Busman's Honeymoon (Savannah Martin Mystery #10.5) Page 4

  And anyway, she was dead. I should probably get over my aversion to the books and just be grateful that Rafe was still alive because she’d stood in front of him when someone was trying to kill him.

  There was a new Botticelli book scheduled for release before Christmas. Her last. It had been in production when she died last fall, and Dix, as her executor, had been in touch with the publisher and given them the go-ahead to publish it. The money from the sale would come to David, so we’d all agreed that there was no sense in refusing. The manuscript was finished, and just needed editing. Might as well get it out there, for the fans who wanted it, and for David, who’d need money for college in a few years. By November, I might even want to read it.

  But for now, I’d stick with the romance hero I had in my bed. A romance hero who was starting to wake up. In more ways than one. I heard his breathing change, and felt his body go from lax to aware. And then to alert. The part of him that was nestled against my derriere twitched.

  I giggled. Waking up ready to take on the day, and anything else in the vicinity, is a common male trait, but I never got tired of it.

  “Feeling OK?” His voice was still gravelly from sleep, and his hand brushed over my stomach on its way north.

  “Fine. I’m not nauseous anymore.” That had ended with the first trimester. Now I just woke up hungry.

  “Must be early,” Rafe murmured as his hand continued exploring under the blankets.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t smell any coffee. Or bacon. It’s a bed and breakfast. There should be food.”

  There should. “It must be early.” I stretched and pushed against him. He pushed back.

  “That mean we have time for some exercise before we get outta bed?”

  “I could be talked into it,” I told him. My libido was up, too, with the pregnancy hormones. I could pretty much always be talked into it.

  Then again, he hadn’t had a problem talking me out of my clothes and into bed before I got pregnant, either.

  “Ain’t much of a talker, darlin’. How about I just show you?”

  He proceeded to do just that. And it worked just as well.

  As a result of this show and tell, it was at least another hour before we rolled out of bed and staggered into the shower. While Rafe rinsed off, I dug into the overnight bags, for something to wear, and to see whether there were any surprises inside. And whether Grimaldi had packed Rafe any underwear, or me any interesting toys.

  I started with my own bag, which didn’t contain anything out of the ordinary. I did have underwear, and a couple of light sundresses and pairs of sandals. She’d thrown in a hair brush, along with shampoo, dental floss, and toothpaste, but if I wanted any product for my hair—spray or mousse, gel or hot rollers—I was on my own. I foresaw a lot of ponytails in my future.

  The only unusual item in my bag was a pair of men’s swim trunks. My own bathing suit was there—a demure vintage-style polka-dotted one-piece with a halter top and ruffles at the hips—and along with it, a pair of navy board shorts with the tags still attached.

  I hadn’t seen them before, and for a moment I wondered whether Grimaldi had sent them so I could cover my rear. If so, they’d make me look worse than if I wore nothing over the bathing suit. Once I’d squashed myself and all those ruffles inside the shorts, I’d not only look broad in the beam, I’d look lumpy.

  Then it occurred to me that maybe they were for Rafe, and had just ended up in the wrong bag. I pulled the zipper down on his to investigate.

  It didn’t yield anything of interest, either. Not at first glance. She had packed underwear, so he wouldn’t have to spend our honeymoon commando. I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or disappointed about that. Happy for him and disappointed for myself, I guess, although I rarely have a problem talking him out of his underwear, so it wasn’t like it was a big deal either way.

  No hair product for Rafe, either, and no hair brush. She had tossed in a couple pairs of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a halfway decent button-down shirt. In case we wanted to go somewhere nice for dinner one night, I guess.

  But there was a swimsuit. And looking at it, I could understand why the navy trunks were in my bag and not his. She must have been anticipating the look on his face when he opened the bag and realized that if he wanted to go to the beach, he had a choice between jeans, tuxedo pants, and a pair of metallic gold Speedos.

  Bikini style.

  Chapter Four

  “What the hell?”

  While I’d been twirling the Speedos around on my finger and trying to picture how they would look wrapped around Rafe’s hips, he had opened the door from the bathroom and caught me sitting there. He was still wet, with a white towel around his waist, beads of water running down his chest and his calves, and he had another towel in his hand and had been arrested mid-motion, in the middle of rubbing his hair dry. He was still holding the towel to the top of his head; he just wasn’t moving his arm anymore.

  Instead, his eyes were fastened on the scrap of metallic fabric spinning around my finger. “What’s that?”

  “Your swimsuit,” I said, stopping the spinning and holding the Speedos up for his perusal.

  He looked at them for a second, before moving his attention to me, and I think he must have been struck dumb, because when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  “They were in your bag,” I added. “I had no idea you owned a pair of metallic gold Speedos. I can’t wait to see what they look like on.”

  The thought broke the spell. “I ain’t wearing those.” He sounded halfway between shocked and repulsed, but not amused at all.

  “You can’t go to the beach in tuxedo pants,” I pointed out.

  “Between tuxedo pants and whatever the hell that is, yes, I can.” He tossed the towel on the bed, but didn’t come any closer. Maybe he was afraid the Speedos would attack. He eyed them like he thought they might. “My junk won’t fit in those.”

