Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion Page A

She undid the top brass button of her hacked-off jeans and slid her hand down over her belly. She really could see herself with him.
    She yanked her hand out, leaving the button undone, and stood up. I wonder if she has a gun, she thought. Flics are supposed to carry even when they’re off duty. At least on TV they are. She rooted though the drawers of Capucine’s locker and found two clips of ammunition but no gun. I wonder where she hides it. Probably in her panties. She laughed and rubbed her abdomen with four fingers, itching to get under the waistband of her cut-off jeans.
    I have to stop doing that. I’m doing it at least three times a day. If my mother was right, I’m going to explode in so many pimples, I’ll look like a pizza. What I really need to do is get off this goddamn plastic tub and get a real life.
    She heard footsteps coming down the companionway and turned around. It was the painter one. He was probably the worst of all. He couldn’t even think of going up on deck without some fancy outfit that included a silk neckerchief knotted around his neck. What an asshole. Still, those wiry bodies with their stringy muscles could be good if you played them right.
    Dominique—that was his name, wasn’t it?—slid around the cabin door and smiled down at her. Even with that stupid thing around his neck, he did have a cute smile.
    “They’re making you work while they all go off to play? That hardly seems fair, does it?”
    “I’m here for the money, not to socialize.”
    Without answering, Dominique ran his finger through the sweat on her collarbone and put it to his lips. Yeah, there was definitely something usable about this one.
    “Everyone needs to socialize now and then, don’t you think?”
    His finger continued to trace patterns on her upper chest, slowly working down to the gully between her small, hard breasts. She said nothing. He dropped to his knees, and his finger wandered gently downward, past her navel, into the gap left by the undone button of her shorts.
    With his other hand he grabbed her wrist, stood up, attempted to lead her to the bunk.
    “Not here. Come with me.”
    They climbed up the companionway, crossed the deck, then dropped down the forepeak hatch into her coffin-size cuddy.
    He was like a rangy animal. As she reached up to latch the hatch, he yanked off her shorts, threw her down on the narrow bunk, and was at her like a jaguar. It took less than a minute. No wonder they call it la petite mort —the little death. She screamed, the release liberating. The world came back into focus, glorious, filled with sunshine and hope and joy. She sighed happily.
    But he was not finished. He pounced on her, rougher than ever. He dragged her off the bunk, flipped her over the spinnaker bag that filled half her coffin-size cabin, her butt at the apex of the pile.
    She started to say no—she hated it there; it hurt; it had a terrible impact on her intestines. But it was too late. He was already halfway in. There was a sharp pain. Then she forced herself to relax and felt almost nothing.
    It was over in seconds. She felt the liquid ooze within her. He withdrew with a jerk, smirking, proud of himself, leaving her deflated and depressed. She couldn’t even muster the energy to get mad.
    “All right, you can get the fuck out now. I have to get to work and clean your crappy plastic boat and then go buy provisions so you can get sozzled and eat your delicious meals.” The hollowness of her complaint depressed her even further.
    Marking his disdain, he touched a finger to his lips and placed it gently between her legs. He stood up, slipped into his clothes, knotted his ridiculous kerchief with ridiculous care, slipped out of the cuddy. She burned with desire to let him experience a spinnaker pole whacked hard upside his ear. Instead, she downed what was left of a quarter bottle of cheap cognac in two gulps, stood up on the bunk, and hurled the empty at the next boat over, gratified by the