Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

he spoke, he unfolded himself and enveloped me in a hug. Wukowski is six-foot even to my five-three. I inhaled his chest—mmm, man and soap and clean shirt smell—and wrapped my arms around his back, gently massaging his spine with the knuckles of one hand. He liked that.

“Shoot,” I said, “I was anticipating a cholesterol crash at Paul’s after we worked out, then maybe a film noir detective movie at my place…or even an early night. Oh, well, guess I’ll have to find myself another handsome cop for the night.”

“Not funny, short stuff.” He ruffled my spiky hair. “Maybe I should hire a PI to keep an eye on you.” He pulled back a bit and leaned down to plant a kiss. My insides started to tighten up, little tingles moving southward. Would the sparks eventually smooth into a nice steady hum?

“Work meeting?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Want to come over when it ends?” I asked.

“It might be late.”

“Well, if it’s before midnight, ring my bell. Maybe I’ll be up for some nookie, Wookie.” The first time Iggy introduced Wukowski to me, I asked him, “Do they call you Wookie?” His response: “Only once,” in a Joe Friday, stick-up-the-butt tone of voice. Funny how pairing Wookie with nookie didn’t seem to offend. I put my lips to his this time—fair’s fair, and a guy doesn’t like to do all the chasing! He slowly disengaged from me, climbed into the Wrangler and drove off with a wave.

I grabbed my workout bag from the Miata, put in an hour of sweat and headed home to my Lake Drive high-rise condo. My steam shower with its five pulsating heads beats Rick’s communal shower any day. Some folks snidely whispered “middle-aged crazy” when I sold the family home after the divorce and bought the convertible and the condo. They never understood that the tight constraints of the American dream that I forced myself into for twenty-five years of marriage were not the real me. That June Cleaver shirtwaist dress and pearls hid a push-up bra and red thong. My ex’s philandering hurt, but it also resulted in the freedom to be the woman I always wanted to be. Don’t misunderstand, I loved my life as a wife and mother, but I wanted the rest of life, too.

The lobby mailbox contained the usual junk. My personal mail goes to a rented box at a private service center. It’s more secure, and they can sign for packages, so it’s also more convenient. I tossed the unopened envelopes on the hall table, planning to shred them later. No paper leaves my home or office unshredded. It’s amazing what a dedicated snoop can find out from what seem like innocuous mailings.

I stripped out of my workout clothes as I ambled down the hallway to my bedroom and tossed them into the hamper in the walk-in closet. I admit to being a bit of a sybarite about my clothes, shoes and bags. The closet used to be a small guest bedroom. I converted it so that my stuff would be organized and accessible. No sense buying great clothes and then having them get wrinkled on the hanger. Or letting designer shoes lay in a jumbled heap. I’m a woman who appreciates order and my closet reflects it.

In the shower, I shampooed, soaped, shaved and exfoliated. Then I dried, moussed my hair, applied cream to my face, neck and décolletage, and used three different lotions on my body, feet and hands. Lastly, I pulled on a soft cotton tee and pants, and slid my feet into terry cloth thongs. Body maintenance takes a lot of time and effort.

While I studied the open refrigerator, the phone rang. My papa’s deep baritone voice rang out. “Buona sera, Angelina.” Uh-oh. Use of full first name, not in a sentimental situation. I was in Papa’s bad books. At least he hadn’t used my middle name, too. Hearing ‘Angelina Sofia’ makes my heart hitch a beat.

“Hi, Papa. What’s up? How’s Aunt Terry?”

“What’s up?” he parroted. “Let me see. Thanksgiving is three weeks away. Two weeks ago, Aunt Terry invited your police officer friend to join us for the holiday meal. Did you extend the invitation to him?”

Busted. I’d been trying to find the right time and place to talk to Wukowski about it, ever since Aunt Terry told me that she and the rest of the family expected “my new man” to line up, front and center, for inspection. We’d only known each other since early summer, only been a couple since mid-August. I hadn’t figured out how to broach the subject yet.

Wukowski is a private man of few words. My Sicilian-American family—Papa, Aunt Terry, my grown children David and Emma and their respective spouses, Elaine and John, David’s twins Patrick and Donald and Emma’s girl and my namesake, Angela—is pretty darned nosy and noisy. I could picture it now: everyone bombarding him with questions as they passed the turkey and dressing, pasta and salad. Wukowski responding with his deadpan “yes” or “nope.” Gary Cooper meets the Corleones. Disaster.

“Papa, I planned to ask him tonight when we went out to dinner. But he got called into work. I’ll ask Wukowski this week, I promise.”

“Wukowski. You call him by his last name? Doesn’t the man have a first name?”

No way could I divulge Wukowski’s name. His badge read “W. T. Wukowski” and his buddies called him Ted. When I told him that I wouldn’t go to bed with a man whose name I didn’t know, he ’fessed up to his very Polish and very embarrassing given names: Wenceslas Tadeusz. Ven-chess-louse Ta-doosh. That’s right, his mama named him after the Christmas carol, “Good King Wenceslas.” Apparently, it was playing on the radio as his dad barreled up the icy drive to St. Mary’s hospital with his laboring wife humming along. And then she threw in an unpronounceable middle name. No wonder the poor guy went by Ted.

Back to my dilemma. “He thinks it’s cute that I call him Wukowski,