a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.
She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.
And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.
She stepped out into the glorious sunshine, trying to ignore the words that rolled through her mind in time with her steps. The words she used in succor, dampening the horror of her wounds.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.
Chapter
5
XANDER HAD ALREADY taken off with Thor for parts unknown when she arrived home.
Disappointed, Sam poured herself a finger of Laphroaig, added two ice cubes and went out onto the covered patio that edged the backyard. The previous owners of her town house had redone the place, removing any feature that could be mistaken for traditional and replacing it with modern to the extreme. Everything was sleek and stark, stainless steel, marble, glass—if she were in an unforgiving mood, impersonal—but it suited her new life. Outside, they’d landscaped with fervor as well, putting in a small Japanese garden, which bordered a lap pool with an automatic current, so they could swim in place and still get a workout. The pool was hidden from the neighbors with a large screen of bamboo, and concealed from the street by a tall wooden fence. The illusion of privacy in the heart of the city.
Suddenly hot, Sam set the Scotch on the edge of the pool, shimmied out of her clothes and slid naked into the water. The sweat and grime and craziness of the day washed clean, she set out at a languorous pace, breaststroking the length of the water. The endless current drove her crazy, so she rarely turned it on; it felt like she was expending so much effort, yet never really going anywhere. Xander loved it, put his head down and swam and swam.
Timothy Savage swam with her. A natural death; no autopsy needed. So why would the man write to Sam and ask her to investigate his murder?
The pool was out of the direct sunlight now, and she got chilled. She ducked her head under, swiped her hands along her face to get her hair slicked back then stepped dripping from the water.
She jumped when she saw Xander sitting by the edge of the pool. He’d snuck outside, silent as a cat.
“I like the view.”
Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”
He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.
He was much bigger than she was; she could just reach her arms around his body. She pulled him closer, and closer still, until he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He went to his knees and bent her backward into the grass, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly. She didn’t care that people were walking down the street five feet away, on the other side of her fence. She wanted him now.
He knew it, but held back, his hand running the channel down from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her legs. He stroked her, and it didn’t take long. He knew exactly what she liked, and had her at the edge within seconds. He kissed her again, long and sweet, and laughed quietly when she whispered, “Now, please. Oh, God, Xander. Now.”
Oblivion. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He lost himself moments later, arms wrapped tight around her, a hand in her hair, shaking, tense in silence.
The grass was soft under her back, and the shouts and beeps of the Georgetown traffic became loud again. A mockingbird scolded them from the pear tree. Xander was giggling slightly, trying to hold it together. He always laughed after, some bottomless well of joy unleashed, and it made her laugh, too.
Sam put a finger across his lips and hushed him. “You cackle like that, everyone will know exactly what we’re doing back here.”
“I don’t care. Let’s do it again.” He reached for her just as Thor came bounding through the back door and launched himself into the pool. His splash drenched them both, and this time Xander couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sam in his arms and rolled them both right into the pool.
* * *
It was dark when the message came.
They were in the kitchen, finishing off a light dinner—prosciutto and melon, fresh buffalo mozzarella, sweet basil torn from the small herb garden out back, a loaf of crusty bread. They might have had too much to drink; there was maybe an inch of wine left in the bottle. Thor was snoozing on his green plaid flannel bed. It was a normal night, a happy night.
The knock at the door made Thor leap to his feet and go tearing into the hall. He was too well disciplined to bark, but stood at attention, yellow eyes fixed on the door. Xander tensed. He didn’t like unscheduled visits.
“Don’t answer it.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sam snapped a dish towel at him and went to answer the door.
The man on the step was gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray skin, gray shoes. Probably gray eyes, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. He was small, his eyes were even with Sam’s and his hands shook slightly, a distinct resting tremor Sam immediately identified with Parkinson’s disease.
Thor growled, deep in the back of his throat, and Sam instinctively took a step back.
The gray man didn’t move.
“Can I help you?”
“Dr. Owens? Dr. Samantha Owens?”
“Who’s asking?” Xander stepped next to Sam, one hand on Thor’s ruff, the other hidden out of sight, tucked behind his right thigh. Sam knew it held a SIG Sauer, the gun he kept stashed in the small drawer in the foyer desk.
The man was apparently used to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”
A lawyer.
“It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”
The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”
His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Chapter
6
SAM FIXED BENEDICT a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a