Honeymoon - James Patterson [46]
“Excuse me,” came a voice over her shoulder.
She turned to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing a turtleneck, sport coat, and way too much aftershave.
She glanced up at him, not saying anything, waiting.
He put his hand on the empty stool next to her. “Is this seat taken?”
“I don’t believe so.”
He flashed a cheesy grin and sat down. “Hard to believe there could be a vacancy next to such a very pretty woman,” he said while positioning his forearm on the bar. He leaned into her. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“I haven’t finished this one yet.”
“That’s okay, I’ll wait,” he said, nodding confidently. “All night, if I have to.”
The blonde threw him a flirtatious smile and then lifted her martini. She poured it over his head.
“There, all done,” she said.
She got up and walked away. But not toward the door. Convinced that Nora wasn’t returning, she headed for the table where her date remained sitting alone.
“Excuse me, are you waiting for Nora Sinclair?”
He looked at her, a little puzzled. “Uh . . . yes, actually, I am.”
“I’m afraid she’s not coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just saw her walk out of the restaurant.”
More puzzled, he peered over his shoulder toward the exit, his eyes scanning. He started to get up.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s been a good five minutes now.”
He sat back down. “I don’t understand. Are you a friend of hers, or something?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” She slid into the chair that had been Nora’s. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, though?”
Chapter 60
NORA NEEDED TO GET out of New York for at least a few days. Fortunately, she had somewhere she could go.
The traffic was light heading due north on I-95. About half an hour south of Boston, though, that all changed. A jackknifed tractor trailer had backed everything up for miles, and Nora was reminded why she always chose to fly.
Still, she didn’t care.
After the cemetery and her dinner with Brian Stewart—the Don Juan wannabe with no real dinero—what Nora wanted was a little stability in her life. Wheels to the ground. Taking the day to drive up to Boston was good for her. So was spending the night with her hubby.
“Boy, did I ever miss you!” Jeffrey said, greeting her in the foyer of the Back Bay brownstone. He held her in his arms, kissing her lips, then her cheeks, her neck, and starting all over again.
“I’m almost tempted to believe you,” teased Nora. “Here I thought you’d forget all about me after your book festival and those adoring Virginia women.”
“How could I forget about this, and these, and this?” asked Jeffrey.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Nora.
They continued to kiss and kid each other all the way up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Their clothes littered on the floor and their bodies sweating, they made love that afternoon and again in the early evening. The farthest either of them strayed from bed was when Jeffrey ran to meet the delivery guy with their Vietnamese takeout.
They ate wakame salads, Cuu Long chicken, and lemongrass beef while cuddling and watching North by Northwest. Nora adored Hitchcock, who was one of the kinkiest bastards ever. By the time Cary Grant was dangling off Mount Rushmore, though, Jeffrey was asleep.
Then Nora waited patiently. When she finally heard that little nose-whistling sound he made, she slid out of bed and down the hall. Into the library and behind the computer.
Everything went very smoothly indeed. Nora got into his offshore account easily, took the tour, and saw what Jeffrey had put away for a rainy day. Nearly $6 million.
The moment of truth was fast approaching, certainly faster than the arrival of that New York magazine photographer.
But first things first. A few loose ends that needed tying in Briarcliff Manor. All having to do with a certain insurance man and some test results. What would old Alfie Hitchcock have done with that? He certainly would have raised some hackles with that