The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [34]
32
THE SUN CREATED millions of perfect jewels on the ocean surface. The line of surf was like a delicate white lace collar.
Sarah broke the white lace with a nearly perfect dive. It made his heart grab in spite of his commonsense resolve just a moment before. She was so “regular” and just plain good to be around. He couldn’t imagine anybody leaving her, as her husband apparently had done.
Around four-thirty, the two of them got back to work. They agreed to cover the remaining files before calling it a day.
As he watched her jot down several notes, Stefanovitch began to understand why Sarah McGinniss had become a successful journalist and author. She was single-minded, and absolutely driven by her work, at least by the writing of The Club. Sarah also seemed immune to the danger attached to writing her book.
Late afternoon breezes off the ocean arrived in refreshing swells for the next hour or so. Stefanovitch thought that he hadn’t felt so sandy, so windblown, so good, in years.
He had completely lost track of time, and was surprised to look up and see that night had fallen. His watch said nine.
“You’ve really got yourself a beautiful spot here.” He finally spoke. He moved away from the worktable, up closer to the porch railing with its view of the sea.
Sarah came over and sat on the whitewashed rail beside him. Her profile, difficult to ignore in any lighting, was alluring against the moon and the night sky.
“I still can’t get it into my head that this is actually my place. The house. This little vantage point on sun and sea.”
Stop staring at her, Stefanovitch was thinking as he listened to Sarah. You’re acting like you’ve never been around a beautiful woman before.
Odd things were happening to him. A sense of excitement; of imminent adventure; a feeling that something strange and shining was going to take place.
“Listen, Stef, I have some lobsters in the fridge. It’s getting kind of late. Should we knock off? Will you have dinner with me?”
“If you let me cook something, I’d consider that invitation very seriously.”
“We can do a tag-team act in the kitchen.” Sarah smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign.
Stefanovitch wasn’t really sure what happened next. Whether it was he or Sarah, or a little of both? Or if it really happened at all.
He was leaning forward at the same time that Sarah was slipping down from the rail. They were closer than either had intended. Their lips met. They were kissing as uncertainly as children trying it for the first time.
Sarah pulled away first, stepping back awkwardly toward the porch railing.
“I’m sorry. That was a…I’m sorry, Stef,” she stammered.
She was obviously as confused as he was, and he was very confused.
“Yeah. No problem. Just the moon working its magic,” Stefanovitch managed.
He followed Sarah inside to the kitchen. For a moment, everything was uncomfortable between them, very quiet. Slowly they found some balance again, a comfort level. They had both made a mistake. That was all. It happened sometimes.
The preparations for the lobster dinner were interrupted by the telephone’s ringing.
The call was for Stefanovitch. It was Bear Kupchek with news about the investigation.
It was an unusually excited Bear, Stefanovitch discovered as he took the call. He could see Sarah in the kitchen as he listened to New York. He thought he could still feel her kiss on his lips.
“Stef? You there? Anybody home?” Kupchek asked.
“Yeah, I’m here.” He tuned in to the phone conversation.
“Stef, I think we’ve caught a break.”
He concentrated on the Bear’s gruff, excited voice over the phone.
“We’ve found somebody who was at Allure the night Alexandre St.-Germain was shot. He says he can identify one of the hit men, maybe the people behind it. Says we’re in for a big surprise. Big shockeroo. I’m going to meet him tonight, then I’ll come by your place. Say by eleven, at the latest. I’ve got a feeling it’s important.”
Stefanovitch calculated how long the drive back to Manhattan would take. He told the Bear that he would be at his apartment