The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

the pants were tight, and she did have the most perfect backside, and the beige extra high heels were mildly amusing.

Then she was in the car glancing quizzically across at him.

‘Are you going to tell me what this new image is all about?’

‘I felt like a change.’

‘It’s that all right. I’m not sure I like it. You look like a spiv.’

‘You’ll like it, squeaker,’ he said.

‘Don’t call me that, I don’t like it.’

‘I’ll call you what I like.’

‘I thought the point of going to Italy was to get a tan, not to go there caked up in a false one.’

‘The point of going to Italy, doll, is for us to spend some quality time together, get my meaning? Are we going to enjoy this holiday, or are we going to bicker?’

She glanced across at him and into his blue eyes and realised she might spoil things, and remembered how much he excited her and said, ‘Oh sorry, darling,’ and she reached across and kissed him, depositing pink lipstick on his lips, and muzzy.

The moustache tickled and she didn’t know whether she liked that either. It wasn’t even his, it couldn’t have been; it wasn’t there when she last saw him. What was the complete wazzock playing at? He was always doing crazy things, though she didn’t say, for she didn’t want to upset him again.

In the next second he’d started the car and they were away, heading toward Manchester airport and glorious Italy beyond.

THEY HAD BEEN ON THE flight twenty minutes when he ambled to the lavatories and removed the moustache and slipped it back into the slim plastic cover and then into his wallet. He didn’t think it possible that the police were looking for him, but it was always best not to take any chances, and he quite liked the excitement of disguise.

He hadn’t yet decided whether to wear it on the return journey. He washed his face but the tan was not for turning, so he winked at himself in the mirror and returned to Mel.

‘Well that’s some improvement,’ she said, staring up at him and linking his arm as he sat beside her, and maybe she could get used to the additional height too. It had never bothered her before, his slightness, but this new taller Luke could grow on her. ‘Come here,’ she said, and she pulled him closer and kissed him properly, a promise of things to come, he imagined.

Honeymooners, imagined the older couple across the aisle, stuck out a mile, lucky things. Make the most of it for it will only be a fleeting moment.

THE HOTEL WAS BEYOND fabulous, their suite luxury beyond compare, the views to die for, the food incredible, the wine as good as she had ever tasted, and the sex beyond measure, and so much of it, the guy was like a buck rabbit on rechargeable batteries, he seemingly could not get enough of her, something she put down to her innate ability to attract men, something she had recognised since she was twelve, and something she felt very comfortable with, and eternally grateful for.

True, he did sometimes go over the top, became a little too rough, more than a little on occasion, but she could live with that, especially if it pleased him, because ultimately that was what she wanted to do, to please Luke Edward Flowers, totally and utterly, and she would do whatever it took to accomplish that, almost anything.

SHE WAS SITTING IN the salon, Luigi’s this time. It had become something of a ritual whenever they went to Italy, or anywhere else come to that. She would have her hair done in the best local salon, and that invariably meant the most expensive place, and expensive in Venice was expensive indeed.

She needed it too, after the torrid night he’d put her through. Her hairstyle was wrecked and ruined and needed all of Luigi’s skills to set it right.

‘Signorina,’ he pleaded, ‘what-a you do with this fine-a blond-a hair? Mamma mia!’

She smiled at the handsome man in the mirror and shrugged her shoulders, tried hard not to blush, too embarrassed to say a word about it, for she imagined that Luigi could guess well enough if he tried.

LUKE SAT OUTSIDE ON a crowded bench, as a bunch of middle-aged Americans hiding under straw hats, threw corn for the pigeons. One of the birds thanked the visitors by squirting poop at them as it dashed for the barley.

Luke saw it coming, swayed to his left out of the way, and it landed on the corn thrower’s left forearm.

‘It’s lucky you know,’ the guy grinned, beaming round and staring stupidly at the others, and Luke, and anyone else who happened to be there, as the American’s wife handed him a tissue and said, ‘Wipe yourself, Wilbur.’

Lucky my backside, thought Luke as he took out his phone and rang Sahira.

‘Where are you?’ she whispered.

‘Venice,’ he said. He could tell she was whispering but he could still hear her OK. If she was whispering it probably meant she was at home and didn’t want to be overheard.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘On holiday, what do you think?’

‘With her again, I suppose.’

‘Don’t start that again. Where are you?’

‘In my bedroom. I was just thinking about you. When are you coming home?’

‘Week on Friday.’

‘That long! When are you going to see me again?’

‘Don’t know yet, we’ll have to fix something up.’

‘You do want to see me again, Luke, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, course I do, doll. You know that.’

‘Sometimes I wonder.’

‘Look, I’ll bell you as soon as I get home. I’ll have to go now, the battery’s going.’

‘OK, make sure you do, and Luke...’

‘What?’

‘I love you very much.’

‘Course you do, doll.’

Then she said in a rush, ‘Sorry I’ll have to go, dad’s coming!’ and she cut off, leaving Luke staring at his silent latest design handset.

Silly bitch, he said aloud, but it didn’t matter, for the Americans had gone, to be replaced by a gang of nouveau