Sex on Tuesdays (17 page)

Still in Simon's arms, I shook my head. “But who? Who would want me dead?”

“Whoever murdered Mary.”

“Jack Rivers?”

“If it is Jack, I'll shove his leery grin down his throat and then pound him senseless with his own laptop before they toss him into jail,” Simon snarled. “Although, to be honest, this whole poisoned pumpkin-bread thing stinks of Alice.”

“Alice? But why would she want me dead?”

“Same reason her stepsister is dead, I suppose.”

By now, the heat from Simon's embrace had stopped my shaking but the grim reminder that Jack or Alice or someone unknown, wanted me dead, had me loathe to move away from the security of his arms. “Simon,” I said looking up at his familiar face with its strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. “What am I going to do?”

“Well, honey, for a start, I want you to go inside and sit by the heater with a blanket wrapped around you while I sort this lot out.” His lips brushed against my forehead. “Okay?”

“No. No, I can't,” I objected, rocking back on my heels as I struggled to get away from him. “I can't let you throw my birds in the rubbish bin. I need to bury them. In individual graves. I couldn't bear the thought of Tonto and the others tossed out like bits of trash.”

“Dani, when I said, ‘sort this lot out,' I meant contact the station and get onto my mate in forensics, ask him to check the box for fingerprints and take the birds away so he can do an autopsy. We have to know what killed them.” Simon put one arm around me, pulled me close again and brushed a stray lock of hair from my eyes. “I'll stay here until Gazza arrives and then I promise I'll come in and massage your shoulders until the tension's all gone. Meanwhile, all you have to do is keep yourself warm and stay calm. You've had one hell of a shock.”

“I'd love a relaxing massage,” I told him and then grabbed the bull by the horns. “But I'm afraid that won't be enough. You see, I don't want to sleep on my own tonight.”

His lips were soft as they met mine. The flavor of spearmint tingled on my tongue as his mouth opened and invited me in. And then, in full view of anyone walking past the house, his kiss deepened until I swear my limbs were ready to melt into treacle. “Dani, honey,” he said, finally letting me up for air before pushing me gently towards the front door. “You couldn't get rid of me tonight if you tried.”

18

Thursday, 7:40 p.m.

Operating on auto pilot, I walked inside, lit the fire, dragged a rug from my bed and curled up on the couch. Now that Simon's arms were no longer around me, the enormity of a killer leaving poisoned bread on my doorstep hit me with a punch to the stomach.

Who wanted me dead?

And why?

Okay, let's say Jack Rivers murdered Mary. An affair gone wrong? Blackmail? But why involve me? And what reason did he have to kill me? I hardly knew the man and as for Mary Foster, I'd never laid eyes on her, in life or death.

I shook my head. Simon and I must be missing a vital piece of this jigsaw puzzle, because none of it made any sense. And then another thought hit me. Perhaps Mary Foster herself was the key to everything.

Reaching across the table, I snagged my laptop, pulled it onto my knee, powered the computer up and proceeded to Google
Mary Foster
.

Well, what do you know
…

Fifteen minutes later, after surfing from one internet site to another, my research eventually hit pay dirt. Mary Foster wasn't merely a sweet innocent homemaker who collected garden gnomes. Until her death, Mary Foster, alias
Sweet Lips Barbarella,
had also been a prostitute.

Our suspect, Jack Rivers was interviewing prostitutes for
Gape
at the moment. Coincidence? Or part of his master-plan?

On a hunch, I decided to go into MySpace and after trawling around for another fifteen minutes, discovered
Sweet Lips
was quite popular—even judges, lawyers, doctors and a couple of prominent politicians (unnamed of course) were part of her clientele. That's if you could believe the blogs and videos I'd skimmed through.

Had Mary's husband, Derek known about his wife's secret life? If so, he hadn't mentioned it when we'd spoken to him. In fact he'd blamed Mary's lack of interest in sex for having
his
affair. What if he believed his wife worked night-shift at the local supermarket as a shelf-filler and discovered she'd been getting paid big bucks to get it off with other men and not him? Wouldn't that be a strong enough motive to kill her?

Certainly more of a motive than I could dig up for Jack Rivers.

Stumped, my mind whipping around in circles, I dragged the cordless phone from its base next to the couch and dialed Megan. If anyone could give me the goss about
Sweet Lips Barbarella
it would be Megan.

Although I hadn't spoken to my breezy sexologist assistant since she'd arranged the disastrous date with Spanky Eddie, I kept my hostility in check. After all, if I wanted Megan's cooperation, this wasn't the time to inform her that her choice in men sucked. Big time.

“Megan, the reason I'm ringing,” I explained after a couple of minutes of exchanged pleasantries and her polite query re my health, “is because I'm after information and I figured you might be able to help me.”

