Murder on the Riviera by Anisa Claire West Page A

week to get information for an article on the origins of the tango.” She continued her stream of information without even thinking.
    He smiled sensually, as Herculea’s pulse quickened even more.  It was definitely not the kickboxing class that was making her heart continue to leap like this, she admitted to herself.
    “Did you tango in Buenos Aires?” He asked with a hint of flirtation.
    “No, I’m afraid my work was purely academic,” she replied, as his smile broadened.
    “What a shame.  The tango is the rhythm of life.  El ritmo de la vida.   Maybe I could be your partner sometime.”
    Herculea was taken aback.  Single at 36, she had been asked on many dates over the years.  Men had requested her company for coffee, drinks, dinner, movies.  But dancing the tango?  This was a first.
    “Maybe you could be,” Herculea answered shyly.
    “ Me llamo Pedro.”
    He extended his hand as she reluctantly offered hers, aware that it was still clammy with sweat.  Pedro’s hand felt cool, she noted.
    “Herculea.  Nice to meet you.”
    Pedro narrowed his eyes in puzzlement.  “Herculea?  What kind of name is that for a Peruvian girl?”
    Herculea’s lips twisted into an amused smile at the familiar question.  People always inquired about her unusual name, and she was proud to oblige them with the story of its origins.
    “Well, my mother loved Greek mythology.  When I was born, she named me for the ancient city of Herculea, hoping that I would grow into a strong woman.”
    “Well, you look strong to me, Herculea.  Strong and beautiful.”
    He gave her another seductive smile as she snapped back to reality again.  How long had she been standing here talking to him?  She should be on the road to her apartment, not flirting with a charismatic stranger.
    “Thank you,” she said graciously, before adding, “But I really have to go now.  I have a meeting to get to.” She explained, instantly annoyed with herself for telling him why she had to leave.  It was none of his business, and she needed to add a little mystery to this encounter.
    “Before you do, may I take your phone number?” He asked, whipping out his cell phone.
    “Okay, yes.” She spoke the number to him as he immediately plugged the digits into his phone.
    “I will be in touch about that tango.”  Pedro promised before giving her one last intense look and strolling over to the weight room.
    For a moment, Herculea stared after him, intrigued and unsettled at the same time.  Men like Pedro had brought her nothing but misery.  Well, misery mingled in with some irresistible episodes of passion.
    Herculea briefly panicked as she looked at the time on her cell phone.  3:15.  Her meeting was at 4:30. Herculea wasn’t feeling too hopeful about making it to the meeting in her characteristic punctuality.  She sprinted to her car.  Flipping the air conditioner to full blast, Herculea started the ignition and sped to her apartment.
    After sailing through more than one yield sign, Herculea found herself in the assigned parking space of her garden apartment.  Relieved, she glided up the stairs to her second floor unit, still drinking water to appease her parched throat.  The kickboxing class was just a small part of her intense workout regimen.  Herculea preferred dancing salsa, swimming laps, and practicing yoga the other days of the week.  Exercise was her retreat from the stresses of her work as a cultural anthropologist and university professor. She relished every drop of sweat as an individual accomplishment, all contributing to an Olympic-sized pool of strength and endurance.  Her mother didn’t name her Herculea for nothing.
    Stripping down to nude, Herculea caught a quick glimpse of her body in the bathroom mirror.  At just 5 feet two and a quarter inches tall (five feet three inches on her driver’s license) Herculea was petite yet surprisingly lithe and shapely.  She frowned at the slight jiggle of her inner thighs, the