Murder My Love (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 3) (3 page)

Now, for the first time, she is questioning my intent.

I look into her mind, "Is it business or pleasure that he does propose?"

Still, she remains standoffish.

You cannot blame a beautiful woman for keeping her guards up. Even while she talks business.

"On the ten o'clock flight to Paris."

Her ears prick up, which is another endearing quality, and she suddenly remembers to smile.

"There's been a misunderstanding,"

I love it when women explain.

"It's a matter of minutes. I've been promised a seat. I'm waiting to be seated," she repeats eagerly, without much conviction. "It's a silly thing what happened. There was a misunderstanding."

Her deprecatory laughter makes her almost break into tears.

"Please forgive me, I forgot to present myself. My name is Greg Turner. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I'm not in the habit of striking conversations in public with beautiful and mysterious women. Trust me!"

I smile.

She smiles.

We both smile while she decides to give me five minutes of her time, but at the same time, her smile warns me not to abuse her patience.

"I never did, before," I mumble softly. "I am a very shy person. I don’t like to be disturbed myself, so I understand your misgivings, please believe me."

It sometimes helps to be meek. Just don't overdo it and especially don't make a habit of it.

"I understand perfectly."

Now
she
is the curious one. She understands that something can be gotten from me. There is a renewed expectation in her voice; there is a new hope in her eyes.

She looks at me and she waits.

For what is to follow.

"It’s just that I hold in my possession one extra ticket."

"Oh, really. Is it available? May I buy it?"

"In first class."

"Oh, so your offer…?"

"There is only one problem."

"Which is?"

"Your seat is next to mine."

"This is not a problem, it's a solution."

We've become all of a sudden best of friends. The rest, what happens after, is up to me. Isn't it always the case, though?

 I show the two boarding passes at the gate and we pass through. We navigate the walkway, go up a narrow flight of stairs and stand at the front of the plane. We're welcomed by a dark haired stewardess with a green tie and a cute smile. Thirty-five-ish, exceedingly fetching. Beautiful, a brunette with blue eyes.

Lana expresses her preference for the window seat. I take the row seat.

When she sees me holding the newspapers, she asks for the New York Times. She wants to do the crossword puzzle.

That's not exactly what I had in mind when I invited her to my first class seat, but I am an ingratiating and patient host.

The stewardess comes with the first tour of drinks. She's the same cutie who greeted us. I peer at her with male interest, but mostly because I want to watch Lana's reactions.

I ask her where she was flying from.

She had started in Warsaw, and she’s been on duty for twenty hours non-stop. Her name is Trudy. Trudy will get a three-day rest in Paris, where she always stays at Hotel Henry. The line is French and she is German.

 Competition is important. I don't want to give Lana the impression that she's the only horse in the race.

We chat a little more and Trudy moves on with her drinks. I turn toward the window seat. Lana, immersed in the Sunday New York Times puzzle, seems lost to the world.

"May I ask you a question?"

Her eyes, buried in the paper on her lap, jump immediately to attention and follow my gaze.

I check her crossword puzzle. Only one three-letter word is filled in the first column.

The Sunday New York Times puzzle is very hard.

"Since we happen to be traveling together."

"Shoot."

"I'm curious, what do you do in your life?"

"Currently, I'm completing a master in Western Lit at the University of Hawaii," Lana says.

"That's amazing!"

Beautiful, cultured and brainy.

"Why amazing?"

"Because five years ago, no seven, it seems I'm older than you are, I attended the same University, but I studied Architecture."

Now please pay a little attention to what I'm telling you and let the secret stay just between the two of us. If Lana is really enrolled at UH and gets the idea of checking the roll of Architecture students, she'll find one Greg Turner, who graduated in 2008—a real Greg Turner, with a real biography. Our identities are fool-proof. When you are in my field of work, you don't want to take any chance.

Lana, "Wow, you're an architect. I am so impressed!"

"Actually, I used to be an architect. Now I'm retired. You know, it came to the point where I was paying more in taxes than my company was earning. So I sold it. I sold the company and now I'm doing what I really want to do."

"What do you really want to do, Greg?"

"Whatever I do best."

"And what would that be?"

"Well, to tell you the truth … nothing."

Huh. And what would that nothing be?
She thinks and, telepathically, I can hear her.

We tell stories. Me with my fake memories: the first house I built then my first mall, my first hotel and then the huge soccer stadium, followed by Brasilia and Qatar. She, with hers, here my ESP turns off, and I guess it stops helping. How she grew alone on a farm, loving animals, but hating people. How she started reading at five, picking the biggest book from the library, which she hardly could carry home. How she, a few years later, when she was sixteen, fell in love with a wonderful boy who didn't wait too long to break her heart. How that experience marked her for life and she learned to hate everybody. How she continued reading books and then tried to write one, but nobody would publish it. And then there came another boy—she met this one in creative writing class and he stole one of her short stories and published it with some modest success. How she later realized the power she held over men, and started, herself, to enjoy hurting them. Finally, in the first year of college, how Lana got married, but was quickly divorced by finals, and this time it was all her fault. Oh, how she tried to rekindle, to go back to her first husband, a guy who was basically good and wholesome, but rather unremarkable in all other respects, but she was unable to find him and even if she did, who can say whether he'd take her back.

