Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page B

thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness . Isaiah 41:10 was yet another favorite passage of Katharine’s, but lately she’d failed to adhere to it.
    She was indeed dismayed and she needed to do something, anything, to find out why Carson hadn’t come home. After phoning all the major hospitals in metropolitan Atlanta and being told that no Carson O’Connor had been admitted, she called the local p olice.
    When the front doorbell rang twenty minutes later, Katharine’s nerves tightened and the butterflies inside her stomach fluttered madly.
    She peeked out the side window and saw a police car parked in front of the house. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch waiting. Since most of the neighbors were at work or school, it didn’t matter that they’d parked in front of the house.
    She opened the decorative storm door and invited the policemen inside. They followed her into the fo rmal grand room where the O’Connors often entertained guests.
    “Please, have a seat,” she offered. One sat on the loveseat and the other took one of three strategically arranged Queen Victoria chairs. Their eyes moved over the room, taking in the oversized, obsolete fa mily portrait in its magnificent bronze frame above the fireplace and the original artwork on the walls. The watercolors were Katharine’s own. For years, Carson had tried to convince her to publicly display or sell her work. He’d even contacted a curator who agreed with Carson, but Katharine always declined his invitations for an art show.
    “My name is Officer Freeman,” said the man on the loveseat. He pointed his chin in his partner’s d irection. “And that’s Officer Nascarelli.”
    Freeman’s handsome, chiseled features reminded Katharine of a young Harry Belafonte. Before he was seated, she’d noticed his bowed legs, which she’d always found appealing. Through a faint smile, she whispered, “Hi.”
    Officer Nascarelli raked his index finger along the back of his pink ear. He seemed nervous, as if it rather surprised him to see a black woman living so lavishly. Katharine guessed he’d no doubt expected the O’Connors to be an Irish-American family.
    “You say your husband didn’t come home last night?” Officer Freeman asked.
    “Yes.” Katharine’s eyes dropped to the lovely arrangement of silk flowers inside a hand-painted ceramic bowl on the coffee table.
    “Has your husband ever done this before, Mrs. O’Connor?”
    “No. Never.”
    “Where is he employed?”
    “USA Weekly.”
    “Does his job require travel or late hours?”
    “Yes.”
    “How often does he travel?”
    “Frequently. He’s a sports journalist and often attends national and international sporting events.”
    For a long while, Katharine thought Na scarelli wasn’t listening to her question/answer session with Officer Freeman. He seemed more interested in the curio cabinet with its fine china and the marble fireplace. He roamed around the room observing it as if he wanted to buy the house.
    “Sure! Of course!” Nascarelli smiled, inviting them into his thoughts. With his red nose and beer belly, he would’ve made a great impression as a young St. Nick. “Cars O’Connor!” his voice rose exci tedly. “I read his column weekly. He’s a brilliant writer. The wife will be surprised. She says O’Connor’s partly to blame for the lack of communication in our marriage, seeing how my nose is always stuck inside the evening sports pages and his weekly column. His lips formed a crooked grin that indicated she’s right. “Well whaddaya know,” he held his grin. “Ol’ Cars O’Connor himself. The man that doesn’t hold back his tongue—or, should I say, his ink.”
    His strong Southern dialect was very familiar. Katharine was certain he’d grown up somewhere in the backwoods of Alabama. But with a name like Nascarelli, she