Lowcountry Bombshell (A Liz Talbot Mystery) by Susan M. Boyer Page B

done. Everyone who wants to keep on living. I’ll let you know when your appointment is.”
    “Make yourself a doctor’s appointment if you want to.”
    “I see a doctor, regularly.”
    “I guess that’s your business.” He turned back to watch the television.
    A stray thought crossed my mind. “How long have you known Warren Harper?”
    “All his life. Why?”
    “How well do you know Elenore?”
    Daddy snorted. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking when he married her . Strange woman. She’s from Summerville, if I remember right. She was running around with some man from there while she was married to Warren. Left ’im and those poor little children.” He shook his head in disgust.
    Those poor little children were a couple years behind me in school, and they’d made out just fine. Warren had remarried, and Lauren Beauthorpe Harper was a natural mother. “Elenore still lives here, though.”
    “She moved back a couple times. Never stayed long as far as I know. Kids won’t have much to do with her. Who could blame ’em?”
    “She was around enough for me to know who she was when I saw her.”
    “Where did you see her?”
    “She’s working for a client.”
    “Hunh.”
    I hugged him bye. “I’ve got to go, Daddy. Try to stay out of trouble. I’ll see you Sunday.”
    “I’m not going to see any damn doctor.”
    Oh, yes, indeed he would. “Love you, Daddy.”
    THIRTEEN

    Nate padded in from the hall as I was adding the white wine to the chicken. He sniffed the air. “Mmm…olive oil and garlic.”
    “How was your day?” I smiled up at him.
    He came up behind me, wrapped two muscled arms around me, and kissed my neck. “Good,” he said. “Getting better.”
    “Did you locate Jim Davis?”
    He nuzzled the spot just below my ear. “Yes, I located our friend, Mr. Davis. But he can wait a bit.”
    I leaned into him. He felt solid, substantial. He smelled like soap and hot-blooded man. “I could keep this warm,” I said.
    “We can reheat it.” He let go of me with his right hand long enough to flip the gas off.
    “Just let me put it away…”
    He nibbled my left ear.
    Something melted and flowed inside me, while a shiver danced up my spine. I rested the wooden spoon next to the saucepan, then reached behind me and combed my fingers into his hair.
    With the palms of his hands, he stroked my breasts in feather-light circles. I closed my eyes and arched my back, straining to press my chest against his hands.
    Teasing, he pulled his palms away just enough to keep his caress just a whisper against my shirt.
    Hungry for him, I let go of his hair, dropped my arms, and twisted towards him. He took my hands in his and stopped me, held me facing away from him. Then he lifted me and moved us in one quick motion away from the stove to the island. He placed my hands on the countertop and held them there, leaning over me to run his lower lip down one side of my neck and up the other. Every cell of me tingled.
    He lifted his right hand and mine followed, reaching for any part of him. But he grasped my fingers and guided my hand back to the island. “Play nice, now,” he whispered.
    Oh, dear heaven, how nice I wanted to be to him.
    He removed both his hands. With great effort, I kept mine on the counter.
    He ran his fingertips from the tops of my thighs, slowly, up my sides, and to my breasts. He lingered there for a moment, making me gasp. Then, he slipped his hands underneath my tank and unhooked my bra. He pulled the shirt over my head, then released one arm at a time, replacing each hand in turn to the table. Finally, he slid down my capris, guided my legs free, and placed the ball of each foot on the floor with a squeeze indicating the foot should stay where he’d planted it.
    I was standing in the kitchen in black silk-and-lace boy-shorts, bent slightly over the black granite island, on tiptoes. He was still fully clothed in jeans and a T-shirt. I was completely vulnerable and all-powerful.
    I felt