The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF

upset you. Maybe it would be better if I—”
    Lang moved to put an arm around the priest’s shoulder.
“Amicus est tanquam alter idem
, a friend is just like a second self, Francis. I guess I’m a little touchy tonight.”
    Reassured, Francis smiled, the white teeth doubly brilliant against the dark face. A native of a country among the worst of Africa’s pestilential and violent West coast, Francis had gone to seminary and been appointed to minister to the growing numbers of Africans in Atlanta.
    Though white, Lang’s sister, Janet, had converted to Catholicism and become one of his parishioners.
    Lang embraced no particular religion, but he and the black priest had become good friends with more in common than most white Americans and black Africans. Lang described himself as a victim of a liberal arts education, bored by the usual business degree. Ancient history and its languages had been his passion, a neat fit with the priest’s knowledge of Latin and medieval history. Swapping Latin aphorisms had begun as a game and become a habit.
    “Perhaps you are now ready for dessert and coffee?”
    Gurt was silhouetted against the interior of the condominium. Even half in shadow, she could have graced the cover of any number of men’s magazines. Or a bottle of St. Pauli Girl beer from her native Germany. Her height, nearly six feet, accentuated a perfectly proportioned figure she seemed to maintain without effort. Sky-blue eyes and shoulder-length hair the color of recently harvested hay could have come straight off a German travel poster. In public, she got more attention than a joint chief of staff on a military base.
    “We have also strudel freshly baked,” she added with just enough accent to make the mundane sexy.
    Francis rolled his eyes at Lang. “Appreciate
your
cooking?”
    “Well, I did make the salad,” he grunted defensively.
    Inside, a small square table occupied that part of the living/dining area of the one-bedroom unit. Before Gurt’s arrival, Lang had taken his meals on the open bar that separated the cramped kitchen. The table had been her addition, something she had found in one of the junk shops she haunted. It was one of several additions she had made to the home Lang had bought after Dawn’s death.
    Under the table, tail wagging furiously, was Grumps, the large, black, and otherwise nondescript mongrel that had belonged to Lang’s nephew, Jeff. The dog was the only tangible thing left of the little boy, and Lang had every intention of keeping him despite the regular bribes to the building’s concierge staff to ignore the limitations on pet size specified in the condominium’s rules.
    Gurt’s mention of strudel had awakened Grumps, and he was waiting for the handout he knew would be coming from Francis despite Lang’s protest that the animal needed no additional food. Lang supposed that had he a child, the priest would be equally ruthless in spoiling the infant, too.
    Francis leaned over the table, sniffing appreciatively. “Peach, you’ve made a peach strudel?”
    Gurt nodded. “And why not? In Germany, plentiful are apples, not so much peaches. Here there more peaches than I shake a stick at.”
    “Can
shake a stick at,” Lang corrected.
    She shrugged, despairing of ever really understanding English. “And why would I shake sticks at peaches, anyway?”
    Lang rolled his eyes while Francis made no effort to hide a smile.
    “If supply’s the criterion, I suppose peanut strudel is next,” Lang finally quipped, drawing an elbow in the ribs from Gurt.
    Ever the diplomat, Francis changed the subject as adroitly as an NFL running back avoiding a linebacker. “You got your work permit?”
    Gurt looked up from cutting the pastry. “Yesterday came what you call the green card.” A look of puzzlement flickered across her face. “But it was not green.”
    “It used to be. The name stuck,” Francis offered. “So now . . .”
    Gurt twisted her face into an expression that told Lang