Chasing Venus Read Online Free PDF

him kind of puff up.   “I told you I’d make you a star and I
did.   You’re gonna hit the list next
week.”
    “What?   The list?   I made it?”
    He nodded, beaming like
a proud parent.   Or maybe like a
relieved agent whose client had finally started gaining real traction.   “You’re gonna come in at fourteen.”
    She knew exactly what
he meant.   Any author would, though
it was far more than the vast majority would ever achieve.
    The New York Times bestsellers list.   The most prestigious of all, the hardest
to crack, and she’d made it.   Devil’s Cradle had made it.
    She stared straight
ahead, focusing on odd things, the ministers huddled at the front of the
church; the redhead two pews ahead who couldn’t stop fingering her hair; the
scuffling at the rear of the church that signaled that the Boswell family was
about to make its solemn progress up the aisle.   She glanced at Michael, who look as
delighted as Frankie.   Michael
grasped her hand and held it and all she could do was squeeze back, as tears of
joy and gratitude pricked hot behind her eyes.
    All those hours of
servitude at her computer seemed worth it now.   All that battling with the language, the
struggle to make her characters leap off the page and dance, all those
mornings, nights and noons of trying to craft stories
that people would want to read—she’d done it.   So much for the naysayers.   She’d done it.
    See, Philip?
    She hated herself for
thinking of him at this moment.   He,
chief doubter, didn’t deserve to be part of her victory.
    The organ music
swelled.   With a congratulatory pat
on her shoulder, Frankie edged away.   Annie blinked, tried to restrain the tears that pooled behind her
eyes.   At least it was socially
acceptable to cry in this setting, better than, say, screaming for joy.
    She had a distraction,
at least, the bereaved family shuffling up the center aisle.   Along with everybody else, she pivoted
in the pew to see.
    And found herself
staring, once again, at the man she now knew by name.   Reid Gardner.

 
    *

 
    He held her gaze
without blinking, a skill he’d honed in his cop days, and tried to get a bead
on why this woman interested him.   He’d known who she was right away, thanks to the reading he’d done on
the short flight up California’s coast.   Along with a file of background information on the writer murders,
Sheila had provided him with a handful of mystery novels to acquaint him with
some of the personalities.   He’d
read a few pages of each and given a passing glance to the authors’ bios and
photos.   One had captured his
attention more than the rest.
    The black-and-white
still hadn’t let on how feisty this particular writer was.   Or how much intelligence shone out of
her bright green eyes.   Or that she
favored a musky perfume over a floral scent.   Or how her voice had a husky quality
that made him wonder what sounds she might produce in other circumstances.
    Not that she was the
sort of woman who made a man think instantly of sex, at least not more than any
other attractive female.   She was
more a tomboy type than an erotic beauty.   He’d always favored the girl-next-door, though.   After all, look at Donna.
    Remembering Donna made
Reid break the stare.   He couldn’t
think of her and look at another woman.   It seemed disloyal, even now.   Five years it had been since he lost her.   Such a long time, and so little progress
made.   Visions of her, bleeding to
death at the mouth of that damn alley, still haunted his dreams.   Bigelow still roamed free.   Justice still remained to be done.
    Sheila, beside Reid
next to the aisle, leaned toward him.   “That’s Boswell’s husband walking in front of the coffin,” she whispered
in her lightly accented voice, then consulted her notes.   “Charles Waring .   And that’s her mother.”
    The widower was an
unprepossessing man who looked like he spent all his time indoors.   Maggie Boswell’s