Expecting to Die

CHAPTER 11
T
his was dangerous.
Marjory Tufts peered through the blinds of the French doors. She checked the
long drive, but the asphalt cutting along the side of the manicured lawn was
empty and, aside from some hummingbirds flitting around the shrubbery and the
neighbor’s black cat stalking birds splashing in the fountain, there were no signs
of life.
The motor home was parked in its slot, the end of the boat trailer visible in the
extra garage, and everything else was buttoned up tight.
They were alone.
She smiled. Felt naughty, even a little dirty.
Someone could come by, of course, but the gardener had been here early,
fixing the sprinkler system and mowing the grass. No one else was scheduled to
come by, but . . . one never knew.
“Come here,” he called from the bed, and she turned to spy him on the mussed
covers, the smell of sex still lingering, his tall body naked and tanned, legs
wound between the sheets, his eyes following her every move. He was
handsome, she thought, and muscular, the veins beneath his skin bulging a little
when he flexed, the outline of his muscles visible. She loved running the tips of
her fingers over the washboard of his abdomen or the sinewy strength of his
back and shoulders.
She, too, was wearing nothing, and at the abject lust in his eyes, she felt her
nipples tighten and a warmth invade her most private of parts.
While she still felt a little bruised from his more than enthusiastic penetration,
she felt a thrill go through her. Yes, she could be ready again, and to show him
just how interested she was, she arched an eyebrow, took her thumb and stuck it
in her mouth, then slowly trailed it down to her breasts.
She caught her reflection in the mirror over the bureau, saw that the tip of her
tongue was visible between her teeth, and felt sexier than she ever had in her
life.
“We don’t have much time,” she said, still planted by the shaded doors.
“I’m quick.” A cocky smile, a quick flash of white against his tanned skin.
“When I want to be.”
“And do you . . . want to be?”

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“Slow would be better, but . . .” His voice was low and sexy, and she still felt
the rash of whisker burns all over her body from where he’d run his face against
her abdomen, breasts, and the inside of her thighs.
At that thought, she began to pulse inside.
“It’s dangerous.”
His gaze wandered hungrily up her body. “Just the way you like it.”
She started for the bed. “You think you know me,” she whispered as he
grabbed her hand and she tumbled onto the length of him. But he was right, and
maybe the risk of getting caught, the knowledge that they were breaking so
many vows, the pure indecency of having sex with another man in her marriage
bed, maybe that’s what made it so delightful, so damned hot.
Because she was on fire again. As his hands and tongue poked and prodded,
licked and caressed, and his teeth nibbled at her nipples, causing just the tiniest
bit of pain, she wanted him. Again and again and again. Wanted to feel him on
top of her, mounting her, taking her, making her feel as if she were the most
primal and sexy woman in the world.
And he did. Over and over again.
Until she heard the sound of the garage door lifting on the floor below and
they both froze.
“Get out of here,” she whispered, suddenly panicked.
“Is it—?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “Now, leave!”
He flew off the bed, his eyes wide as they both heard the kitchen door open
from the garage.
She placed a finger to her lips as he gathered his jeans and T-shirt. She was
already straightening the covers, and sliding open a window. “Go into the next
bedroom. Hurry! Hide there. I’ll . . . I’ll think of something. I’ll distract him and
you can leave. Wait until you hear him up here. With me.”
He slipped through the doorway and tiptoed down the hallway as her
husband’s tread echoed in the mudroom downstairs. Frantically she found her
perfume atomizer and gave the room a spray, then flew into the bathroom,
sprayed again, twisted on the shower, and stepped inside. The water was cold,
and she gasped as the needle-sharp spray slashed against her skin and into her
eyes.
Oh, God, she hoped Richtor didn’t see him on the landing, didn’t guess.
She thought of the lovemaking and bit her lip. Why had they been so reckless?
They both knew the consequences. Richtor Tufts had a mercurial temper. Oh,
God, she could never let him find out.
And, this, the cheating, could never happen again, even if her lover did have a