“Okaaay,” she said, a definite uneasy note creeping into her voice. “Um…although, if you're looking for another blind date, Dani, I'm—”

“No!” I put in so quickly I almost swallowed my tongue. “No more blind dates! It's to do with a prostitute who calls herself,
Sweet Lips Barbarella
. Ever heard of her?”

The silence on the other end of the phone stretched into several seconds. “Megan? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I…lost you for a moment.” She cleared her throat. “Um…
Sweet Lips Barbarella
?”

“Yeah. Know her?”

“No…no, I don't think I've ever come across anyone with that name, Dani. What is it you need to know about her?”

“Anything and everything you can find out.”

“Right.” She cleared her throat again. Probably been shagging some guy in the park at midnight just to get an adrenalin rush and caught a cold instead. “So…why are you interested in this woman?”

I sighed and slumped back against the cushions. There was an unknown killer out there with a penchant for baking poisoned bread and he/she wanted me dead. Hell, I was interested in everyone. “Megan, I think this woman could be the key to what's been happening over the last few days. Her real name is Mary Foster. You know, the woman who was murdered on Monday night.
DF'
s wife.”

“Okay, I'll ask around,” she said. “And if I find out anything of interest, I'll get back to you.”

“Thanks Megan, I appreciate it. You're a real mate.” And then I couldn't help adding. “Even if you
do
have a lousy collection of males in your harem. None of whom I'd
ever
be interested in dating again, thank you very much.”

“Your loss,” she purred, and I imagined her casual shrug as she examined the perfectly manicured talons on the end of each finger before ending the call.

* * *

“How ya doin', darlin'?” Simon barreled through the front door and strode into the lounge room where he plumped down onto the couch beside me and flung one arm around my shoulders.

“Getting there,” I told him, scooting closer and liking the feel of his solid body against mine. “How'd it go with the forensic guy?”

“Okay. Although Gazza doesn't hold out much hope of finding fingerprints on the box. Crooks tend to be clever enough to wear gloves these days. I blame all these television crime shows. Too many hints given for free on what
not
to do when breaking the law. Anyway, he did say he'll get back to me when he's finished doing the autopsies on the birds.”

“But—”

“Don't worry…I buried Tonto in the garden before Gazza arrived. Couldn't send him off to be cut up, could we?”

“You
buried
Tonto?”

“Under the rose bush. Thought you'd like that.”

“Simon Templar,” I declared, throwing both arms around his neck and kissing him full on the mouth. “Did I ever tell you that you really are a saint?”

“Not that I recall,” he answered, eyes twinkling. “But don't let me stop you. Especially if you kiss me every time you feel the need to tell me.”

“Well, you are,” I said and then before things got too schmaltzy, I indicated the screen on my laptop. “Take a look at this. While
you've
been dealing with forensics,
I've
been busy too.”

“Who are we looking at?”

“It's Mary Foster—alias
Sweet Lips Barbarella.”

“
What? Derek's wife was on the game?” Simon's eyebrows did a hike. “Bloody hell, and that weasel Derek said she wasn't interested in sex.”

“Perhaps she didn't have the energy when she came home. And Derek may not have known about his wife's secret life. Mary might have told him she worked nights at McDonald's or as a cleaner at a local factory.”

“Believe me, honey, a husband would soon find out if his wife spent her nights on her back playing whoopee with other men. And anyway, what about all that loot she'd be earning?
Sweet Lips
would make more money in one week than you and I would make in a month.”

“But if Derek found out and murdered her, who tried to run him down with the four wheel drive?”

“Unless it wasn't Derek they were after.”

Not what I wanted to hear
…

“And what about Jack?” I asked him, purposely steering him away from the chilling subject of who the driver of the Subaru was actually aiming at. “If he was one of Mary's clients, she could have been blackmailing him.”

“Can't see that bothering Rivers,” mumbled Simon and leant over to clear the computer screen before switching off the power button. “Anyway, that's enough on the subject tonight. Let's leave the questions until tomorrow. Instead, I'm going to feed you pizza and then we're going to chill out and watch Wile E. Coyote set up his latest ACME magic in a vain attempt to slow the Road Runner down so he can catch him and eat him.” He stood up and wandered towards the kitchen. “Hope you're hungry. I bought a family-size pizza. How do you want me to heat it? Microwave or oven?”

I scrambled to my feet and followed him. “Nuke it in the microwave, Simon. It's quicker. I'll pour the wine.”

Two hours later, on the floor between Simon's outstretched legs, I leaned back against his chest. Three glasses of wine and a shoulder massage that had me purring like a contented cat had left me feeling pleasantly drowsy. My couch-potato dog, Horace, stretched out on the couch snoring—an empty pizza box beside him—had already called it a night. On the television screen it appeared Wile E. Coyote had blown himself up for the fiftieth time and the roadrunning ostrich was streaking into the distance. Again.

