Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3) by Rob Swigart Page A

we have added the investigation into Nature’s Bounty to our mandate.”
    Narni noted the flamboyant public relations language: Nature’s Bounty!
    At the water lily exhibit she began to notice the man. He was apparently by himself, looking with a kind of intense gravity at every plant, every exhibit. She allowed herself to drift closer to him, idly curious. No, more than curious. She looked at his hands. They were strong, well-proportioned, powerful hands. There was, she thought, something of the beast in those hands, so unlike Mark’s soft, manicured, tame ones; Mark’s professional hands, his long, tapering, clinical fingers, so distracted when they touched her.
    “Isn’t it fascinating?” she asked quietly. She had a pleasant voice that softened the banality of her question.
    “Yes, indeed,” the man answered. A hint of French background flavored his words. “There is so much to learn from nature, is it not so?”
    They fell into step together, examining the exhibits, talking quietly. She found herself telling him her husband was a doctor, here for a radiology convention. He took his convention seriously, she said, and attended all the sessions, leaving her to lie by the pool or take tours like this one. This was the first time she had left the hotel in four days, it was such a relief. Her husband’s name was Mark, he practiced medicine in Santa Barbara, California, they lived on a small ranch just outside of town. She had horses, played tennis three times a week, took a cooking class. She knew this made her sound dull and suburban, but it wasn’t such a bad life. She enjoyed movies, chamber music, and gardening. She had friends.
    He nodded as he walked beside her, attending to her words. She put her hand on his forearm to tell him what she had learned about the display of native ohia lehua, which grew in a variety of guises, from low-lying shrub to majestic tree, many unrecognizable as members of the same species. “It’s almost as if the tree were able to disguise itself to fit into any environment,” she said. Her name was Patricia, but she liked to be called Narni. She did not tell him why, thinking that being French he probably did not know about the Narnia books she had loved as a child.
    He smiled at her as she spoke, saying nothing about the hand she had left on his arm. Her grip tightened as she felt the cords of hard muscle there. He did seem like such a strong man, she had noticed his broad shoulders draped in a subtly tailored Palm Beach jacket. His gray slacks were also lightweight and hand tailored.
    He was a remarkably handsome man, but, she thought, not a vain one. He had assets that he employed to their best effect, that was all. So different from Mark, whose professional manner struck her suddenly as pompous.
    Her hand stayed on his forearm as they drifted along, exchanging deeper and deeper confidences.
    He told her he thought he could get to like Kauai. He had always liked islands, especially tropical islands. He had spent most of his adult life on one island or another, which accounted for his very deep, rich tan. He was truly blessed to be French, for France owned many islands, among them some of the most beautiful in the world. France had strong historic ties with others she no longer owned.
    His hands, she thought, did not really belong on a man who worked as a clerk at the French consulate in San Francisco processing visas and immigration applications. They were strong. An outdoorsman’s hands, hard-edged and competent.
    Later, up on the hillside, they could look out over the coastal plain at the ocean, blue and tranquil and inviting. Motorboats, a small yacht, a ship under tow, what looked from this distance like a dive boat, they all seemed scarcely to move at all.
    “It seems so…” She tightened her grip, as though squeezing his forearm would produce the word she wanted. But she stopped.
    “So… what?” he asked her with a smile that showed the edges of his even teeth.
    She