Honeymoon

Chapter 72

I STEPPED OUT of the shower and wiped the back of my hand on the fogged-up mirror until I could see myself staring back. I shook my head. Shook it a second time.

Well, you’ve really done it now, O’Hara.

Undercover work requires a certain amount of room to maneuver—but this was stretching the limits. I’d gone way beyond the call of duty, only not in the way where they give you a medal at the Hoover Building in Washington.

From here on out, it was going to be very, very tricky.

“Craig, are you okay?”

Nora was calling me from the bottom of the stairs. I opened the door to the bathroom. “The shower was great. I’m coming.”

“Good,” she said. “Because your omelet’s going to be ready in a flash.”

I combed my hair straight back, put my clothes back on, and loped downstairs to join Nora in the kitchen. Oh man, she was quite the sight, decked out in only her bra, panties, and a spatula. What a spectacular-looking body, and with a great smile.

I noticed there was only one place setting on the table. “You’re not having anything?” I asked.

“No, I’ve been nibbling a little bit on the ham.” She raised a bottle of water. “And I’ve got my usual. Watching the waistline.”

“I was watching it for you. You don’t have any reason to worry.”

I sat down and watched as she tended to the skillet on the stove. Staring was more like it. She was as stunning from the back as from the front. And as for that waistline—“What waistline?”

Cool it, O’Hara.

But honestly, I couldn’t. It was a weird feeling, and it immediately had me thinking about someone I used to know. A narcotics officer, a friend. He was a really good guy, a good cop. At least, he was until he made a fatal mistake. He foolishly sampled the goods and got addicted.

The lesson was hard to miss. Even after my shower I thought I could still smell Nora on my skin. I could still taste her. And all I could think about was how I wanted more of her. I didn’t know how I could stop myself.

“Here you go,” she said.

I gazed down at the big, fluffy western omelet she’d put in front of me. “Looks delicious.” And I was hungry, maybe because I’d burned off lunch back in the foyer.

I picked up my fork and took a bite. “Spectacular.”

She cocked her head. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you, Craig Reynolds.” Nora leaned over and ran a hand through my hair. “You want a beer, or something?”

“How about some water.” The last thing I needed was more alcohol.

She went to the cabinet for a glass while I continued on her omelet. Truth be told, it really was delicious.

“Can you stay the night?” she asked, returning with my water. “Please stay.”

The question surprised me, though it probably shouldn’t have. I started to look around the kitchen, all the more aware of whose house I was in. The place was professional-grade everything—beautiful, actually—top-drawer in every nook and cranny. Viking, Traulsen, Miele, Gaggia—the best brands in the world.

Nora glanced in the direction of the foyer. Her sundress was still lying on the marble floor.

“I think it’s a little late to be weirded out,” she said.

She was right, and I was about to admit as much—when my stomach suddenly felt very strange.