Honeymoon

Chapter 4

AS SHE WALKED up to the oversize double doors of the old brownstone, Nora reached inside her purse for the key she’d been given when Jeffrey Walker first hired her. With the place so big and the buzzer a little temperamental, he’d asked that she just let herself in. A little voice in her head whispered, Sweet.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Nora called as she stepped inside. “Hello? Mr. Walker?”

She stood in the center of the foyer and listened. Then she heard the distant sound of Miles Davis and his magnificent trumpet trickling down from the second floor.

She called out again. This time she heard footsteps overhead.

“Nora, is that you?” came a voice from atop the stairs.

“Were you expecting someone else?” she answered. “You better not be.”

Jeffrey Walker hurried down to the foyer. Then he swept Nora up in his arms. He twirled her around as they kissed for a full minute. Then they kissed again.

“God, you’re so beautiful!” he said, finally lowering her back to the floor.

She gave him a playful punch to the stomach with her left hand. Connor’s four-carat diamond had already been replaced by Jeffrey’s six-carat sapphire set with diamonds in a three-stone arrangement.

“I bet you say that to all your wives,” she said.

“No, just the gorgeous ones like you. God, I missed you, Nora. Who wouldn’t?”

They laughed and kissed again, deeply and passionately.

“So, tell me, how was your flight?” he asked.

“Good. For commercial anyway. How’s the new book coming?”

“It’s no War and Peace. No Da Vinci Code, either.”

“You always say that, Jeffrey.”

“It’s always true.”

At age forty-two, Jeffrey Sage Walker was an international bestselling author of historical fiction. He had fans numbering in the millions, the majority of them women. They liked his writing and strong female characters, but his rough-hewn handsomeness on the dust jacket certainly didn’t hurt. Never had tussled bleached-blond hair and razor stubble looked so good.

Suddenly he swooped Nora up and threw her over his shoulder. She howled as he climbed the stairs.

Jeffrey was headed for the bedroom, but Nora grabbed a doorjamb and made him turn into his library. She had her eye on his favorite chair—the one he did his writing in. “You always say you do your best work in it,” she said. “Let’s see about that.”

He lowered her into the worn brown leather seat cushion and changed the music. Norah Jones, one of their favorites.

As the singer’s strong smoky voice began to build slowly and engulf the room, Nora leaned back and lifted her legs. Jeffrey removed her sandals, her capri pants, her panties. He helped her off with her favorite green cardigan while she reached down into his jeans.

“My handsome, brilliant husband,” she whispered as she pulled down his pants.