Read Online Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland - Free Book Online Page A

sternly. “You shouldn’t burn any more calories.”
    “You can’t help yourself,” she teased, moving her hips against his. “It’s a sexual temptress, I am.”
    There was a pause. “Perhaps if you lie completely still—”
    “Remove your clothes, husband; I shall lie as still as a stone.” She put her hands on his head and pulled his mouth to hers.
    Later, while she showered, she willed herself to feel better. Two days hence she was to visit her new obstetrician, and she was dreading the ordeal, but perhaps it wouldn’t be all to the bad; she would make a list of questions, including how to survive this miserable morning sickness which seemed—unfairly—to last all day. Closing her eyes, she let the water run over her head and sighed. Faith, how she’d love to put a stop to this foolishness and quit frettin’ her man; he had enough on his mind as it was, what with the whole outfoxing the Home Office on the guns-running thing. At least he was finally discussing the turf wars with her—she’d been anxious about nothing, it seemed.
    After she turned off the shower, she stepped out in her towel to find that Acton was leaning against the vanity with his arms crossed, watching her. This was not a surprise; when they were home he was drawn to her, and especially now, when he was worried. Stepping over, she raised up on tiptoe to kiss him, and then, teasing, rubbed her wet head on his shirt, making him flinch away with a smile. “I’m feelin’ much better; Michael. Truly.”
    He continued to watch her in the mirror as she began combing out her hair. “I’ve been screening some candidates to take Marta’s place, and I’d like to give one or two a trial.”
    “Aye then,” she agreed, rather surprised that he’d found the time—usually when there were multiple connected murders like this he was frenetically busy at all hours. On the other hand, it seemed every time they got a lead, the witness wound up in the morgue. And there was no question that the general mood at the Met was not the exigent one that would have existed had the victims been young schoolgirls; justice should be blind, but no question she would turn a shoulder on those who’d chosen to lie down with dogs.
    “If you would, let me know if you see anything amiss in any of the candidates.” He was referring to her intuitive ability; he was intensely private, and with good reason. It was only to be expected that he would be very particular about anyone who would be given access into their lives.
    She smiled at him in the mirror. “No one who answers to your mother.”
    He gave her a half-smile in response, but had already moved on to the next subject. “I spoke to Caroline, and I asked her not to patronize you to the extent she does.”
    With acute dismay, Doyle met his eyes in the mirror, but he continued in all seriousness, “I want to make it clear that I will tolerate no disrespect from anyone. You are my wife.”
    “Saints, Michael,” she remonstrated gently, lowering the comb. “Perhaps not the best tack to take, my friend; if Caroline doesn’t know how to get on with the likes of me it’s because we hardly know each other, and the three of you are miles smarter.” She paused for a moment, trying to put her instinctive reaction into words. “She’ll unbristle once she becomes accustomed—and become accustomed she must. She is only being a bit territorial about you and you can hardly blame her; I am quite the shockin’ surprise.”
    He looked as though he meant to say something, but thought the better of it.
    Thoughtfully, Doyle resumed combing her hair. “And she may be resentin’ that I’ve taken Fiona’s place for the four of you—it’s a new grief, after all. Be patient; she’ll come about. Please say nothin’ more.”
    “Right, then.” He stood and kissed the top of her wet head. “And it was kind of you to lose; she doesn’t like being beaten.”
    “No; not by me, leastways.” He had twigged her,