I yawned.

Simon took the empty glass from my hand and set it on the floor beside us. “You ready for bed, darlin'?”

I nodded.

“And you're sure about this?” he asked, his lips gently nibbling the back of my neck and setting the fine hairs on fire.

I nodded again. Couldn't speak.

“In that case,” he murmured, using the tip of his tongue to create tiny circles that headed toward my right ear, “how about I undress you very slowly and put you to bed—and then set about tasting every morsel of your delicious body.”

Oh. My. God
.

Arms wrapped around me, Simon stood up, bringing me along with him. He turned me around, found my mouth with a kiss so soft, so sweet, it took my breath away, and then scooped me into his arms and carried me towards the bedroom, somehow making me feel like a slip of a girl instead of 65kilos of middle-aged woman.

“Simon,” I said laughing as he angled my body through the bedroom doorway and almost caught my legs on the frame. “For goodness sake, put me down. Come on, you can stop the he-man stuff. You'll be no good to me if you do your back in.”

“Thank God.” He grinned as he let me slip to the ground and then held his back in mock agony. “But I thought all women liked to be mastered.”

“Simon, I'm not
all women
and you're not twenty-five anymore.”

“Tell me about it!” He raised one eyebrow and then proceeded to tug my jumper over my head. “But don't give up on me, honey. You're about to find out that a man who jogs five kilometers a day and works out at the gym three days a week is still a tiger in the sack.” He tossed my jumper over his shoulder and as I watched it curl in the air and land on top of my dresser, an icy chill grabbed at me. Was this a line Simon used on all his female conquests? “Especially when that woman is as special as you are,” he went on. “I can't believe I've known you all these years, Dani, and yet haven't noticed how beautiful you are.”

Now that was more like it
.

And then my brain stopped thinking completely as he unclipped my bra, let it drop to the floor, and bent to rub his lips around my nipples until they were standing to attention, demanding more. And more he gave them. His mouth, hot and wet, suckled and lathed both nipples as though they were delicacies in a French patisserie, making me squirm and moan and arch against him.

“Ready for me to taste more of you?” he asked, his voice thick with lust.

When I nodded, he half carried me to the bed and we both fell on top, arms and legs interlocked. “Love your slacks,” he told me sliding them down over my legs together with my black lacy knickers. They both pooled on the floor beside the bed. “Especially when they're off.”

Oh, God.
Naked, I watched his eyes drift down to my feet and then travel slowly over my body until they almost reached my face. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see the revulsion on his face. I didn't want to defend the cellulite on my hips. I didn't want Simon to suddenly pretend our friendship was too valuable to spoil by having sex with me.

And then my eyes flew open and I gasped, as his hot tongue licked the arches under my feet, tickling the soft skin and making me squirm and giggle. Ignoring my laughter, his lips continued to creep up my legs, kissing their way towards my inner thighs.

Keep going…please, please, keep going.

And he did. His mouth, dynamite on the soft skin inside my legs, drew closer and closer to his ultimate destination.

I should be doing more,
I thought as I purred and whimpered and groaned and lay back like a jelly enjoying every touch of his tongue.
But who'd have thought Simon would come up with moves like this. And it felt sooo good and I'd been without sex for sooo long and maybe….

A louder moan escaped my lips and my brain shut down. Instinctively, my thighs parted—as his tongue, his mouth, and his hot breath reached the vulnerable spot between my legs and sucked at the skin and the folds—then thrust deep inside—his tongue and mouth caressing, licking, tasting—causing an ache in my groin that had me gasping and calling out
don't stop
until I could stand it no longer, and exploded in an orgasm that rocked the room.

Ooh boy!

“Glad you enjoyed that,” he said, his dimple bobbing as he smiled that smile a cat gets when it's just finished licking a bowl of cream.

Smug. Very smug. Hey, I had moves of my own, and although they might be a tad rusty, it was my turn to make Simon scream for mercy. “Okay, you can button up that tongue of yours, Templar, cuz now it's your turn to squirm,” I warned him, both hands pushing against his chest until he rolled off me and onto his back.

Kissing my way down his body until my head lay between his legs, I touched the hardness of his swollen penis with the tip of my tongue and smiled when it jerked and grew thicker. Yeah. This was power. Butterfly kisses had him groaning. Lathing had him squirming, and when I took his heat inside my mouth and began to suck, his hand shot down and pulled me up and over onto my back where he captured my mouth with his. “Condom,” he panted and rolled off me to stretch down to the floor where he fought to get inside the pocket of his trousers.

“Do you always carry a spare in case you get lucky?” I asked, taking it from him and undoing the packet.