My Killer Vacation

“You either work alone or you’re a kindergarten teacher.”

A split-second’s hesitation. Subtle shift from right to left. “Wrong.”

I wink at her and she bristles. “I’m never wrong.”

Is that a flush creeping up her neck? God, she has to be eight or nine years younger than me. Mid-twenties to my mid-thirties. So I’m definitely not noticing the spot where her bikini strap digs into her shoulder, ever so slightly. Just this side of too tight. I’m definitely not thinking of tucking my finger beneath it and dragging the little strip of material down her arm. Unwrapping her like a birthday present.

Jesus, I need to get laid. That fact wasn’t obvious until right now, when I’m lusting after this stranger in the heart of Middle Class Vacationville wondering what her nipples would look like in the sunshine, all licked up in my spit. She’s probably married. Single girls in their twenties don’t vacation in Cape Cod. Provincetown, maybe. But not this family-oriented section of Falmouth. So why isn’t she wearing a ring?

She notices me looking for one.

Dammit.

In response, her posture changes. Her hands drop to her sides and she shifts left to right, unconsciously tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Kind of like she’s only now, this very second, becoming aware that I’m a man and she’s approached me in a bikini and ridiculous cut-off jean shorts that cover only slightly more than a pair of panties. And that I’m interested enough to wonder if she’s already got a man waiting for her in that saccharine sweet house with heart shapes cut into the shutters. She’s figuring all of that out and hiding none of it on her spectacular face.

Great. We’ve gone from beautiful to spectacular.

She’s definitely married, you idiot.

Do your job and get gone.

“Go water your flowers. I’m busy.”

“I know. I was just…” Her hands flutter around until she folds them at her waist. “Well, I was just wondering if you had any theories yet.”

“I just got here.” I tip my chin at the bike. “You saw me arrive, right?”

“On your death trap. Yes. But I assume you’ve gotten some kind of advance…dossier. Or case file. Right?”

I give her a narrow-eyed stare, hoping she’ll cower and slink away like everyone else who is unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of this look.

“Fine. Be coy about it, Mr.…”

“Don’t worry about my name.”

That throws her off for a second, almost like she’s disappointed. But finally, she shrugs. “I just thought you might like to speak with me.” With a prim little once-over, she turns and heads back across the street. “Since I’m the one who found the body and all.”

“Come back here.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Half pint.”

“I have a name.”

“Come back here and tell it to me, then.”

What in God’s name is wrong with me? Am I really following this young woman, who is definitely married, probably to someone named Carter or Preston, across the street? I should be in the murder house taking pictures, checking for blood spatter or missed evidence. I should not be suddenly desperate to know this woman’s name. But hell if I can stop following in her wake when her ass moves like an ass ought to move. Damn.

She spins on a dime and I almost mow her down, just like a tractor always does with a dandelion. We end up toe to toe, only I’m a good ten inches taller, so her face is tipped up to the sky and blanketed by sunshine. Something flips in my chest. Something I really don’t like.

“You found the body,” I say, trying my best to stick to the job. That’s what this is.

Get in and get out. No entanglements. That’s what I do. It’s what I like.

Her gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, but it’s enough to make my briefs feel like an XL instead of an XXL. “Uh-huh.”

Why does my skin turn clammy thinking of her around a dead man? A recently murdered one? She shouldn’t have to see something like that. Not this woman who waters flowers and runs into doors. “Tell me you got out of the house immediately. In case the murderer was still on the property.”

“Oh.” She scrunches up her nose. “No. We…did not.”

We. There it is. I grunt, because It’s not a good idea to speak with my heartburn acting up. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s why everything south of my neck is off-kilter. “You and your husband.”

“Me and my brother.”

Where did my heartburn go? It must be coming in waves. “You’re here with your brother,” I confirm, wincing over the thread of relief in my tone.

She nods, eyes serious. “Who discovered the body is very important information. It probably should have been in the dossier.”

Now I have the damnedest urge to smile. Obviously I need my head examined. “We don’t call it a dossier, half pint.”