Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino Page B

suspicious of his motives. Is he a player who hits on every woman he meets, or is his attention toward me part of a more cunning plan? Either way, I’m going.
    â€œWhen you put it that way—­I think my family would be okay without me for one Sunday.”
    The elevator door slides open, and I step inside, pushing the button for the lobby.
    â€œBe sure to bring a swimsuit,” he says. And then, right before the door closes, he winks at me, and says, “By the way—­I wasn’t at Annalisa’s art opening last week.”
    The door slides shut. Busted.

 
    Chapter 11
    B EYOND A BLACK iron gate, I steer my Volvo up a long, winding driveway. The gravel road is flanked by olive trees and grapevines that snake up the yellow Napa hillside. Blue sky stretches forever.
    What the hell am I doing here? I agreed to come last night but now feel awkward. I think back to dinner last night. There was something about Grant—­a streak of intensity beneath his outward poise that sent a shiver of excitement through me. He has an element of bad-­boy danger to him—­breaking his own city’s laws by lighting up that cigarette in front of an army of reporters, talking about how oysters are an aphrodisiac, reaching for my necklace and rubbing it somewhat suggestively. The memory makes a flush spread up to my ears. There is more to him than meets the eye. I remind myself that I am there to hunt for a killer.
    Careful, Giovanni. Sure, he’s handsome and charming, but so was Ted Bundy.
    The dirt driveway meanders to a cluster of buildings. The main house—­small white stucco with bright blue accents—­looks like it was plucked off a Mediterranean hillside. Petal pink flowers in giant terra-­cotta pots border the entryway.
    The big wooden door swings open, and Grant himself comes to greet me. He wears beige linen pants, cuffed to reveal his ankles, and a shirt with the sleeves pushed up and the buttons undone halfway down his chest. His tanned feet are bare. He kisses me on each cheek.
    â€œCome along. Everyone’s out by the pool in back. I’ll show you where you can change.”
    The murmur of voices drifts through the house from the back, along with a woman’s tinkly laughter. I thrust a small box toward Grant. “Hope you like biscotti. My own recipe.”
    He eyes the box like a little boy and holds it up to his nose, inhaling. “I love biscotti. I can smell the anise. Thank you. But, I’m warning you—­I’m not sharing. I’m going to hide these in the kitchen and eat them with my coffee tomorrow morning.” He leans over to kiss me, and I turn my head, so it lands on my cheek.
    For someone who has as much money as he reportedly does, he is either an incredibly great actor or has somehow managed to stay remarkably unaffected.
    Remember Ted Bundy.
    We make a stop in the kitchen. A corner of the countertop has a jumble of olive oils and spices in old glass bottles. A worn oak table still holds a jar of jam and crumbs from breakfast and the scattered remains of the New York Times.
    Grant points me to a bedroom right off the kitchen. “Feel free to change in here. I’m ready for a swim, too. I’ll meet you back here.”
    I close the door and pluck my six-­year-­old swimsuit out of my bag. I don’t do the beach—­at least not in a swimsuit—­so although it’s a little faded, the suit is still ser­viceable.
    â€œI know I’ve kept you in a drawer for a very long time,” I say to it, tugging it on. “But I promise if you be nice to me today, I’ll take you out more often.”
    Luckily, there is a full-­length mirror. The first thing I do is check my backside to make sure it is covered. I’m at my best weight in years, but no matter how thin I get, I’ve always got “back,” as they say. It’s the Italian thing.
    Now I check the front? Mama mia.