Dead by Morning by Beverly Barton Page B

good,” he told her, his voice a husky moan.
    “I love having you inside me,” she said and then kissed him.
    They made love for the fourth time that day and yet were as hungry for each other as they had been that morning. Errol wondered if he would ever get enough of Cyrene. Probably not. Even when they were old and gray, he would still want her, still love her, still be grateful that she had agreed to be his wife.
    An hour later, shortly after midnight, they emerged from the bathroom where they had showered together. Errol belted his white robe and walked over to the entryway table while Cyrene slipped into a red lace teddy and sat on the edge of the bed to towel dry her curly hair.
    He picked up the gift basket. “Want some wine now, Mrs. Patterson?”
    “Wine would be lovely, Mr. Patterson.” She glanced at the bedside clock. “We can toast to another glorious day of married life. It’s after midnight, so if it’s already tomorrow that means I’ve been Mrs. Errol Patterson for eleven days.”
    Errol removed the huge red bow and the clear cellophane wrapping from the gift basket, lifted the wine bottle and inspected it. “Hey, this is some of the good stuff. There’s no twist-off cap.” He chuckled.
    “Only the best for us,” she teased.
    “I’ve got the best.” He winked at her.
    “Want me to get the glasses?”
    “No need,” he told her as he transferred the bottle to his left hand and retrieved the two long-stemmed wine glasses from the basket. “Want some chocolate or cheese or—?”
    “I want it all,” she admitted, “but I’ll be a good girl and limit myself to one glass of wine.”
    He brought the bottle and glasses over to the bed. She took the glasses from him and held them while he rummaged in the nightstand drawer for the corkscrew that he had left there after opening the bottle of champagne the hotel had included in their “Welcome” package the day they arrived. After uncorking the wine, he poured each glass half full before placing the bottle on the nightstand.
    He took one of the glasses from Cyrene. “Here’s to our being this deliriously happy for the rest of our lives.”
    She clicked her glass to his, said, “Amen to that,” and lifted the glass to her lips.
    After he dimmed the lights, leaving the room bathed in moonlight, they sat in bed together, talking, laughing, sipping the wine, and making plans for their return to Tennessee. He knew that Cyrene was eager to decorate their new house in Farragut, a small town not far from Powell Agency headquarters in Knoxville. They discussed how lucky she was that there had been a teaching position open at a local elementary school. With school starting in early August, she would have about five weeks to put their new house in order.
    Errol yawned. “Man, I’m getting sleepy. Must be the mixture of great sex and good wine.” He removed the white terrycloth robe and flung it to the foot of the bed.
    Cyrene sighed and nodded. “Must be. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
    Errol switched off the bedside lamp and then leaned over, kissed her, ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip and stilled instantly. The last thing Cyrene remembered was the sound of her husband snoring.

    He had waited patiently. The lights in the luxury villa suite had dimmed over an hour ago, but he hadn’t rushed in immediately. The odds were that Mr. and Mrs. Patterson had been sound asleep for most if not all of that hour, while he had been waiting and watching. But it was better to be certain.
    Errol Patterson never left his wife’s side. The two had been inseparable since they arrived in the Bahamas. He really didn’t want to kill them both. Doing so would have meant deviating from the plan. The Carver had never murdered a couple.
    His solution to that problem had been to send them a gift basket that included a bottle of expensive “doctored” wine.
    He approached the French doors that opened onto the villa’s private patio and pool. He stopped,