He kissed me deeply, sweetly, whispered, “Maybe we could make it a honeymoon…”īefore I could reply-not that I had a reply ready-the bedroom door pushed wide, and a small voice said, “Uncle Julie?” The brochures whispered and crackled beneath us as his mouth found mine. He tossed the newspaper and pencil aside and drew me into his arms. His smile was very white in the lamplight. “Whatever you want, Kit.” He was suddenly serious, gaze solemn, the line of his mouth soft. Or we could do nothing but sleep and eat and fu-”ĭespite the fact that I don’t like to travel- hate to travel-a lot of that did sound appealing. Or spend a couple of days swimming with dolphins off the Isle of Capri. We could go to Florence and see the Ponte Vecchio. We could see the Pantheon and the Colosseum. We could explore Rome’s catacombs-or just visit a few museums and galleries. No conference, no convention, no meetings with agents or editors, no deadlines. “Okay, then how about a gondola ride at sunset and candlelight dinner on the terrace of our private villa-and then hot, naked sex. His mouth quirked, but he said coaxingly, “Think about it. Possibly averting an international incident.” We’ve never gone away on vacation together.” He got that dark-eyed, earnest look he always wore when applying the thumbscrews. “It might not be the object, but it should be a consideration.” “What do you think? What looks good to you?” “Right?” He regarded me for a moment, then nodded at the scattered brochures. He was silent as his pencil scratched on paper. It really doesn’t get much more domesticated than that. was doing the San Francisco Examiner crossword, and I was figuring out our spring vacation plans. It was eleven o’clock on a Friday night in late October, and we were cozily tucked up in our master bedroom at 321 Cherry Lane. The only option not available to me was staying home. We could do an eight-day Adriatic cruise or a fourteen-day grand tour by rail. Everything from private guided tours with personally tailored itineraries to culturally themed coach tours.

There was a bewildering array of options. I could practically feel the venerable blue of the Roman sky beneath my fingertips. Walk in the footsteps of the Colosseum’s ancient gladiators! Cruise canals in a golden gondola! Live La Dolce Vita! read the cover of the brochure I held. “Hm?” I was studying the colorful travel brochures littering my lap and the raw-silk ivory comforter.

In Other Words...Murder by Josh Lanyon