cover everything except her shoulders and the leg he
was presently massaging.
Hammond took the hand she extended him and
squeezed it. "Not if you don't."
She gave him a wicked smile. "You know me better
than that. Not an ounce of modesty to my name. A
flaw that liked to have driven my mama crazy. Of
course, she was crazy anyway."
Propping her chin on her stacked hands, she
sighed as the masseur kneaded her buttock. "We're
right in the middle of the ninety-minute session, and
it's so divine I just couldn't bring myself to ask San-dro
to stop."
"I don't blame you. Funny, though."
"What?"
"Lute had a massage in the hotel spa yesterday."
"Before or after he got himself murdered?" His
frown caused her to laugh. "Just kidding. Pour yourself
some champagne, why don't you?" With an indolent
wave, she indicated the silver wine cooler
standing near the vanity. The cork had already been
popped, but on the silver tray near the cooler was an
extra flute that hadn't been used. It flitted through his
mind that Davee might have been expecting him
tonight. It was an unsettling thought.
"Thanks, but I'd better not," he said.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," she said impatiently.
"Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. You and I have
never stood on ceremony, so why start now? Besides,
I think champagne is the perfect drink for when your
husband gets blown away in the penthouse suite of
his own freaking hotel. While you're at it, pour me
another, too."
Her champagne flute was sitting on the floor beside
the massage table. Knowing it was usually futile
to argue with Davee, Hammond refilled her glass,
then poured half a flute for himself. When he brought
hers back to her, she clinked their glasses together.
"Cheers. To funerals and other fun times."
"I don't exactly share your sentiment," he said
after taking a sip.
She ran her tongue over her lips to savor the taste
of the wine. "You may be right. Maybe champagne
should only be drunk at weddings."
When she lifted her gaze to him, Hammond felt
his face turn warm. Discerning exactly what he was
thinking, she laughed.
It was the same laugh he remembered her laughing
on a July night years before when both had been
attendants in a mutual friend's wedding. Gardenias,
Casa Blanca lilies, peonies, and other fragrant flowers
had been used to decorate the garden of the
bride's home where the reception had been held. The
heady scent of the flowers was pervasive and as intoxicating
as the champagne he had guzzled in a vain
effort to keep cool within the constraints of his
tuxedo.
As though they'd been cast by a talent agency, all
eight bridesmaids had been gorgeous, matching
blondes. In the frothy pink floor-length gown with a
deep decolletage, Davee had been even more dazzling
than the others.
"You look good enough to eat," he had told her
outside the chapel moments before the wedding. "Or
drink, maybe. You look like you should have a paper
umbrella sticking out the top of your head."
"A paper umbrella is all this getup needs to be
thoroughly revolting."
"You don't like it?" he asked, egging her on.
She flipped him the finger.
Later at the reception, when they came off the
dance floor after a rousing dance to Otis Day and the
Knights' "Shout," she fanned her face, complaining,
"Not only is this dress too foofy to be believed, it's
the hottest fucking garment I've ever had on my
body."
"So take it off."
The Burtons and the Crosses had been friends before
either Davee or Hammond was born. Consequently,
his first memories of Christmas parties and
beach cookouts included Davee. When the kids were
shuttled upstairs to bed while the adults continued
partying, he and Davee played tricks on the babysitters
unlucky enough to be in charge of them.
They'd smoked their first cigarettes together. With
an air of superiority she had confided to him when
she started menstruating. The first time she got
drunk, it was his car she threw up in. The night she
lost her virginity, she had called Hammond as soon as
she got home to give him a detailed account of the
event.
From the time they were kids sharing their vocabulary
of nasty words, all the way into adolescence,
they had talked dirty to each other. First because it
was fun, and they could get away with it. Neither
would tattle on the other or take offense. As they
progressed into young adulthood, their banter became
more sexually oriented and flirtatious, but it
was still meaningless and therefore safe.
But leading up to that July wedding, they had
been away at their respective universities--he at
Clemson and she at Vanderbilt--and hadn't seen
each other in a long while. They were more than
a little drunk on champagne and caught up in the
romanticism of the occasion. So when Hammond
issued that naughty challenge, Davee had looked
at him through smoky eyes and replied, "Maybe
I will."
While everyone else gathered around to watch
the cutting of the bridal cake, Hammond stole a
bottle of champagne from one of the bars and
grabbed Davee's hand. They sneaked into the
neighbor's backyard, knowing that the neighbor
was at the reception. The lawns of the two houses
were divided by a dense, tall hedge that had been
cultivated for decades to guarantee the kind of
privacy Hammond and Davee were seeking.
The popping champagne cork sounded like a
cannon blast when Hammond opened the bottle.
That caused them to giggle hysterically. He
poured them each a glass and they drank it down.
Then a second.
At some point into the third, Davee asked him
to help her with the back buttons on her brides
maid dress, and off it came, along with her strapless
bra, garter belt, and stockings.
She hesitated when she hooked her thumbs into
the elastic waist of her underpants, but he whispered,
"Dare you, Davee," which was a familiar refrain
from their childhood and youth. Never had she
backed down from a dare. That night was no exception.
She removed her panties and allowed him to stare
his fill, then backed down the swimming pool steps
into the cool water. Hammond shed his tuxedo in a
fraction of the time it had taken him to get into it,
scattering studs that were never seen again--at least
not by him.
