does mine. God knows domestic help is trouble enough,” Hamlin said authoritatively. “But temps—they’re simply a nightmare.”

  A malicious little gleam of glee flickered in the club president’s faded blue eyes. “Still, it was quite surprising in Ford’s case. He usually insisted on—and managed to procure—the very crème de la crème when it came to domestics.”

  “Yes, but not even the emperor gets what he wants all the time,” Hamlin declared with relish.

  “In any case,” Olson said, “she continued to scream and scream and there was just something about its tone.”

  “Filled with horror, it was.” Hamlin nodded. “Makes my blood run cold just remembering it.”

  John looked at them. “I imagine everyone ran to see what was going on then?”

  Olson opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, Hamlin jumped in, both literally and verbally, as he edged his friend aside. “Yes. And there he was. I’m sure you can imagine our shock when we discovered him lying on the library floor.”

  Shooting him an irritated look, Olson took a half step that partly blocked the other man. “In a pool of blood,” he added, clearly determined not to be outdone.

  “With a letter opener sticking out of his chest!”

  The two men glared at each other, but John ignored their game of one-upmanship. “So who do you two bet on being the killer?”

  They turned identical supercilious stares on him. “Excuse me?” Hamlin said coolly. Olson looked at him down the length of his nose—a worthy feat considering he was a good six inches shorter than John.

  He countered their indignation with a level gaze. “The way I hear it, the boys in the locker room bet on everything from who’s winning what games, to who’s likely to die next. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that this isn’t fodder for the betting pool.”

  In unison they turned to glare at Frank, but John said, “Don’t look at Chilworth. My fiancée and I talk. Victoria may have been gone for the past few years, but she grew up here. She knows how things work.”

  Hamlin looked unconvinced for a moment, but then gave a thoughtful nod. “I suppose it is only proper that she tell you everything,” he conceded.

  “Indeed,” Olson concurred. “How else could you properly govern her affairs?”

  Hoping to hell that Tori never heard about this conversation, he spread the bullshit even thicker. “Not to mention that you two strike me as a couple of players. I figure if anyone knows the entire scoop, it would be you.” Victoria didn’t depend on any man to see to her needs and he had the feeling she wouldn’t appreciate being relegated to the role of a helpless little fluff-brain…no matter now useful the deception might prove to be.

  The Odd Couple commenced yet another endless game of I-can-top-that, as each vied to tell him who’d been absent from Ford’s dining room during the crucial time span the evening of his death. In this instance, their competition proved useful. Stowing his putter in his bag in preparation for heading back to the clubhouse, he consigned a number of names to memory to be studied in greater detail later. Hearing one in particular jerked him out of his contemplation, however.

  “Wentworth was there that night?” He quit shoving the club into the bag, and turned to stare at Roger Hamlin.

  “Yes, yes,” the man said impatiently. “Didn’t I just say so?”

  “You did,” he agreed smoothly and flashed a soothing smile at the fussy little man. “I suppose I’m just surprised because I didn’t see his name on the list of guests the housekeeper supplied to the police.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know about that. He was a last-minute fill-in when Gerald Watson’s scheduled Cesarian had the bad grace to go into labor early.” He glanced at his watch, then back at John. “Now, we really do have to go. I believe this round goes to us, but I trust you’ll settle up later. Frederick and I have that bridge game we mentioned.”

  Several times. Never let it be said a Miglionni couldn’t be suave, though. “By all means,” he said with a smile, “don’t let me detain you. Frank and I will get the bet figured out on our way to the pro shop and catch up with you inside.” He shook the two club members’ hands. “Thank you for the game and the enlightening conversation, gentlemen. You made me feel most welcome.”

  “Yes, it was delightful,” Frederick Olson said, suddenly in club president mode. “Be sure to give my best to Victoria.”

  Hamlin’s head bobbed in perfunctory agreement. “Yes, yes. Give the little woman my regards, as well. Tell her I said we must all get together real soon.” He glanced at Frank. “You and Pamela, too, of course.”

  The social niceties satisfied, both men hustled off.

  John and Frank watched them go, then simultaneously turned to each other and shook their heads.

  “Now there’s an offer just guaranteed to make our ‘little women’ replete with happiness,” Frank murmured as they gathered up their bags to hike back to the clubhouse.

  “Either that or put ’em in the mood to kick some serious ass once they catch wind of their new title.”

  Frank laughed and John studied him as they began walking. The other man had keen intelligence burning in his deep-set eyes and John liked his sly sense of humor. “You know,” he said slowly, “I didn’t fully appreciate before I saw Frick and Frack in action exactly what you’d let yourself in for today—and on a Saturday morning, no less.” He held open the pro shop door for the stocky redhead. “Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Damn straight,” Frank said. “I’ve earned the biggest steak on the menu.”

  John turned in his clubs while Frank shoved his bag into his storage locker, then headed for the clubhouse. They quickly showered and changed in the locker room.

  A short while later Frank led the way up the thickly padded stairs to the lobby. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the richly appointed wallpaper and highlighting a few good pieces of art hanging on the wall. A discreet reader board stood by a bank of plants and John only had time to read something about a Cotillion class—whatever the hell that was—before Frank indicated the lounge with a nod of his head.

  “What do you say we eat in the bar?” he said. “It’s more laid-back than the dining room.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A moment later they were settled at a table and Frank handed John a small lunch menu. He looked at him across the top of his own. “So why’d you tell the Dynamic Duo Victoria was the one to rat out the locker-room betting club when we both know it was me?”

  John shrugged. “You have to live in this commu
nity and I figured they’d take it better coming from the ‘little woman.’” He shifted. “Of course if Tori ever hears that I threw her to the lions, I’m probably toast.”

  Frank studied him. “There’s something more going on between the two of you than just this fake engagement, isn’t there?”

  He merely looked at the other man across the table and Frank gave him a crooked smile in return. “O-kay. So. What do you think of Ford’s inner circle so far?”

  “That they’d have me believe it was one big lovefest, when there doesn’t seem to be much love lost between the lot of them.”

  “Truth to tell, John, I doubt there was a helluva lot of love lost between Ford and anyone. He wasn’t the world’s nicest guy.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been hearing that.”

  “And from everything Hamlin and Olson had to say about the people who attended the last supper, damn near all of them had good reason to do him in.”

  “Which we pretty much knew already. But I did eliminate several of them from the list today.” He considered Frank. “I really do owe you for setting this up. I realize it’s no accident that we played with the two men who knew practically to the second who was absent from the room during the crucial time.”

  “You gotta love the Old Guard. It’s a point of pride with them to be in the know.”

  The waitress came over to take their order and John automatically flashed her the Miglionni Special before requesting a Corona with lime and the clubhouse sandwich.

  She smiled back. “Would you like me to put that on the Hamilton tab, Mr. Miglionni?”

  He hid his surprise that people whose names he didn’t know at all apparently knew his. “No, thank you, darlin’. I’ll pay for my own. And put Frank’s on my bill, too.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. She was a plump, attractive brunette who looked to be around his own age. “Have you worked here long, Abigail?” he asked, glancing at her name tag.