Murder on the Riviera by Anisa Claire West Page B

one part of her that she could not seem to tone no matter how much she exercised.  Then, her gaze lifted to her core, a bona fide jelly belly as a chubby teenager, now the strongest part of her.  Not a six pack, but a toned yet femininely round tummy that did justice to a bikini.  Her dark brown hair fell in sharp layers just below tan shoulders, framing a soft and pretty face.
    The handsome image of Pedro floated onto the edge of her consciousness, but she hurriedly pushed it off the cliff.  She would go out with him if he called, but she didn’t want to waste any time thinking about him now.
    Herculea stepped into the shower and let the cool water drench her overheated body.  She scrubbed her face briskly with a mango exfoliating cream before lathering ocean breeze soap all over her body.  Moments later, shower complete, Herculea trailed watery footprints to her bedroom. She peered into the closet to find something to wear for her meeting.  She hoped the meeting would be brief, as she already felt her stomach grumbling for dinner.  There would be no time to eat, she reasoned, slipping into an ivory silk blouse and navy blue pencil skirt and pulling her wet hair into a messy bun.
    “I can’t get through this meeting without eating something ,” Herculea said aloud, not bothering to put on any makeup.  She made a beeline for her cozy kitchen, painted in gentle shades of lavender and cream.  From the cabinet, she snatched a packet of roasted sunflower seeds and tore it open.
    “Not enough,” she mumbled through unsatisfying mouthfuls of the salty seeds.  Delving deeper into the cabinet, she found a chocolate chip granola bar and threw it into her purse, smiling.  This snack would appease both her sweet tooth and healthy lifestyle.  Seconds later, she was out the door and in her car, sneaking in bites of the granola bar as she drove the short ride to the university.
     
     
    *****
    Inside the Social Sciences building, Herculea walked down the corridor to Kent’s office.  She had met Kent Rossing six years ago after earning her Ph.D. from Princeton University.  Kent, recently minted from his own doctoral program at Cambridge University, had befriended her as the two adjusted to life in Northern California.  A native of England, Kent Rossing spoke with a delectably refined accent.  With his sandy blond hair and shocking blue eyes, he was a good looking guy, or “bloke” as he might say.  But nothing romantic had ever transpired between them.
    “Knock knock,” she said cheerily, walking through his open office door.
    “Herculea, good afternoon.  How are you?” Kent offered her a warm smile and politely stood up as she entered the room.
    “A little rushed today.  I hope I’m not late.  My workout ran over time at the gym,” she apologized, as a flash of Pedro’s smoldering stare ignited in her mind.
    “Not at all.  I admire your tenacity at the gym.  It’s a place you don’t find me often enough,” Kent said modestly.
    “You’re in great shape,” Herculea countered honestly.  Kent was tall and solid, without a trace of the unattractive beer belly she found in so many men her age and older.
    “I appreciate the compliment.” He lowered his eyes, and Herculea thought she detected a mild blush creep into his cheeks.  “Shall we get started?” He asked in his regal English accent.
    “Indeed,” she replied in mock British fashion, giving her friend a quick wink.  Kent smiled and pulled out a chair for her before opening a thick file folder on his desk.
    “I received an itinerary this morning from the dean,” Kent announced, referring to their pending trip to Brazil to report on capoeira.
    “Did you receive a Portuguese phrasebook as well?” Herculea asked nervously.
    Kent was fluent in Spanish, and she could revert to her native language easily.  But neither she nor Kent could communicate in Portuguese.
    Kent laughed. “No, but I’ve been learning a few words.  Obrigado , for