Murder on the Orient Espresso Read Free Page B

– of
them
, the poor workers – simply have been swept away?
    â€˜Don’t feel sorry for Flagler,’ Pavlik said, nearly finished with his razor. ‘The man was a highly successful industrialist and lived to see his dream come true. How many people do we know who can say that?’
    â€˜Very few.’ I flipped to the title page of the book. Published by Florida History & Tourism and written by … ‘Zoe Scarlett,’ I said aloud.
    â€˜Zoe?’ Pavlik repeated. ‘I’m not sure she has dreams.’
    I wasn’t going to touch that one. I put the tourist book down, thinking it explained what Zoe did for the remainder of the year.
    The man of
my
dreams set down his razor and inspected the closeness of his shave in the mirror. ‘Not bad.’
    â€˜Not bad at all,’ I agreed, unzipping my jeans. It was a shame we wouldn’t be staying in tonight.
    Based on my inspection, the Flagler Suite was large and luxurious, featuring a king-sized bed, ocean-view whirlpool and granite-countered kitchenette, should one need to grab sustenance traversing between the two.
    Still, I told myself, if the room had romance written all over it, tonight’s event promised more in the way of melodrama. Apparently the plan for the evening’s loose re-enactment of Agatha Christie’s
Murder on the Orient Express
featured Rosemary Darlington and Laurence Potter in the lead roles.
    â€˜I think you’d make a much better Poirot than Potter,’ I said. ‘Except for the mustache, of course.’
    â€˜Laurence Potter – and Rosemary Darlington – are the guests of honor. I’m just the lead forensics guy. Sort of the …’ Pavlik’s eyes followed me as I stepped out of my pants, ‘… working stiff.’
    Thankfully, more like stiffy. Thus encouraged, I started to take my time, doing a bit of a striptease, unbuttoning my blouse to expose what I thought of as my ‘good’ red bra. Though, truth to tell, I intended it for no-good. ‘Appropriate, then, that you’re playing Ratchett.’
    I slipped off the shirt and tossed it onto the bed, which had been turned down to expose the gazillion thread-count linens. ‘You know, the
stiff
. So to speak.’
    â€˜So to speak.’ The eyes in the mirror caught mine. ‘I’m hoping we can get back here early.’
    It wasn’t so much Pavlik’s words as the way he said them. Experiencing a little thrill down my spine, I sidled up behind him and wrapped myself around his bare torso, resting the palms of my hands on his flat abs. I’d forgotten how good he felt. ‘Early would be great for me, too.’
    Pavlik’s eyes, usually blue against his tanned face and dark, wavy hair, could change to slate gray – nearly black – when he was … well, let’s say ‘agitated.’ We should also acknowledge that this color transformation could come from anger as well as lust, and I had unfortunately seen more of the former than the latter.
    Not tonight, though.
    His mood-ring eyes were deliciously dark as he turned and tipped my chin up so my mouth met his.
    â€˜We’re going to be late,’ I said in a ‘convince-me’ kind of voice, tasting the lovely combination of residual soap and current sheriff.
    â€˜They’ll wait,’ he said, edging me toward the bed. ‘The Orient Espresso isn’t going anywhere fast. At least not without a corpse.’
    As it turned out, Jake Pavlik was right.
    In – oh, so many ways.

THREE
    L uckily for our breach of punctuality, it turned out that wrangling mystery writers was akin to herding the proverbial flock of cats. When we arrived outside the lobby door ten minutes late, people were still milling about on the sidewalk.
    It was dark, landscape lights illuminating the hotel’s palm trees and tropical plantings. A tiny, nearly transparent gecko scurried past my foot and up the