  Probably not, now that he mentioned it. Some men aren’t built for Speedos, and Rafe is one of them.

  “For me?” I batted my eyes at him.

  He shook his head. “Not even for you, darlin’. Not in public.”

  “How about here? Now? Just so I can see?” Because while I could certainly understand why he wouldn’t want to wear a pair of Speedos the size of a string bikini outside the room, I was dying to see what he looked like in them.

  He sighed. “Fine. But if you try to take a picture of me, I’m breaking your phone.” He reached out a hand.

  I handed the scrap of gold fabric over. And lost my own ability to speak when he flicked the second towel open and it dropped to the floor.

  Never mind the Speedos.

  I couldn’t get the words out. All I could do was sit and gape as he pulled the teeny-tiny piece of cloth up over his calves and thighs and butt and adjusted them.

  In case you were in doubt, he has a beautiful body. Long legs, strong calves and thighs, narrow hips, and a muscular butt. Hard muscles under smooth, golden skin. He wouldn’t look out of place modeling underwear on a billboard in Times Square.

  But he’s also well-endowed. The front of the Speedos bulged in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I’m not even sure the top edge of the fabric touched the skin of his stomach.

  “No,” I managed, my voice choked, “you can’t go outside like that.” I’d have to beat the women off with a stick. Or considering where we were, a piece of driftwood.

  He arched a brow and turned to the mirror, hands on his hips. Silence reigned for a moment. I watched his glutei maximi—plural—covered in metallic gold and concentrated on breathing.

  In. Out. In...

  “This your idea of a joke?” he asked eventually, with a glance at me in the mirror.

  I shook my head. “Tamara Grimaldi packed the bags. I guess she put them there.” And she was probably having a good laugh at our expense right now.

  “For what it’s worth,” I added, now that I’d gotten my
voice back, “you look incredible. But I’m not letting you out of this room in those.”

  “Not a problem. I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.” He hooked his thumbs in the sides of the Speedos and began peeling them down. My tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth. When he was naked again, he turned to me, and grinned when he saw the look on my face. “How about we just stay up here the rest of the day?”

  “How about we get something to eat and come back? I’m starving.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want. Guess we won’t be spending much time on the beach, anyway.”

  “She got you a pair of board shorts, too.” I pulled them out of my own bag and tossed them at him. “You’ll probably like them better.”

  He did. And after he’d pulled them up and stuck his hand down the front to adjust the contents to his satisfaction, I had to admit he looked good enough to eat in those, too. A lot less X-rated than in the Speedos, but much safer for public consumption. After he’d pulled a plain white T-shirt down over his chest and stomach to hide all those delicious muscles, we headed out the door and down the stairs.

  By then it was after nine, but there was still no smell of coffee or food in the air. When we got to the dining room, we saw why.

  The rest of the guests were ranged around the big table in the middle of the room. I recognized them from the descriptions we’d gotten last night. Our blond friend was there, next to a dark-haired guy a few years older than Rafe, whose muscles were turning to fat. He looked petulant, with a sort of perpetual pout. On the other side of the table sat two women in their forties, and an older couple; surely the residents of number 3 and number 4. The folks from number 1 had styrofoam cups of coffee in front of them, but apart from that, there was nothing to eat or drink on the table or the sideboard, and no odor of food in the air.

  All six of them looked up when we came through the door.

  There was a moment of silence. As usual, most of the attention focused on Rafe. I’m used to that. Women look at him because he’s gorgeous, and men look at him because... well, sometimes because he’s gorgeous—like my colleague Tim, who’s had a crush on Rafe for as long as he’s known about him. But for most guys, it’s more because he’s big and strong and used to taking charge. It’s an alpha-dog thing. Is this guy bigger and stronger than me?

  More often than not, the answer is yes. A lot of men feel threatened by Rafe, and not always because he wants them to—although sometimes he does.

  Now wasn’t one of those times. He was off-duty, and had no need to throw his weight around. He was imposing enough just standing there, even in board shorts and a T-shirt, and I’m sure he knew it.

  “I’m Rafe Collier,” he said calmly. “This is my wife, Savannah. We got here late last night.”

  The blonde giggled. Her significant other glanced at her, but didn’t say anything. It was one of the middle-aged women who spoke up. “I’m Gloria. This is Hildy.” She glanced at her companion, who nodded to us.

  “Groot Jenkins,” the old guy said—at least I think he did. “My wife Vonnie.”

  Vonnie nodded.

  The blonde flipped her hair over her shoulder. In the light, it looked more like cotton candy than ever: so bleached and treated and stripped of anything natural it looked like a tuft of hay glued to her head. “We met last night,” she said. “I’m Nina,” she pronounced it Nine-ah, “and this is Chip.”

  Chip nodded. The look he gave me was bordering on offensive; the one he gave Rafe assessing.

  My stomach chose that moment to emit an unladylike rumble. I put a hand to it, and Hildy smiled. “You must be starving.” She glanced at the butler door I assumed went to the kitchen.

  “We thought breakfast was between eight and ten.” Rafe glanced at Nina. “That’s what you said, right?”

