Aurora 03 - Three Bedrooms, One Corpse by Charlaine Harris Page A

my hair was absolutely clean, every extra hair was shaved from my legs, and when I emerged I slapped everything on myself I could think of, even cuticle cream on my messy cuticles. I plucked my eyebrows. I put on my makeup with the care and deliberation of a high-fashion model, and dried my hair to the last strand, brushing it afterward at least fifty times. I even cleaned my glasses.
    I wiggled into my incredible underwear without looking in the mirror, at least not until I pulled the black slip over my head. Then, very carefully, the teal dress, which I zipped up with some difficulty. I switched purses, put on my high-heeled pumps, and surveyed myself in Jane’s mirror.
    I looked as good as I possibly could, and if it wasn’t good enough ... so be it.
    I went downstairs to wait.

Chapter Seven
    THE DOORBELL rang exactly on the dot.
    Martin was wearing a gorgeous gray suit. After a moment I stepped back to let him in, and he looked around.
    Suddenly we realized we weren’t observing the amenities, and both of us burst into speech at once. I blurted “How’ve you been doing?” as he said “Nice apartment.” We both shuddered to a halt and smiled at each other in embarrassment.
    “I reserved tables at a restaurant the board of directors took me to after they’d decided to hire me for the job here,” Martin said. “It’s French, and I thought it was very good. Do you like French food?”
    I wouldn’t understand the menu. “That’ll be fine,” I said. “You’ll have to order for me. I haven’t tried to speak French since high school.”
    “We’ll have to rely on the waiter,” Martin said. “I speak Spanish and some Vietnamese, but only a little French.”
    We had one thing in common.
    I got my black coat from the coat closet. I slid it on myself, not being ready for him to touch me. I lifted my hair out of the collar and let it hang down my back, acutely conscious that he watched my every move. I thought if we made it out the door it would be amazing, so I kept my distance; and when he opened the door for me to pass through, I did so as quickly as I could.
    Then he opened the patio gate and the door of his car. I hadn’t felt so frail in years.
    His car was wonderful—real leather and an impressive dashboard. It even smelled expensive.
    I had never ridden in anything so luxurious. I was feeling more pampered by the moment.
    We swept imperially through Lawrenceton, attracting (I hoped) lots of attention, and hit the short interstate stretch to Atlanta. Our small talk was extremely small. The air in the car was crackling with tension.
    “You’ve always lived here?”
    “Yes. I did go away to college, and I did some graduate work. But then I came back here, and I’ve been here ever since. Where have you lived?”
    “Well. I grew up in rural Ohio, as I mentioned last night,” he said.
    I could not picture him being rural at any point in his life, and I said so.
    “I’ve spent my lifetime eradicating it,” he said with some humor. “I was in the Marines for a while, in Vietnam, the tail end, and then when I came back, after a while I began to work for Pan-Am Agra. I finished college through night school, and Pan-Am Agra needed Spanish speakers so much that I became fluent. It paid off, and I began working my way up ... this car was the first thing I got that said I had arrived, and I take good care of it.”
    Presumably the big house in Lawrenceton would be another acquisition affirming that he was climbing the ladder successfully.
    “You’re—thirty?” he said suddenly.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m forty-five. You don’t mind?”
    “How could I?”
    Our eyes moved simultaneously to a lighted motel sign looming over the interstate.
    The exit was a mile away.
    I thought I was about to give way to an impulse—finally.
    “Ah—Aurora—”
    “Roe.”

    “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to spend money on you. I don’t want you to think I don’t want to be seen with you. But tonight...”