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way of turning her inside out.
She grabbed for a bar of soap, but her hands were shaking so badly, the bar
toppled from her fingers and hit the tiles of the floor. “Damn it.” She was losing
it. Scared. All those happy little feelings of being “bad” disappeared at the
thought of her husband’s reaction if he knew she’d been sleeping with . . .
She took in a deep breath and, as the spray started to warm, snatched up the
slippery little bar and began lathering her body. The spray and lather would hide
the marks on her skin, the smell of the soap and perfume hiding the scent of sex,
and she could say she’d taken a nap while reading a book. That’s why the bed
wasn’t perfect.
Forcing herself, she began to hum as steam roiled over the glass door of the
shower.
“Marjory?” she heard her husband call from the bedroom. Her insides twisted.
“Marj?”
And then he was poking his head into the bathroom.
“Hey. What’s going on?”
“What’s it look like?” She smiled through the foggy glass.
“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“I know. Didn’t feel well today.” She sent him a look. “You know.”
“Are you okay?” He was looking at her body, the shower door not quite
opaque, and she felt a little jab of guilt. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Richtor.
She did. In a way. Just not all that passionately. He was a big man, tall and good
looking, though of course he was graying, his goatee almost silver. But he’d kept
himself in shape. Sort of. And he owned the Ford dealership in town, so he could
afford this house and the motor home and the boat and fabulous vacations and . .
.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Good. Sooo . . . maybe I should join you,” he said through the glass.
He was already toeing off one loafer with the other, then pulling his blue polo
shirt with its T
UFTS
F
ORD
logo over his head. Well, why not? Didn’t she need to
find a distraction? He would never guess that she’d just been made love to three
times already this afternoon. What would a fourth hurt? And he’d be less
inclined to be suspicious.
“Maybe you should,” she agreed as he tossed the shirt across the room and
began working on his pants. In a second, he was in the shower and standing
under the spray.
“I think you should do me first . . . with your mouth,” he said. “You know, to
get me going.”
He was having a bit of a problem in that department lately. She didn’t really

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want to give him a blow job in the shower, but it was something she’d done
before they were married, in this very shower, in the middle of the afternoon
when his first wife, Terri, had been out of town for a couple of days and Richtor
had never forgotten, never let her forget it.
At every opportunity, he thought she should nearly drown while going down
on him just so he could get it up enough to penetrate her.
She wanted to refuse, but thought about her lover’s need to escape.
“Sure,” she said, lowering herself to her knees, clinging onto his thick thighs,
and feeling his strong fingers curl in the wet strands of her hair.
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon, Pescoli managed to avoid Joelle, who was being
ever persistent about the damned baby shower. She conducted a few phone
interviews, studied the autopsy herself, double-checked some alibis, then
checked in with Sage Zoller, who was running through all of the statements of
the kids who had been at the party Saturday night. After spending fifteen
minutes being “briefed” by the sheriff, who thankfully didn’t bring up the
Justison interview, she was on the road again, this time in her own Jeep. Alone.
Heading for home. Alvarez was following in her Subaru.
She’d been right. The taste of greasy French fries kept coming back on her,
and she was beginning to regret that particular choice for lunch. Or maybe it was
because she was nervous about Bianca being interviewed. Or maybe just the fact
that she was so bloody pregnant. Whatever the reason, she decided French fries
were going the way of cigarettes, alcohol, and caffeine. At least for a while.
She turned off the main road and onto the long lane leading to her house. The
sun was lazying down around the mountain tops, and as she rounded a final bend
she spied her house and the lake nearby. Ducks were skimming across the water,
and the house, really a large cabin they’d recently built, was a sanctuary for her,
a place she could relax with Santana and the kids and dogs while leaving the
stress of her job at the office.
Well, usually.
But not today.
Not when she recognized Lucky’s yellow Corvette squatted in the space
usually reserved for Jeremy’s battered old pickup. The low-slung sports car was
parked as if it had every right to take up space at her house and probably
anywhere else on the entire planet for that matter.
“Awesome,” she said, and hit the remote clipped onto her visor. The perfect
ending for a perfectly miserable day. The last person she wanted to deal with

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today was her ex. She was tired, starting to get hungry again, and worried about
her daughter. So, no, she really didn’t need to see Luke Pescoli.
But it looked like she’d have to.
The garage door rolled open and she drove into the yawning interior. The area
reserved for Santana’s pickup, an older Dodge Ram, was empty. She didn’t know
if that was a good thing or bad. Probably bad. Though there was no love lost
between the two men, she always felt a little stronger with Santana by her side,
though, of course, she was loath to admit it, prided herself for being a strong,
independent, free-thinking woman, and she was.
But dealing with Luke was always a challenge, and though Santana never got
into their heated discussions, his presence seemed to keep Luke a little more in
line.
Cutting the engine, she checked her rearview and spied the nose of Alvarez’s
Subaru, headlights burning though it was still daylight, making the final turn
through the trees.
She walked outside and waited for Alvarez to pull into a vacant spot near
Lucky’s dream car.
“Luke?” Alvarez slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head.
“Yeah,” she said with a scowl. “Just what we need.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“And maybe I’m not pregnant. Let’s go. Get this over with.”
They headed inside through the garage.
Stepping into the mudroom, Pescoli was assaulted by three dogs. Cisco spun
in tight little circles, all the while yipping frantically. Sturgis wagged his tail
back and forth in an arc that could have swept a coffee table clean, and Nikita,
Santana’s large husky, nuzzled at Pescoli’s thigh and whined a little. “Hi, hi, hi,”
she said, bending over as best she could, scratching each pup behind his ears,
then reaching for a box of dog biscuits she kept in a cupboard. Still barking,
Cisco went out of his little mind, toenails clicking madly on the hardwood as
Pescoli dug out three various-sized treats. Biscuit clamped between his teeth,
Cisco took off to hide under the kitchen table, the lab swallowed his cookie
whole, and Nikita carried his to a dog bed positioned near the fireplace in the
family room.
At Alvarez’s amused expression, Pescoli straightened with difficulty and
explained, “Priorities.”
“I get it.”
They stepped into the kitchen.
As expected, Pescoli found Lucky and Bianca seated on the sectional in the
adjacent family room. Her ex leaned back with his legs stretched onto the

