Sex, Murder and a Double Latte Read Online Free PDF

doing anyway? Any change?”
    “His T-cell count has gotten ridiculously low, but he’s staying optimistic. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. He’s practically memorized every one of your books. I swear, girl, you are just the female John Grisham these days. Every client I have…”
    Marcus’s voice faded into the background as I studied a man on the other side of the restaurant talking on his cell phone. Maybe the prank calls had come from a cell. That would mean that the person could have been watching the apartment while making the call. But I hadn’t heard any background noise, so they probably had come from someone’s home or—
    “Sophie? Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”
    “Hmm? Oh yeah, of course. You were talking about Steve.”
    “Yesss…about five minutes ago. What’s up with you?” He paused to order a second round.
    “I’m sorry. There has just been some weird stuff happening.”
    “Such as?”
    “I’ve been getting prank calls. Five today. At least, five that I was home to answer.”
    “Oh, I hate those. You know how you deal with them?”
    “How?”
    “Heavy breathing. As soon as you realize that the person is prank-calling, start breathing heavily into the receiver. Trips them up every time.”
    “I’ll try that.” I swirled the remnants of my Cosmo. It must have been evaporating because there was no way I could have drunk it that fast. I thought I caught the pink-palm-tree guy casting me a disapproving stare. I swiveled my bar stool in Marcus’s direction. “So what made you want to go to tonight’s little shindig?”
    A dimple materialized on his left cheek. “You know me. I am all about supporting up-and-coming young artists.”
    I gave him a sideways glance. “Uh-huh. There was a picture of the artist on the invite?”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    “He’s cute?”
    “Absolutely to die for.”
    “He’s gay?”
    “One can always hope.”
    “But you don’t know. So it’s possible that I stand a chance.”
    Marcus raised his glass in salute. “May the best man win.”
    “Or woman.”
    “Don’t bother me with semantics.”
    We were presented with our pizza and I forced myself to wait until the bartender physically let go of the plate before tearing into it. Marcus must have been equally famished, because our conversation came to a halt as we devoured the pie at locust speed. I indicated to Marcus that he should eat the last piece. I was trying to lose five pounds and I had developed a kind of warped diet reasoning in which I don’t have to count the calories of the food I eat if somebody else finishes it. It doesn’t make sense but it does make me feel less guilty, so I choose to delude myself.
    I sipped at my third drink while Marcus polished off our dinner. Alcohol was great for diets. If you drank enough of it, you didn’t feel guilty at all.
    Marcus checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s almost eight. We want to be fashionably late but not late-late.” He signed the charge slip and waited impatiently for me to collect my purse and jacket before hurrying me out of the restaurant and into the parking garage.
    “You know, there’s no way we’re going to find a parking spot within five miles of the gallery,” I said, “and the bus will practically take us to its door, plus it will be faster than looking for a—”
    “Honey, you do not impress a man by showing up on a bus.” His tone relayed the sympathy he felt for any woman who was so misguided.
    “You never know, I mean he is an artist, a.k.a. a liberal eccentric. Maybe he prefers public transportation for the sake of the environment, or maybe he likes to rub elbows with all us common people who don’t have cars or won’t drive them for fear of losing our parking spots.”
    “Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”
    I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under