The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington

and look around?”
    “Yes, let’s.”
    We made our way over coarse patches of scrub grass. On both sides of the lot, well-cared-for houses faced the shimmering blue Gulf, their screened-in lanais taking advantage of the view. In front of the one on the left, a glistening Chris-Craft was moored to a small wooden dock.
    “The inlet has Gulf access,” Rossi said, pride of place already clear on his face.
    “It’s wonderful. The view, the neighborhood, the surrounding houses. Only one thing is bothering me.”
    “What’s that?” he asked, sounding faintly alarmed as if I had noticed something he hadn’t.
    “It’s so perfect, it has to be expensive.”
    He shook his head, visibly relieved that I had no other objection. “No, not really. It’s been on the market since the beginning of the housing crisis. The owner is eager to sell.”
    “May I ask the price?”
    “No.”
    “Or how you intend to pay for it?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    Like the Cheshire cat’s, his grin reached both ears. He was enjoying himself. On the other hand, I was getting ticked. Halfway back to the car, I stopped mid-stride. “If you trusted me, you’d answer my question.”
    “Of course I trust you. Implicitly. But—”
    “Nothing matters until you reach the ‘but.’ So why won’t you answer the question?”
    “As you pointed out, this location is perfect for us, and I have no intention of risking a ‘No, Rossi, it’s too expensive.’”
    He took my arm. Though I tried to shrug away, he held on tight and together we wended our way over the rough grass back to the Maserati.
    Once inside the car, he said, “Let’s watch the sunset for a while.”
    “Fine.” I stared straight ahead at a frieze of palm trees lining the shore and beyond at the blue Gulf water.
    “You asked if I trusted you,” Rossi said softly.
    “It was a logical question.” Ice frosted my tone.
    “Now I’m asking you the same question.”
    I half turned to face him. “You’re very good at interrogation. I’ll have to remember that.”
    “You’re not going to give an inch, are you?”
    “All I want to hear, Rossi, is what the damn lot costs. What’s wrong with that? You said you’re buying it with me in mind.”
    “Even in Dorchester I’ll bet people don’t ask the price of a gift.”
    “Oh.” I put my hands on my hips, letting my left elbow jab him in the ribs. “So now you’re insulting my background.”
    He laughed. Out loud. “God, you’re impossible.”
    At his laughter, my anger fizzled out like a wet firecracker. “I think we’re having a lover’s quarrel.”
    “Those are the best kind, the aftermath is so great. This parcel of land is my gift to you. Your name will be on the deed. And on the house I want to build here.” His gaze left the view to focus on me. “You spend your life creating beautiful houses for other people. Isn’t it time you had one of your own?”
    “And for you?”
    “Yes, for the both of us.”
    I exhaled and nodded, partly satisfied and partly not. Rossi’s gesture was beautiful. How could I not love him for it? But dammit, I did want to know how much the lot cost.
    I eyeballed the For Sale sign. I could call the listing agent and ask the price. That would be sneaky, though, and I couldn’t cheapen Rossi’s gift that way, but I did huff out a sigh.
    Like Kay Hawkins, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being surprised and wondered, suddenly, if James Stahlman had any more in store for Kay. And if Rossi had any more for me. I didn’t know how Kay might feel about that, but I knew secret surprises weren’t easy for a redhead from Dorchester.

Chapter Twelve
    Tanned and terrific in a new butter-yellow sundress and matching espadrilles that wrapped around her ankles, Lee St. James waltzed into work the next morning. All smiles, she caught me in a bear hug and said, “I want y’all to know I’ve been on the best second honeymoon ever.”
    I believed her. Always beautiful, today she radiated