Swann Songs (The Boston Uncommon Mysteries Book 4) Read Free

until I groaned. “Can`t have my wife so far ahead of me. Bad form. You might dump me for someone sharper.”
    I leaned back against him, feeling happier than I`d ever dreamed of being.
    “Never,” I whispered.
    WE SLEPT SO LATE the next morning that we barely made Sunday brunch. Deming is a foodie with very strict culinary standards and surprisingly fickle taste in restaurants. Currently he was enamored with the restaurant right up the street at XV Beacon Hotel. The omelets were superb, but I railed at the establishment’s name—Mooo. For a non-meat eater like me, the mere sound of it inspired ghastly thoughts.
    “Come along, grumpy. Indulge me.” Deming beamed down, looking like something Michelangelo or a Hollywood producer dreamed up. How he managed perfection with so little effort was still one of life’s mysteries. His thick black hair formed ringlets on his collar, a perfect complement to the elegance of a tweed Kiton jacket. My husband was a hot hapa blend that caught the eye of any sentient female over twelve. Fortunately, he seldom noticed or acknowledged the attention.
    I subdued my curls with gel, applied a touch of eyeliner, and grabbed an old Armani stalwart that elevated my confidence.
    “Red. I love that color on you,” he said. “Subdued but very sensuous.”
    “Really?” I made a silent vow to change my wardrobe. Soon Eja Kane-Swann, the crimson author, would seduce the reading population of the entire East Coast.
    The restaurant was only two blocks away from our building, and Deming sprinted ahead, leaving me far behind. When it dawned on him that breakfast was a meal and not a marathon, he slowed his pace to match mine.
    “Sorry,” he said, taking my hand. “Guess all that activity last night made me hungry. I must learn to pace myself, or you`ll kill me, Mrs. Swann.”
    He knew that kind of talk made me blush and delighted in teasing me about it. Give me a grisly murder anytime, but discussing sex scenes challenges me as both a writer and woman.
    “Aha. We finally made it.” Deming hustled up to the maitre d’ and nodded. “Hope we`re not too late, Frederick. I`m absolutely famished.”
    The outcome was as predictable as his menu choice—Kobe dumplings and Belgian waffles. I settled for fresh fruit and an egg white frittata with carrot juice.
    “What? No champagne?” Deming asked. “That`s not like you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
    After six months of marriage, he had suddenly become obsessed with siring a brood. Cygnets—that`s the proper term for baby Swanns—I reminded Deming. Thus far the nest was empty.
    I sunk into the plush leather booth and curled my lip. “Certainly not. Trust me, you`ll be the first to know.” I pointed to the heap of Kobe dumplings in front of him. “Although I did read somewhere that red meat reduces a man’s fertility after age thirty.”
    His reaction was comical. Deming halted in mid-fork and stared at his plate. Only the sound of my laughter broke the spell.
    “Funny, Eja. You should add stand-up comedy to your routine.” Deming shifted in his seat and did a double take. “Look! See that woman over there to my left? That`s Melanie Hunt, and her companion is definitely not your ex-husband.”
    I tried that old drop-the-napkin ploy, pretending to fish it from under the table while I took in the scenery. Melanie Hunt was quite a looker—a tall, sinewy brunette with chiseled cheekbones and designer duds. She overshadowed her companion, a doe-eyed, twenty-something giant by a country mile even though the younger woman was at least six feet tall. Unfortunately, although their gestures were animated, their conversation was muted. I couldn`t hear a word.
    “May I help you, madame?” Our attentive waiter was at my side with a new napkin.
    I muttered a halfhearted thanks and locked eyes with Deming.
    “Well? Any impressions?” He watched me closely.
    “As you observed last night, Mrs. Mann is very attractive.”
    “Hunt,” Deming