Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (23 page)

“I’ve re-assessed.”

I twisted around to look at him. “Oh?”

“I came to the conclusion that if you’re lucky enough to find someone you care about in this crazy world, and that person feels the same about you, why screw it up analyzing it to death?”

By now he was caressing my thigh and working upward. I had to concentrate on hanging on to my train of thought.

“Because,” I said, “there are things we need to work out.

He stopped doing all those nice things to my body. “I’m not Rich, Carrie, and if you’re going to let that rule your life...”

“That’s not it,” I said defensively.

“Fine. Then let’s talk about what it is.”

A sensitive subject that, knowing his history, I had never put into words. I fudged. “You know. We’re both coming off failed relationships. Our emotions can’t be trusted.”

The scowl on his face told me I’d flunked the lie detector test.

“Psycho-babble crap.”

I started to protest but he held up his hand.

“It’s about my being a cop.”

I flushed, tried the “best defense” defense. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never---”

“I know you’ve never.” He got to his feet. “Carrie, sweetheart, I’m forty-four years old. I want a personal life. I’d like it to be with you, but I’m damned if I’m going to wait around for you to get your act together.” He reached for his jacket.

Talk about not knowing how we’d gotten here. “God, I just asked for a little time. We’ve only known each other seven months. Why all of a sudden are you---”

His voice was frost. “Because I haven’t got time to waste.”

Hell, I’m forty. Father Time wasn’t exactly taking a nap for me either, but I had a problem. How could I tell him what I knew he’d heard once before--that I was scared to death that one day he’d walk out the door and never come home? How could I tell him I couldn’t face another loss?

I couldn’t. You don’t tell a cop you’re afraid to commit because you’re terrified he’s going to get his brains splattered all over the street. Not an unreasonable fear considering that this cop had already been shot once that I knew of. So I walked over to where he stood by the door and executed a female brushing up against him kind of maneuver. “Come on. Peace on earth time. Why don’t we just pretend this conversation never happened and pick up with the ear thing.”

He wasn’t buying. “What’s the point?”

“The point is we made a deal. All I’m asking is that we don’t do anything precipitous.” I stood on tiptoe and nuzzled his neck.

“God forbid we should do anything like that,” he muttered, but I could feel his body relent. “Why am I absolutely sure I’m being manipulated?”

“I can’t imagine,” I whispered, manipulatively snaking my arms around his neck and kissing the corner of his mouth. “Would you consider you were being manipulated if I told you right now I’d much rather make love than war?”

“I certainly would. You only want me for my body.”

I pulled him down on the couch. “I cannot tell a lie. I’m crazy for your body.”

“You’re all talk.”

I ran my tongue over his lips, my hands down his chest, over his rock-hard gut.

He didn’t move. “Not bad, but you can do better.”

A few minutes later, our clothes were scattered on the floor and I was doing a lot better when the phone rang. “Damn,” I said.

“Let it ring,” he said.

The answering machine picked up.
“This is Carrie Carlin,”
the machine said.
“I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.”
Beep.

Meg’s voice, hoarse, cracking. “Carrie, there’s been... a terrible accident.” A long pause, then in a whisper, “Pete’s dead, and Kev’s...they can’t find Kev. Call me.”

I was on my feet dashing for the phone leaving my frustrated lover in a state of suspended animation.

Megan Reilly and I are connected by a bond much stronger than blood. Maybe once or twice in your life if you’re lucky, you meet someone who actually defines the word “friend”. I met Meg shortly after Rich left, at a time in my life when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Then they got really rough. Meg took me and my troubles on when most people, except for the press, were avoiding me as though I were a leper with poison ivy.

Two weeks earlier she’d flown to Key West to be with her husband, Kevin, and his brother, Pete, who were there for the World Cup, the international offshore championship powerboat race. The boat had been designed by Kev and built at their new facility. A win at the World Cup would have put their fledgling company, Stargazer, on the powerboat map.

Meg’s words resounded in my head like an echo in a canyon. When I got through to her, she spoke haltingly almost as though she were translating in her head from another language. “Kev was...he and Pete were off Fury Dock testing it before the race. They had new engines--very powerful--supercharged. Something happened...”

I pushed the word out fast before the lump I felt forming closed my throat. “How---”

A whisper. “Pete lost control. They're saying it was a heart attack. They recovered his body, but not Kev’s...” Her voice broke. “Not Kev’s.” She took a breath that was more a sob, tried to steady her voice. “I’d gone along to shoot some photos, but I didn't stay. I went back to the hotel.
I didn't stay!
If I had, maybe...”

Thoughtlessly, cruelly, I bombarded her with futile questions. “Could Kev have been thrown clear? Didn't they always wear life jackets? Pete was only thirty-three. How could he have had a heart attack? Was the Coast Guard still searching or were they assuming Kevin had...” I couldn't finish the thought, much less give it credibility by uttering the words. My knees gave way. “I'm coming,” I said, and let the phone fall to the floor beside me.

Nancy started as an actor, took a hiatus to raise three children during which time she began writing for the stage and TV. Suddenly single again, she moved on to teaching biofeedback techniques to sufferers of pain and stress, ultimately reducing her own stress by creating the “Other Deadly Things” mystery series where she could knock off bad guys in the fictional murderously wacky world of the newly divorced.

Nancy is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. Although her books are set in the Garden State, she now happily resides in the Golden State.

My thanks and gratitude to my 2012 talented cover artist, Karen Adler, who has created my web page and all the eye-catching and imaginative “Other Deadly Things” eBook covers; and who patiently helps me navigate the unfamiliar waters of this strange and mysterious ePub world. Thanks also to authors John Lescroart and Elle Lothlorion for inspiring me to go this route.

My appreciation and thanks to my agent Grace Morgan, and to the entire team at Dell, especially my estimable editor Jackie Farber, and her indefatigable assistant Lisa Lustgarten, all of whom made my first publishing experience such a positive one.

To my friend and fellow author, David Beckman, my thanks for the use of his beautiful poem “Over,” and thanks also to the friends and professional colleagues whose input and comments were invaluable in the writing of this book: biofeedback therapist Patricia Spiech R.N., Dr. Mary Jo Sabo, Leah Gabriel, Amy Miale, Dr. Gail Haft, and all the “knights and ladies of the pen” of Ann Loring’s exceptional Friday evening “round” table.

My gratitude always to Michael Friedman for having been there for me through hell and high water.

And to my wonderful sons, Ken, Bob, and Doug, and to my very special friend, Jerry Adler, my love and thanks for help and advice in their particular areas of expertise, and for loving and supporting me in all of my endeavors.

Last but definitely not least I want to thank my readers whose comments I welcome by email at
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www.facebook.com/NancyTeslerAuthor
. Please visit me on my website at
www.NancyTesler.com
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