1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)

“Late riser,” he said. “I was hoping we’d beat the morning rush.”

“I was talking tonight.”

I had a month. I was thinking, Mountain air, running streams, and wildflowers is a good way to begin.

Chapter 100

WE SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS as if we were in a beautiful dream.

Chris’s cabin was funky and charming, a redwood A-frame ski chalet on Mason Ridge overlooking Heavenly. We hiked in the woods with Sweet Martha, took the tram to the top of the mountain, and walked all the way down. We grilled swordfish on the deck.

In between, we made love in the comfort of his large four-poster bed, on the sheepskin rug in front of the wood-burning stove, in the chilly thrill of the outdoor shower. We laughed and played and touched each other like teenagers, discovering love again.

But I was no starry-eyed adolescent. I knew exactly what was taking place. I felt the steady, undeniable current rising inside me like a river spilling over its banks. I felt helpless.

Saturday, Chris promised me a day I would never forget.

We drove down to Lake Tahoe, to a quaint marina on the California side. He had rented a platform boat, an old puttering wooden barge. We bought sandwiches and a bottle of chardonnay, and went out to the middle of the lake. The water calm and turquoise, the sky cloudless and bright. All around, the rocky tips of snow-capped mountains ringed the lake like a crown.

We moored, and for a while it was our own private world. Chris and I stripped down to our suits. I figured we’d kick back, enjoy the wine in the sun, look at the view, but Chris had sort of an expectant, dare-you look in his eye. He ran his hands through the frigid water.

“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s got to be fifty degrees.”

“Yeah, but it’s a dry cold,” he teased.

“Right,” I chortled. “You go, then. Catch me a coho if you see one swim by.”

He came toward me with playful menace in his eyes. “You can catch one yourself.”

“Not a chance.” I shook my head in defiance. But I was laughing, too. As he stepped forward, I backed to the rear of the craft until I ran out of room.

He put his arms around me. I felt the tingle of his skin on mine. “It’s sort of an initiation,” he said.

“An initiation for what?”

“Exclusive club. Anyone who wants to be in it has to jump in.”

“Then leave me out.” I laughed, squirming in his strong arms. With only weak resistance, he yanked me up on the cushion seat in the stern of the boat.

“Shit, Chris,” I cried as he took hold of my hand.

“Geronimo works better,” he said, pulling at me. I screamed, “You bastard!” and we toppled in.

The water was freezing, a total, invigorating rush. We hit the surface together, and I screamed in his face, “Goddamn you!” Then he kissed me in the water and all at once I felt no chill. I held on to him, at first for warmth, but also because I never wanted to let him go. I felt a trust for him that was so complete it was almost scary. Fifty degrees, but I was burning up.

“Check this out,” I dared him, kicking free of his grasp. There was an orange boat marker bobbing fifty yards away. “Race you to that buoy.” Then I cut out, surprising him with my speed.

Chris tried to keep up with steady, muscular strokes, but I blew him away.

Near the buoy I slowed, waited for him to catch up.

Chris looked totally confounded. “Where’d you learn to swim?”

“South San Francisco YMCA; fourteen-, fifteen-, sixteen-year-old division champ.” I laughed. “No one could keep up. Looks like I still have it.”

Moments later, we had guided the boat to a private, shady cove near the shore. Chris cut the engine and put up a canvas shade around the cabin that was supposed to protect us from the sun. With bated breath, we crept inside, blocked off from anyone’s view.

I let him slowly unfasten my bathing suit, and he licked beads of water off my arms and breasts. Then I kneeled down and unbuttoned his shorts. We didn’t have to speak. Our bodies were saying everything. I lay back, pulling Chris onto me.