How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

you know how very much I want to establish a clientele and get back into the thick of window treatments and what’s new in sofa tables.”
    “I do know.” Ben’s eyebrows drew together in a black bar over his nose, reminding me of the days when he used to get seriously cross with me. “If you remember, I was the one who suggested we engage an au pair to free you up for a major career move.”
    “Part-time,” I assured him. “But at the moment even that is academic, considering neither of the au pairs we have yet interviewed was anywhere near up to snuff.”
    “Agreed,” Ben said. “I could picture both those females hanging the twins out of an upstairs window by their heels if they didn’t finish their morning porridge. But at least we have Mrs. Malloy two days a week.”
    “True. And if she hadn’t agreed to come in this afternoon and watch the twins, I don’t know what I would have done. But never mind.” I smiled. “Mrs. M. will think of a way for me to show my appreciation.”
    “Meantime”—Ben stacked one cup and saucer on top of the other—“you’re going to sit down and write her a thank-you note.”
    “I hadn’t planned to.” I stared at him in surprise. “Do you think I should?”
    “It occurred to me, sweetheart, that you must have important matters claiming your attention, seeing I’m getting the distinct impression you aren’t planning on coming up to bed for a while.”
    “Well”—I firmly dismissed the eerie verbal resemblance to Sir Gavin and took the coffee cups back from him—“I do have to rinse these out, and while I’m at the sink I might just as well wash my hair, and then I’ll have to wait for it to dry.”
    “You don’t have to hang it on the line, do you?” Ben’s smile had an edge to it that could readily be explained by his being seriously fatigued. He worked long days at Abigail’s, and I would have been a complete trollop to take him up on his generous hints that we re-consummate our marriage.
    “The hair dryer gives me split ends,” I told him gently.
    “Completely unacceptable.” With a quirk of his left eyebrow, he left me.
    “Sleep tight,” I called after him as he went out into the hall on his way up to bed.
    I loved my kitchen at night. The Aga cooker was ensconced like a benevolent patriarch, basking in the friendly gleam of the copper bowls hanging from the iron rack and the smiling faces of the plates on the Welsh dresser. The rocking chair before the open hearth proffered a welcoming lap. The plants in the greenhouse window took on the mysterious appeal of a miniature jungle where Tobias could prowl as undisputed king. And I was queen of all this quiet. A quiet that was presently enhanced, not spoiled, by the kettle coming to a boil. No need for me to cup my hand over its whistling snout. On this, as on all other nights, it kept its voice down to a throaty purr.
    While waiting for the tea to infuse in the pot, I crept upstairs, past my bedroom door, and along the gallery to the twins’ room with its blue-and-yellow nursery-rhyme decorating scheme. Guided by the pale gleam from the man-in-the-moon night-light, I tiptoed from one junior bed to the other, smoothing Tam’s tousled hair back from his brow, bending to press a whisper of a kiss on Abbey’s chubby fist. Happiness flooded through me, a happiness tinged with sadness for Miss Bunch, whose real life would appear to have been lived at the library and whose death had brought no more than polite regret. Picking up Peter Rabbit and tucking him in beside Tam, I stood wondering what my darlings dreamed about, before retreating down to the kitchen.
    Having poured my cup of tea, I opened the pantry, gathered up the tin of digestive biscuits, and returned to the drawing room. For a person who had been a fat child and a less-than-skinny adult, nothing could have been more deliciously sinful than a period of uninterrupted intimacy with a food that was neither green nor lean. It wasn’t that