Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) đ
- Author: Nanci Rathbun
Book online «Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) đ». Author Nanci Rathbun
âShoot,â I said, âI was anticipating a cholesterol crash at Paulâs after we worked out, then maybe a film noir detective movie at my placeâŠor even an early night. Oh, well, guess Iâll have to find myself another handsome cop for the night.â
âNot funny, short stuff.â He ruffled my spiky hair. âMaybe I should hire a PI to keep an eye on you.â He pulled back a bit and leaned down to plant a kiss. My insides started to tighten up, little tingles moving southward. Would the sparks eventually smooth into a nice steady hum?
âWork meeting?â I asked him.
âYeah.â
âWant to come over when it ends?â I asked.
âIt might be late.â
âWell, if itâs before midnight, ring my bell. Maybe Iâll be up for some nookie, Wookie.â The first time Iggy introduced Wukowski to me, I asked him, âDo they call you Wookie?â His response: âOnly once,â in a Joe Friday, stick-up-the-butt tone of voice. Funny how pairing Wookie with nookie didnât seem to offend. I put my lips to his this timeâfairâs fair, and a guy doesnât like to do all the chasing! He slowly disengaged from me, climbed into the Wrangler and drove off with a wave.
I grabbed my workout bag from the Miata, put in an hour of sweat and headed home to my Lake Drive high-rise condo. My steam shower with its five pulsating heads beats Rickâs communal shower any day. Some folks snidely whispered âmiddle-aged crazyâ when I sold the family home after the divorce and bought the convertible and the condo. They never understood that the tight constraints of the American dream that I forced myself into for twenty-five years of marriage were not the real me. That June Cleaver shirtwaist dress and pearls hid a push-up bra and red thong. My exâs philandering hurt, but it also resulted in the freedom to be the woman I always wanted to be. Donât misunderstand, I loved my life as a wife and mother, but I wanted the rest of life, too.
The lobby mailbox contained the usual junk. My personal mail goes to a rented box at a private service center. Itâs more secure, and they can sign for packages, so itâs also more convenient. I tossed the unopened envelopes on the hall table, planning to shred them later. No paper leaves my home or office unshredded. Itâs amazing what a dedicated snoop can find out from what seem like innocuous mailings.
I stripped out of my workout clothes as I ambled down the hallway to my bedroom and tossed them into the hamper in the walk-in closet. I admit to being a bit of a sybarite about my clothes, shoes and bags. The closet used to be a small guest bedroom. I converted it so that my stuff would be organized and accessible. No sense buying great clothes and then having them get wrinkled on the hanger. Or letting designer shoes lay in a jumbled heap. Iâm a woman who appreciates order and my closet reflects it.
In the shower, I shampooed, soaped, shaved and exfoliated. Then I dried, moussed my hair, applied cream to my face, neck and décolletage, and used three different lotions on my body, feet and hands. Lastly, I pulled on a soft cotton tee and pants, and slid my feet into terry cloth thongs. Body maintenance takes a lot of time and effort.
While I studied the open refrigerator, the phone rang. My papaâs deep baritone voice rang out. âBuona sera, Angelina.â Uh-oh. Use of full first name, not in a sentimental situation. I was in Papaâs bad books. At least he hadnât used my middle name, too. Hearing âAngelina Sofiaâ makes my heart hitch a beat.
âHi, Papa. Whatâs up? Howâs Aunt Terry?â
âWhatâs up?â he parroted. âLet me see. Thanksgiving is three weeks away. Two weeks ago, Aunt Terry invited your police officer friend to join us for the holiday meal. Did you extend the invitation to him?â
Busted. Iâd been trying to find the right time and place to talk to Wukowski about it, ever since Aunt Terry told me that she and the rest of the family expected âmy new manâ to line up, front and center, for inspection. Weâd only known each other since early summer, only been a couple since mid-August. I hadnât figured out how to broach the subject yet.
Wukowski is a private man of few words. My Sicilian-American familyâPapa, Aunt Terry, my grown children David and Emma and their respective spouses, Elaine and John, Davidâs twins Patrick and Donald and Emmaâs girl and my namesake, Angelaâis pretty darned nosy and noisy. I could picture it now: everyone bombarding him with questions as they passed the turkey and dressing, pasta and salad. Wukowski responding with his deadpan âyesâ or ânope.â Gary Cooper meets the Corleones. Disaster.
âPapa, I planned to ask him tonight when we went out to dinner. But he got called into work. Iâll ask Wukowski this week, I promise.â
âWukowski. You call him by his last name? Doesnât the man have a first name?â
No way could I divulge Wukowskiâs name. His badge read âW. T. Wukowskiâ and his buddies called him Ted. When I told him that I wouldnât go to bed with a man whose name I didnât know, he âfessed up to his very Polish and very embarrassing given names: Wenceslas Tadeusz. Ven-chess-louse Ta-doosh. Thatâs right, his mama named him after the Christmas carol, âGood King Wenceslas.â Apparently, it was playing on the radio as his dad barreled up the icy drive to St. Maryâs hospital with his laboring wife humming along. And then she threw in an unpronounceable middle name. No wonder the poor guy went by Ted.
Back to my dilemma. âHe thinks itâs cute that I call him Wukowski,
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