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

in dangerous situations. “Then why does your mother want to meet me?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to say this, Angie, but I never told her your last name. I figured if you met first, she’d see what a great person you are. Then I could tell her about your family background.”

“You mean, being Sicilian-American?”

“Yeah.” His silence lasted an uncomfortable second too long. “That, and the Mafia connection. Mama thinks all gangs are the same. I know your dad’s legit now, but let’s be honest. Back in the day—”

“Papa was a minor figure in the Family, Wukowski. He didn’t murder anyone or break any kneecaps.”

“Maybe not. But my mom’s paranoia might see it that way.” He paused. “Let’s play it out and see what happens. You tell your papa and aunt that we’ll be there for Thanksgiving. Meanwhile, I’ll introduce you to Mama. If it works out the way I think it will, no problem. If Mama can’t handle it, we’ll figure out an alternative. Like eating two Thanksgiving meals, one Polish and one Italian.” He shook his head, smiling. “Has it occurred to you how strange this is, to still be worried about what our parents think at our age?”

“I don’t see it that way, Wukowski. It’s not like I’m going to let my father make decisions about my love life for me. But family is important to both of us, right?”

“Right.” He downed his shot of vodka and pushed back from the table. When he came around to my side, I stood and moved into his arms. “Angie, my mom can be difficult. She caused a lot of trouble in my marriage. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

My heart did a back flip, coming to rest in my throat. Neither of us had spoken the L word yet, and I wasn’t foolish enough to think that was Wukowski’s intent. But it sure came close. I swallowed hard, aiming for a response that would reassure without giving the impression that I read more into his statement than he probably meant. “No worries, Wukowski,” I told him. We stood, quietly embracing, his chin resting on the top of my head, my cheek resting on his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, like the man himself.

Then it sped up a bit. His hands started to caress my back in circles, moving lower and lower, until he palmed my bum and squeezed. “Thong?” he asked.

“Boy-leg with a low rise waist,” I responded, clasping his head in my hands and giving him a come-hither smile. “Black lace over purple satin. Matching demi bra.”

Damned if he didn’t pick me up and carry me into the bedroom!

Chapter 8

Even if you start with ‘Chapter One: I Am Born,’ you still have the problem of antecedents, of cause and effect.

—Hillary Jordan, Mudbound

Wukowski was still sleeping when I woke at six-thirty. My morning run was a no-go today. Not only did I want to make us both a big breakfast, but we needed to talk about the Johnson case. When I emerged from the bathroom in a short silk robe and fuzzy slip-ons, Wukowski was on his stomach, one arm flung out over my pillow. Aww, he missed me. How endearing was that?

I started a pot of coffee. Wukowski appeared in the kitchen doorway soon after. He’d pulled on his boxers, but was otherwise scrumptiously undressed, with his short brown hair sticking up at odd angles and one eyebrow pointing north while the other lay flat. When did I start finding that appealing?

I waited until he downed half a mug of java. “Pancakes and bacon?”

“Sounds great, but I need to get to the office. I’ll grab a bagel on the way.”

“Speaking of work,” we said simultaneously. Then we each laughed nervously and Wukowski gestured at me to proceed.

“I was at the Johnsons’ hardware store last night, nosing around…” I paused, loathe to disturb the sense of closeness from last night. “And I ran into the beat cops who found the bodies. One of them mentioned that the case had been assigned. To you.”

“Yeah, um, I wanted to tell you about that last night, Ange, but I got distracted by your lingerie.” He smiled. “Shelly Carlson drew it originally, but the day after the Johnsons’ deaths, she gave birth to a little girl. The file got dumped on my desk. I barely had time to read it before…”

“Before you questioned Adriana and me.”

“Right. I know I came down hard on you. It felt like you were keeping information from me. I can’t let personal feelings get in the way of stopping a murderer.”

“I wouldn’t put you in that position. I want the killer caught as much as you do.”

He cleared his throat. “Adriana stated that her family lived like they were on the edge of poverty.”

“She had no clue about the inheritance. I’d swear to that. It wasn’t until after the funerals that Petrovitch, their attorney, dropped the bombshell. And Adriana has no idea where the money came from. So not only is she dealing with grief over her parents’ deaths, but she also feels betrayed by their living a lie. And she isn’t sure she should even accept the bequest. In her eyes, it might be tainted.”

I contemplated whether Bart would want the police to know his assessment of Dragana’s murder and decided to plunge ahead. “You saw the crime scene at Petrovitch’s office. When I described it to Bart, he said it looked like an execution, like Dragana was kneeling when she took the bullet.”

He lifted his mug and took a drink. “Funny he would recognize that.”

The inference was clear. I didn’t respond to it. “I spotted the same pattern at the store last night. The blood spray across the front of the counter. As if the Johnsons were kneeling, too, when they were killed.”

His mug clunked onto the counter. “That wasn’t in the crime scene report.”

“There’s something else. The stock room floor had a thick layer of dust over it, like the