THE NEXT TO DIE Read Online Free PDF Page B

breasts stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.
    “Traci, hi,” was all Avery could say.
    “Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?”
    She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. “Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?” she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.
    Avery backed into his dressing table. “Jesus, Traci…”
    A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked damn sexy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.
    “Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside—”
    Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. “If the trailer’s rockin’, they won’t come knockin’.”
    “Lord, did I hear her right?” Louise asked over the speaker phone. “Did she really just say that?”
    “What the fuck?” Traci’s playful grin vanished.
    “Traci, I’m on the speaker phone with my agent,” Avery explained. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Um, do you know Louise Farrell?”
    “Hi, Traci,” Louise piped up.
    Traci Haydn rolled her eyes, then deliberately stepped up to Avery. Those firm, beautiful breasts rubbed against his sweaty chest. She stood on her tiptoes, and her nipples grazed his. “I’m going to get you, one way or another,” she whispered. Then she gave his ear a long, slow lick. Backing away, Traci smiled at him.
    Avery tried in vain to camouflage the erection stirring inside his jeans. “Traci, how many times do I have to tell you no?” he whispered.
    Ignoring his question, she put her T-shirt back on. “Bye, Laura or whatever your name is,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”
    “Oh, you too, Traci, dear,” Louise replied.
    Avery watched her go; then he sank down on the sofa. He sighed. “You still there, Louise?”
    “Honey, I wouldn’t hang up for the world right now. How many passes does that make from your happily married costar?”
    “That’s the third one this week, and it was a lulu, about a five-point-five on the Richter scale. I tell you, she’s worse than Libby.”
    “Sounded like she said something about ‘no shirts.’ Was she topless?”
    “Yes. And my ear is still wet from her licking it.”
    “Well, Mr. Avery Cooper. Do you realize what you just experienced? Traci Haydn is the fantasy girl for millions of boys and men, the stuff wet dreams are made of. What do you have to say for yourself?”
    “I miss my wife,” Avery replied.
     
    “Hi, sweetie. I erased all the other messages, because we maxed out on the machine. Aren’t we popular?”
    Avery smiled. He sat at the desk in his suite at the Vancouver Four Seasons. Simply hearing Joanne’s voice on the answering machine at home soothed some of his loneliness.
    Joanne Lane was a stage actress. Twice nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, she’d made a name for herself on Broadway. Elsewhere, she was Mrs. Avery Cooper. Her latest play hadn’t fared well with critics. Unless business picked up, the production would close next week, and she’d return home to L.A. Under such gloomy circumstances, Avery tried not to celebrate their reunions too eagerly. Joanne had bouts with depression. She was on medication, but still required kid-glove handling at times. Things were always a little touch and go whenever one of her plays failed, but it also meant they could be together for a while.
    They’d met four years ago, during a summer hiatus from his TV show, Crazy to Work Here . Avery had played a “nice guy” who has horrible luck with women. Quickly he’d become the star attraction among the ensemble cast of “wacky” characters employed at an ad agency. Comparisons to Jack Lemmon and Tom Hanks abounded for the former Northwestern drama major and Second City alumni. He was also a favorite guest on the talk show circuit. On Letterman, he