Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) by Susan Kiernan-Lewis Page A

she was aware of his cologne,
how close his lips were to her own, the electricity snapping between them, and
she emitted a small gasp at the realization. He must have felt it too, because his
hand came up to her face, slowly, gently. And she did nothing to stop it.
    But before he
could touch her, she heard the whoosh of the door opening behind her. Flushing,
Maggie took a step backward and stumbled over her chair. She caught herself and
stood, knees shaking, wondering what had just happened.
    “Roger?”
    The sound of the
woman’s voice—and by the form of address clearly not an
underling—made Maggie snap her head to the door, where the figure of a
beautiful young woman stood gaping at them. She was svelte, blonde and younger
than Maggie by at least ten years. She entered the office and shut the door
behind her. Maggie was impressed with her confidence. She knew she wouldn’t
have had as much at her age. She wasn’t sure she had as much now.
    “Have I
interrupted something?” she asked coolly, appraising Maggie’s bulky form with
unfriendly eyes.
    It’s true, Maggie thought with amazement. Even late
stage pregnancy is not considered a deal breaker in matters of the French heart .
    “I was just
leaving,” Maggie said, refusing to look at Roger. What had just happened ? “I can find my own way out.” She hesitated
in front of the woman, who blocked her exit, before she stepped out of the way
and allowed Maggie to slip out the door. As Maggie hurried down the hall and
across the disease-pocked waiting room, she thought she could hear raised
voices behind her.
     
    Michelle couldn’t
believe the gall of that woman. From
where she sat in the outdoor café of the Rue de la Masse, she could easily see
her as she pranced about in her provocatively bare running shorts and bra top. Did she think she was in Houston? She
was clearly American. Why did Aix have so
many? Why weren’t they in Paris? Or Nice? She was probably a student here.
Michelle literally felt her stomach turn when she saw the woman lean against a
tall tree and pull her leg up behind her to stretch out her muscle.
    “Did I keep you
waiting, babe?” He came up behind her and kissed her on the cheek before she
even knew he was there. Michelle struggled to regain the good mood she’d had before
she’d seen the American whore. Maman said
they were all whores. Even worse than the English.
    He seated himself
across from her blocking her view of the runner and she had to force herself
not to twist in her seat to continue watching. Instead, she smiled at him
knowing the smile would eventually reach her eyes if she kept at it. Although he probably wouldn’t know the
difference. She sat a little straighter in her chair, knowing the effect of
her increased bosom would distract him from her wooden smile, if that was
necessary.
    “ Oui ,” she said. “Don’t you always? It is
a little game you play, non ?”
    “No, it is not,”
he said, frowning in a clearly inauthentic way, his bottom lip protruding to
form his idea of a pout. Was he authentic
about anything ? In a flash, an image developed in her mind of him on top of
her, panting and sweating. Yes, there
were times .
    “You know how
difficult it is for me to get away.”
    “So you insist.”
    “I can’t just
leave in the middle of the day, you know. You French may be used to taking
three hour lunches, but I can tell you that wouldn’t fly with my company.” He
looked around the café until he caught the eye of the waiter.
    “Well?” she
asked, peeking over his shoulder to see that the Lycra-clad American student
had gone. “Can you stay for lunch?”
    “Of course,” he
said easily. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
    “Have the police
talked with you yet?”
    His handsome face
lost a shade of its luster. “Why in the world would they talk to me?” he asked,
his voice guarded, eyes wary.
    “You knew him.”
    “Many people knew
him.”
    “You threatened
him.”
    “And you know