  She nodded, with another hair flip. “I don’t know where Frenetta is. Chip and I went out for breakfast. There’s a coffee place down the street a couple of blocks. They have muffins and things.”

  I needed something more than a muffin, but I didn’t bother saying so. A muffin wasn’t likely to satisfy Rafe either, so he could say it for me.

  “Has anyone seen her?”

  Nobody had.

  “Did she say anything about not being here?” I asked. “Like, ‘you’ll be responsible for feeding yourselves this morning?’”

  “Not to me,” Nina said, with a hair flip. It was starting to get on my nerves, and I’d only just met her. “But we didn’t talk much.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She and Chip were from Atlanta, and they had driven down on Friday. Last night had been their second night at the Davenport Inn B and B.

  Rafe glanced at Gloria, who told him, “She didn’t say anything to me about not being here. You, Hildy?”

  Hildy shook her head. “The last time I saw her was after dinner last night. She was in the kitchen when we came back from dinner. She was prepping some kind of pecan rolls for this morning.”

  “When was that?” Rafe wanted to know.

  Hildy and Gloria looked at one another and decided it must have been around seven-thirty. “She was kneading dough in between sips of wine. We talked for a minute, and then Hildy and I went upstairs.”

  “Did anyone see her after that?” Rafe glanced around the table.

  No one spoke up. Until Chip asked, in a disagreeable way, “You a cop or something?”

  “Something,” Rafe told him. “Anyone know where she sleeps?”

  “Apartment above the garage,” Nina said, with another toss of her head. “She said she needs to get away from here at night.”

  “Stay here.”

  He didn’t wait to see if anyone obeyed, just headed for the back door. I decided to pretend that the order hadn’t been directed at me, so after an apologetic smile at the assembled company, I hurried after him.

  “Wait!”

  By the time I caught up, he was already halfway across the parking lot, which did, in the light of day, turn out to be made up of crunched shells instead of gravel.

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. “What part of ‘stay here’ didn’t you understand?”

  “We’ve been married less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already giving me orders?”

  I stuck my hand in his and hustled to keep up. His legs are considerably longer than mine, and he’s in much better physical condition. Also, the shells were difficult to navigate on heels.

  He didn’t answer, and I added, “What are you afraid you’ll find, that you don’t want me to see?”

  “You know what.”

  I did. Or I could guess. “What makes you think she’s dead?”

  “Nothing,” Rafe said. “Except dead bodies seem to follow you around.”

  “They do not!” Most of the dead bodies I had encountered—or at least half of them—I could lay at Rafe’s door. Not literally—in most cases he hadn’t killed them—but they’d had more to do with him than with me.

  “If it was earlier, I mighta thought she’d overslept, but it’s after nine. And she didn’t say nothing to nobody about going away. She was here last night, prepping for breakfast.”

  “She could be ill,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Or perhaps she went to church. It’s Sunday. Maybe she’s coming back in an hour or two to make brunch.”

  He hesitated. “That ain’t a bad idea, actually.”

  It wasn’t. However— “We’re here. We might as well knock and make sure nothing wrong.”

  We had reached the bottom of the staircase leading up to the second floor above the garage. There was only room for one person to ascend at a time, and Rafe dropped my hand. “If you don’t wanna wait down here, at least let me go up first.”

  “No problem.”

  I waited for him to start up, and then I followed.

  At the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door.

  There was no answer, and I don’t think either of us expected one.

 
“Try the knob,” I said.

  He wrapped the bottom of his T-shirt around his hand before doing so.

  The door opened with a squeak of hinges. Nothing that should have given anyone a fright, not in the bright, hot sunlight of the Florida morning. Nonetheless, I felt a cold trickle down my spine. Or maybe it was just the blast of frigid air that flooded out through the open door. Frenetta must keep her AC at morgue setting.

  “Hello? Miz... um...”

  “Wallin,” I whispered.

  He glanced at me before raising his voice again. “Miz Wallin? Anyone home?”

  No one answered.

  I added my voice to his, just in case Frenetta was worried about an unknown man on her doorstop. “Miss Wallin? This is Savannah Martin. Um... Collier.”

  Rafe shot me an amused look. I ignored it, just kept talking to the silent apartment. “We arrived last night. Are you home?”

  But she didn’t answer my call, either.

  “Should we go in?” I asked Rafe.

  He shrugged. “Might as well. The door’s open. And I ain’t carrying, so it’s misdemeanor trespass, at best.”

  “Isn’t there a rule that says if you think someone’s in imminent danger, you can break in?”

  Rafe nodded. “She ain’t in danger. She’s gone. One way or the other.” He nudged the door open wider and raised his voice again as he stepped across the threshold. “Miz Wallin? We’re coming inside. Can you hear me?”

  There was no answer, only the sound of his footsteps as he moved across the tile floors. I followed, looking left and right.

  It wasn’t a big space. It was just the top floor of a garage, after all. One medium-sized room served as a combination living room and dining room, with an apartment-sized kitchen tucked into the corner. Small fridge, four-burner stove, on-the-counter microwave. An open door next to the kitchen led to a small washroom: I could see the edge of a sink and most of the toilet. There was probably a shower beyond the wall.