Read Online Death Takes a Honeymoon by DEBORAH DONNELLY - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: DEBORAH DONNELLY
Tags: Fiction
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grabbed Gorka by his brass-studded collar. “Sorry about that.”
Domaso didn’t look all that sorry. He looked like a cat who’d been sipping cream all afternoon. Through a straw. Even in this crowd of athletic types, his broad shoulders and rock-solid stance marked him out as a powerful man. I wondered how he would do in the Talent Show—and what his talent was.
B.J. nudged me. “Earth to Carnegie?”
“Oh, right. Brenda Jervis, Domaso Duarte. He’s a friend of...he knows...”
“I work for Mrs. Kincaid in Boise,” he said comfortably. “And I know Sam and Cissy here. In fact, I think I know you. B.J., right? Flower store? I picked up a load of topsoil for Cissy a while back.”
“High Country Gardens,” she said, pleased. “I remember now, you talked with Matt about kayaks. You didn’t have the dog with you, though. What’s his name?”
“Name’s Gorka. Watch him for me for a minute, will you?”
Before B.J. could answer, Domaso scooped me into his arms. A slow, sultry number had arisen from the jukebox, and he danced me around for a few bars. And somehow I was just drunk enough to let him. He smelled like the sea, salty and dark. Then, as I began to protest, he deposited me back at B.J.’s side.
“I better get ol’ Gorka out of here,” he told her. “Be seeing you.” Then he gave me a long look. “Be seeing
lots
of you.”
I was about to make a rude retort—“In your dreams” came to mind—when I saw a new arrival standing in the open door behind him. I stared, speechless.
It wasn’t Tracy’s superstar, Oscar-night entrance that silenced me, as she paused in the doorway to shake back her long, lustrous hair. And it wasn’t the way that all the men in the Pio, and half the women, swayed toward her like strands of seaweed in a tidal surge of admiration.
What struck me dumb was the fact that Tracy Kane, the blonde Muffy, was now a flaming, flaunting, flamboyant redhead. And damn her, she looked absolutely fabulous.
Chapter Seven
“SHE DYED IT AGES AGO! IN THE EPISODE WITH THE PRIVATE eye and the poodle?”
“I must have missed that one.” I adjusted the cold washcloth draped over my face. “Please don’t talk so loud.”
B.J. dropped a decibel or two. “But her hair’s been red for
weeks.
”
“I don’t watch much television. Forget it, OK? All I said was, I’m not sure red hair suits Tracy’s complexion. No big deal.”
It was Tuesday morning, and the washcloth was meant to defend my addled brain from the bands of sunlight slashing through the loft of B.J.’s cabin. But nothing could defend me from her voice as she sat on the edge of my bed giving me a hard time. As usual. She hadn’t said another word about Brian, and I couldn’t decide what words to say, so I hadn’t, either.
“No big deal, huh?” I felt the mattress bounce as she leaned forward to lift a corner of the washcloth. “Look me in the eye and tell me it doesn’t bother you that Jack the Knack’s got himself a redhead who isn’t you.”
“The only thing bothering me is the firecracker going off behind my eyes. I cannot believe that you’re up and around. You drank more than I did!”
“Like I said, you’re a wimp. Want some coffee?”
I raised my head, an inch at a time. It didn’t fall off. “Muffy, I would love you forever.”
“Promises, promises!” she called, pounding down the broad open staircase to the kitchen. “Cream?”
“Please.”
I subsided into the pillows, beneath the gentle stir of the overhead fan, and gazed around. B.J. and Matt had designed this big cozy A-frame of peeled logs set in an aspen grove on the edge of town. The loft was Matt’s office as well as the guest room, so minimountains of folders and journals and technical-looking notebooks rose up from every horizontal surface.
Downstairs was a cheerful chaos of houseplants, Navajo rugs, and Pueblo pottery, all B.J.’s passions, along with overflowing shelves of horticultural books and magazines. The
Domaso didn’t look all that sorry. He looked like a cat who’d been sipping cream all afternoon. Through a straw. Even in this crowd of athletic types, his broad shoulders and rock-solid stance marked him out as a powerful man. I wondered how he would do in the Talent Show—and what his talent was.
B.J. nudged me. “Earth to Carnegie?”
“Oh, right. Brenda Jervis, Domaso Duarte. He’s a friend of...he knows...”
“I work for Mrs. Kincaid in Boise,” he said comfortably. “And I know Sam and Cissy here. In fact, I think I know you. B.J., right? Flower store? I picked up a load of topsoil for Cissy a while back.”
“High Country Gardens,” she said, pleased. “I remember now, you talked with Matt about kayaks. You didn’t have the dog with you, though. What’s his name?”
“Name’s Gorka. Watch him for me for a minute, will you?”
Before B.J. could answer, Domaso scooped me into his arms. A slow, sultry number had arisen from the jukebox, and he danced me around for a few bars. And somehow I was just drunk enough to let him. He smelled like the sea, salty and dark. Then, as I began to protest, he deposited me back at B.J.’s side.
“I better get ol’ Gorka out of here,” he told her. “Be seeing you.” Then he gave me a long look. “Be seeing
lots
of you.”
I was about to make a rude retort—“In your dreams” came to mind—when I saw a new arrival standing in the open door behind him. I stared, speechless.
It wasn’t Tracy’s superstar, Oscar-night entrance that silenced me, as she paused in the doorway to shake back her long, lustrous hair. And it wasn’t the way that all the men in the Pio, and half the women, swayed toward her like strands of seaweed in a tidal surge of admiration.
What struck me dumb was the fact that Tracy Kane, the blonde Muffy, was now a flaming, flaunting, flamboyant redhead. And damn her, she looked absolutely fabulous.
Chapter Seven
“SHE DYED IT AGES AGO! IN THE EPISODE WITH THE PRIVATE eye and the poodle?”
“I must have missed that one.” I adjusted the cold washcloth draped over my face. “Please don’t talk so loud.”
B.J. dropped a decibel or two. “But her hair’s been red for
weeks.
”
“I don’t watch much television. Forget it, OK? All I said was, I’m not sure red hair suits Tracy’s complexion. No big deal.”
It was Tuesday morning, and the washcloth was meant to defend my addled brain from the bands of sunlight slashing through the loft of B.J.’s cabin. But nothing could defend me from her voice as she sat on the edge of my bed giving me a hard time. As usual. She hadn’t said another word about Brian, and I couldn’t decide what words to say, so I hadn’t, either.
“No big deal, huh?” I felt the mattress bounce as she leaned forward to lift a corner of the washcloth. “Look me in the eye and tell me it doesn’t bother you that Jack the Knack’s got himself a redhead who isn’t you.”
“The only thing bothering me is the firecracker going off behind my eyes. I cannot believe that you’re up and around. You drank more than I did!”
“Like I said, you’re a wimp. Want some coffee?”
I raised my head, an inch at a time. It didn’t fall off. “Muffy, I would love you forever.”
“Promises, promises!” she called, pounding down the broad open staircase to the kitchen. “Cream?”
“Please.”
I subsided into the pillows, beneath the gentle stir of the overhead fan, and gazed around. B.J. and Matt had designed this big cozy A-frame of peeled logs set in an aspen grove on the edge of town. The loft was Matt’s office as well as the guest room, so minimountains of folders and journals and technical-looking notebooks rose up from every horizontal surface.
Downstairs was a cheerful chaos of houseplants, Navajo rugs, and Pueblo pottery, all B.J.’s passions, along with overflowing shelves of horticultural books and magazines. The
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