She finally found happiness at UH in the world of western books, and she's thinking, after her Masters, to pursue a Ph.D. in Western Literature.

"On the other hand," I tell her, "consider the beauty that is architecture. We know we raised a good, solid structure only after the first earthquake hits. Fortunately, earthquakes don't come too often. By the time our creations come to the test, we're long gone."

We talk and talk and talk for hours. She forgets her crossword puzzle and I don't let her forget the wine. She's a smart, funny girl, and I manage to fool her into believing that I'm an interesting individual.

Two hours into the conversation, I touch her cheek by mistake while handling my drink, but it's a tender touch and my hand lingers and is caressing her cheek, and her eyes sparkle and I can hear her rushed breath.

"Are you married?" she asks.

"My wife died two years ago."

Coincidentally, this is equally factual and can be readily verified. Greg Turner's wife, Chloe, died two years ago at Lake Placid, where she is buried in the Community Cemetery.

And I look very sad, and my eyes wonder about the cabin, and, wait, is that a tear streaming down my cheek? I turn my head, embarrassed by it. Lana takes me by the hand. I turn back. Her mouth is ready and she’s already expecting the first kiss.

A very soft kiss on her plump, pouty red lips that makes life a little more bearable today than it was yesterday. And I forget who I am, and who she is and where we are, for a second, and two and three.

And this is the first second of love in a long time and I'm so grateful.

I know, I know kissing on a plane is now a strict no-no and forbidden and it can get you bodily thrown out on your ear, but hopefully not if you are an important passenger in first class.

She tugs at the cuff of my coat.

"You're not a shy person," she says.

I am puzzled.

"Remember, at the gate," she says. "When you told me you were a shy person."

"When I told you I were," I laugh, "was a shy person?"

"Yes, you did. And you know what? You lied to me. You aren't shy at all. No, not at all, but I am glad."

"But I am, you know, I really am."

She laughs at her turn and I laugh with her.

"No, no, I
really
am," laugh indignantly.

How well we tango together. It gets almost scary at times. Two peas in a pod.

We canoodle for the rest of the flight, with tall glasses of champagne; we frolic and snicker like two drunken collegians. Lana and I in our sumptuous first class seating, we dine on wine and caviar, forget about the ills of the world and society and the righteous kills I have to execute in the next few days in order to make the world a better place according to me.

But God allows a man only so much fun in this life.

We've been flying in French territory for half an hour or so, and now the pilot is getting ready to land.

Round and round, lower and lower the bird flies. So the houses that seemed like grains of sand at the first iteration and colorful bugs at the second now look like tiny houses on an architect's model.

The plane touches down, the wheels hit the tarmac with a small jolt, and in no time we arrive at the luggage counter.

We talked, talked all the time during the flight. We never stopped talking.

But we both shut up as soon as the pilot started the landing procedure. There is no nice way to put it, but I don’t know what she thinks and I don't really know if I'll ever I see her again.

Down in the airport on the walkway, we stroll side by side and look straight ahead, silent and serious, with serious faces. I hold out my hand to catch hers and she grips mine.

Somehow, her presence has become necessary to my well-being. I don't know how it could happen in only a few hours, and I don't know what she thinks about it. I can't divine her intentions.

"I have a car in long-term parking," I say. "I can drive you anywhere."

"I see, Mister Architect, mister retired Architect."

We pick up the luggage and are now in my car, driving into town. She gave me the name of some obscure hotel, I forget which, and I have not the foggiest idea of how to get there, but I drive and drive, just to be with her.

Then suddenly.

"I’m hungry," she says. "Let's get something to eat."

I have an idea.

"If you want a bite to eat, I know a place with the best food in Paris. You'll not regret it."

I have a little retreat, a little chalet, not too pretentious a quarter hour away from the city.

I call from my car phone.

I talk to Germaine, the lady of the house, and tell her to prepare dinner for two and make ready two rooms. It's a bold move and I watch Lana's reaction to the conversation.

"We'll dine there if you don't mind. You'll make up your mind if you want to stay overnight. It's beautiful there. What do you say?"

"I enjoy familiar places," I explain, "but I find it hard to adjust to new surroundings. Sometimes, when I need peace and quiet, this is where I find it. You'll see. You'll like it there."

"Let's have dinner then. After that, you can drive me back to my hotel."

I fill the time with idle chatter and don't stop until we arrive at "Les Alouettes."

Germaine has set the table in the drawing room and we go directly there. The food is delicious, but I am too nervous to enjoy it, so I’m rather relieved when Lana decides to retire in the middle of the meal.

"I'm very tired all of a sudden. If you have an extra room, I'll stay here tonight and I’ll get back into the city tomorrow."

We say good-night and I give her a peck on the cheek. We were outrageous on the plane, where the possibility of sex was almost zero, and now suddenly become very tentative. I reconsider and give her a second kiss, this time hard, on the mouth. But there it ends.

Our rooms are next to each other. I show her mine and take her to her room. Both come with a bathroom.

I explain that I have some work to do before I go to bed.

She wishes me goodnight, after which she closes and locks the door to her room.

I call Albert from my study. I tell him that everything looks fine and inquire about how things are on his side of the equation.

"When can we expect you home, Mark?"