"Wicked" Women Whodunit

“What was this for?” Will asked, holding up the box of Miss Clairol. He was sprawled naked on his bed, pawing through Lanie’s suitcase. Her midnight blue panties with the floral embroidery had elicited a very impressed “mmmm.”

Lanie snatched the box and stuffed it into her tote bag, fighting a blush. “I was thinking of going blonder. Somehow, I never got around to it.”

He grinned and made a grab for her, which she did nothing to resist. Settling her on top of him, he ground his hips into hers purposefully, and she let his borrowed robe fall open to feel his solid thighs against hers.

It looked like she wasn’t going to have time for hair coloring this afternoon, either.

They’d waited for the police to come last night, with Petey bound in electrical tape on the desk chair, and had made as many excuses for their impromptu investigation as possible. None of which Jackson Holby had bothered to argue. At least not with any real steam. He’d lazed at the station house while his detectives were out doing the hard work, albeit not too effectively, and Will had solved his father’s murder. Even Lanie could tell Holby was secretly pleased more hadn’t been required of him.

Then they’d gone back to Will’s. Despite everything they’d been through together, Lanie had been convinced staying there for the rest of the weekend would be awkward. With Petey arrested and nothing to do but grieve, or rage, she was sure Will would finally break. Lose it, just a little bit. And no one wanted an audience for that.

But he hadn’t. He’d been quiet after he got back from the Seavers’, and she’d offered him the hot tea and toast she’d made. When they climbed into bed, he’d simply held her for a long time, fitting his long, firm body against hers, and stroking her hair like a talisman without speaking until she was nearly asleep.

And then he’d started talking, in a low, rambling murmur, about his childhood. The memories were a little disjointed, and without context Lanie had a hard time following some of it, but the point wasn’t for her to understand what Will was relating about growing up with Mike as his absentee dad, and his mom doing the best she could on her own, but simply to listen.

So she did. And when his hand wandered away from her hair and down her body, caressing her breasts and smoothing over her belly, she’d turned over and opened herself up to him, heart, mouth, and sex.

She was fairly sure he cried at one point, the rusty, hard-earned tears that were the only kind most men seemed able to shed, and in the end he’d driven into her with such intensity that she knew she’d left half-moon marks on his shoulders where her fingernails had bitten into the skin. And when he came, he’d roared, thrusting over and over until he’d emptied himself of everything he had, collapsing into a deep sleep minutes later, with his arm still circled around her.

And that was it, Lanie thought, rubbing her cheek against his collarbone now. They’d slept until noon, but when they got up he’d been fine, teasing her with kisses and dragging her into a steaming shower while she was still half asleep.

He’d woken her up the rest of the way very effectively while they were in there.

And that was part of the mystery of Will DeMaio, she realized. Not that he wasn’t grieving for his father, or letting loose any of his justified rage that the man had been willing to kill him for little more than a few bucks and a place to stay for a while, because he was. He was doing it in his own way, in his own time. What stuck in her throat was the idea that she might not be around at the end of the process. That she might never have the chance to put together all the pieces of the puzzle.

“Jackson said the highways are fine now,” he said, setting her away from him. “If you have to leave tonight, that is.”

Her heart sang, a cheery little pop tune. He didn’t look happy about the idea at all.

“I was thinking I might take an extra day,” she said slowly. Don’t screw this up now, that hateful voice in her head whispered. Don’t push your luck. “If, well ... if you wouldn’t mind me staying, that is.”

“Your investigative skills go right down the toilet when you’ve had one too many orgasms, don’t they?” His eyes were that warm Caribbean blue again. Screw Florida on her next vacation—that was where she wanted to go, the Island of Will.

“Well, I don’t want to ... you know, wear out my welcome. Push my luck.” God, she sounded pathetic. What happened to powerful, confident Lanie Burke? Mentally, she kicked herself. Of course, that Lanie hadn’t been faced with a good-bye in a few hours’ time.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with luck, Lanie,” Will said, taking her hand in his. When she looked up at him, their eyes locked, and she felt her heart turn over, just once, a hopeful, joyful little hop.

“It’s not about luck or karma or fate,” he went on. He was serious now, and even so, she couldn’t help admiring the beautiful line of his jaw as he spoke, the full, lovingly shaped mouth. “It’s about what you do, what choices you make. There’s no such thing as bad luck.”

“So you’re saying the wedding buffet disaster was my fault, then?” She arched an eyebrow at him, but she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

He paused, looking at the ceiling as if he was going to find the answer conveniently written there. “I’m saying ... that maybe all the choices you made led you here. To this particular weekend, to that particular bar.”

“So you’re saying ... meeting you was fate.” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching in delight as he realized she’d cornered him. “In fact, I think what you’re saying is you are my fate. Is that right?”

“I think what I’m saying is you’re my fate.” He smirked, proud of himself, and then added, “And I’m your good luck charm. Or something.”

“I don’t think you have any idea what you’re talking about anymore.” She laughed, and leaned forward to whisper, “But I like the idea that it’s your good luck I’m going to stay another day. And it’s your good luck that I may invite you to stay with me in the city. I’m fairly certain we won’t have to solve any murders, either. New York’s crime rate has gone way down.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Lanie Burke.” He grinned and lunged at her, rolling on top of her with a long, hot kiss. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a long, long time to figure you out.”

“Years, I bet,” she murmured, groaning when his fingers found her nipple and tweaked it playfully.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he answered, and she melted when she saw that adorable twinkle in his eye. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m free.”

The one thing I love more than a delicious romance is a great mystery. Even my childhood copies of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights were shelved right alongside my Nancy Drews. So when I was given the chance to combine the two genres, I jumped at it (figuratively, of course). Mixing in some humor made the whole process even more fun, and after some brainstorming about hot sex, dead bodies (not together, naturally), and laugh-out-loud situations, “Single White Dead Guy” was born.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. And look for my new Brava romance / mystery, Murder in the Hamptons, available now!