As he stood on the edge of the pool, Davee's eyes
widened in astonishment and appreciation. "Hammond,
honey, you've come along nicely since that
time we got caught playing doctor."
He dove in.
Beyond some experimental kissing as youngsters
when they had agreed that it was too "totally gross"
to even consider opening mouths and touching
tongues, they had never kissed. They didn't that
night, either. They didn't take the time. The danger of
getting caught had heightened their excitement to a
point where foreplay was unnecessary. The moment
he reached her, he pulled her onto his thighs and
thrust into her.
It was slippery. It was quick. They laughed
through the whole thing.
After that night, he didn't see her for a couple of
years. When he did, he pretended that the escapade in
the swimming pool had never happened, and she did
likewise. Probably neither had wanted that one sexual
experiment to jeopardize a lifetime friendship.
They had never mentioned it until now. He didn't
even remember how they had got back into their
clothes that night, or how they had explained themselves
to the other people attending the wedding reception,
or if they were even required to explain
themselves.
But he vividly remembered Davee's laugh--gutsy
and lusty, seductive and sexy. Her laugh hadn't
changed.
But her smile was almost sad when she said, "We
had fun as kids, didn't we?"
"Yes, we did."
Then she lowered her eyes to the bubbles in her
glass, watching them for a moment before drinking
them down. "Unfortunately, we had to become
grown-ups and life started to suck."
Her arm dropped listlessly over the side of the
table. Hammond took the flute from her hand before
she dropped it and shattered it on the marble floor.
"I'm sorry about Lute, Davee. That's why I came, to
let you know that I think what happened is terrible.
I'm sure my parents will call or come over to see you
tomorrow."
"Oh, there'll be a parade of sympathizers marching
through here tomorrow. I refused to receive anyone
today, but tomorrow I won't be able to fend them
off. Bringing their chicken casseroles and lime
gelatin salads, they'll crowd in here to see how I'm
taking it."
"How are you taking it?"
Noticing the subtle change in his tone, she rolled
to her side, pulled the sheet against her front, and sat
up, swinging her bare legs over the edge of the table.
"Are you asking as my friend, or as the heir apparent
to the D.A.'s office?"
"I could argue that point, but I'm here as your
friend. I shouldn't have to tell you that."
She pulled in a deep breath. "Well, don't expect
sackcloth and ashes, or hair shirts. None of that Bible
stuff. I'm not going to cut off a finger or anything like
the Indian widows in the movies do. No, I'll behave
appropriately. Thanks to Lute, the gossips will have
enough to keep them in material without me showing
how I really feel."
"And how's that?"
She smiled as brilliantly as she had the night she
took her bow at her debutante ball. "I'm positively
delighted that the son of a bitch is dead." Her honey-colored
eyes challenged Hammond to say something
to that. When he didn't, she just laughed and then addressed
the masseur over her shoulder. "Sandro, be a
love and do my neck and shoulders, please."
From the time she sat up, he had been standing
against the mirrored wall with his arms folded over
his meaty chest. Sandro was handsome and heavily
muscled. Straight black hair was combed away from
his face and held there with thick gel. His eyes were
as dark as ripe olives.
As he moved in behind Davee and placed his
hands on her bare shoulders, his intense, Mediterranean
eyes stayed fixed on Hammond as though he
were sizing up a competitor. Obviously his services
extended beyond the massage. Hammond wanted to
tell him to relax, that he and Davee were old friends,
nothing more, and that he need not be jealous of
him.
At the same time he wanted to warn Davee that
now was not the time to flout convention by screwing
her masseur. For once in her life she should exercise
discretion. Unless Hammond missed his guess,
and taking into account Steffi's remarks, her name
would top Rory Smilow's list of suspects. Everything
she did would be closely scrutinized.
"I admire your candor, Davee, but--"
"Why lie? Did you like Lute?"
"Not at all," he replied honestly and without hesitation.
"He was a crook, a scoundrel, and a ruthless
opportunist. He hurt people who would let him, and
he used those he couldn't hurt."
"You're equally candid, Hammond. Most people
shared that sentiment. I'm not alone in despising
him."
"No, but you are his widow."
"I am his widow," she said wryly. "I am a lot of
things. But one thing I am not is a hypocrite. I won't
grieve for the bastard."
"Davee, if the wrong people heard you saying
things like that, it could mean trouble for you."
"Like Rory Smilow and that bitch he brought here
with him last night?"
"Exactly."
"That Steffi person works with you, right?" When
he nodded, she said, "Well, I thought she was positively
horrid."
He smiled. "Few people like Steffi. She's very
ambitious. She rubs people the wrong way, but she
doesn't care. She's not out to win any personality
contests."
"Good, because she would lose."
"She's really quite congenial once you get to know
her."
"I'll pass."
"You have to understand where she's coming
from."
"Up North someplace."
He chuckled. "I wasn't referring to a region,
Davee. I meant her drive. She's had some career disappointments.
She overcompensates for those setbacks
and comes on a little too strong sometimes."
"If you don't stop defending her, I'm liable to get
grumpy."
Placing one arm behind her head, she lifted her
hair off her neck so Sandro would have easier access.
It was a very provocative pose, exposing her underarm
and part of her breast. Hammond figured she
knew it was provocative, and wondered if she was