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ottoman, a beer can resting on the side table next to him. She was curled up in an
opposite corner of the couch, her booted ankle elevated on a fat throw pillow.
Bianca was pale and tired-looking while Lucky appeared right at home, his
eyes straying to the muted television, where some baseball game was playing
out. His left hand found the can of Coors, no doubt one he’d scrounged for and
found in her refrigerator, his favorite MO. With a glance at her, he took a long
swallow.
The only good news was that Michelle didn’t appear to have come with him.
Pescoli didn’t think she could handle bubbly, all-smiles wifey right now.
Sometimes the woman’s bright smile, dancing eyes, and ever-present
effervescence were damned irritating. Well, most of the time. No, make that all
of the time. Michelle bugged the crap out of Regan, and she didn’t hide the fact
well.
But Luke’s current wife wasn’t in evidence, so Pescoli pushed the woman out
of her mind and concentrated on her daughter.
“How’re ya doing?” Pescoli asked, rounding the extension of the couch where
Bianca’s foot was elevated.
“She’s doing okay,” Lucky answered for Bianca. “She’s a trooper. A real
Pescoli.”
Regan had to bite her tongue as he took a long pull from his beer can and
lounged with that easygoing Lucky manner, his near-blond hair a little too long,
the tiniest of crow’s feet cut into the skin at the corners of his hazel eyes.
“Bedroom eyes,” she’d once heard a friend comment, only to learn later that the
friend who’d made the remark had been sleeping with him during his marriage
to Regan.
Lucky hadn’t thought his affair was that big of a deal, certainly not grounds
for divorce, but then, she’d learned later, he, a long-haul truck driver, had kept
girlfriends tucked away in various towns and cities along his route for years.
Yeah, she thought now, he was a real charmer.
Pescoli raised an eyebrow at her daughter.
“I’m fine. Bored mainly.” To prove her point, Bianca let out a long-suffering
sigh, and Pescoli was struck, not for the first time, by how much Bianca took
after her father, at least in the looks department. Her hair was curlier and tinged
with red, like her mother’s, but otherwise, Bianca was a petite, feminine Lucky
with smooth skin and a smile that wouldn’t quit. That was, when she deigned to
offer it up, which wasn’t often. All in all, Bianca looking like her father wasn’t
so bad, really. Luke Pescoli was certainly handsome enough, but that narcissistic
attitude . . .
“Detective Alvarez is here,” Pescoli said as Alvarez came in behind her.

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“She’s going to ask you some questions about last night.”
Bianca sighed again. “I know.”
Alvarez said, “It won’t take long.”
“That’s why I came over.” Luke swung his feet to the floor. “To be here for
her.”
That irked Pescoli anew. “She’s not a suspect. She’s just making a statement,
for God’s sake. You’ve been watching too much Law and Order, or NCIS or
whatever.” She thought about pointing out that he’d been an absentee parent for
much of Bianca’s life, but reading her expression, Luke got the message and
rather than argue, took another swallow from his beer. “Just lookin’ out for my
kid’s interests.”
Sure.
Alvarez intervened before the discussion turned into a full-scale argument.
“We can talk over here,” she suggested, already setting up on the kitchen table.
“Fine.” Regan nodded and Bianca, grumbling a little, hobbled to the scratched
table that had been in the family for decades. She sat with her back to the bay
window, her injured foot resting on the seat of another chair, and Pescoli stood
behind her, stretching the kinks from her back and feeling the baby move. The
pending interview made her nervous; she was used to doing the asking, and not
worrying about the answers. But this was her daughter.
“Let’s get started,” Alvarez said, scraping back a chair and sitting down across
the table from Bianca.

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