Murder on the Riviera Read online

  At that moment, the castle’s French doors swung open, revealing her lover, breathless, sweating, and clutching a paper bag to his chest.

  “Here!” He roared, lunging forward and shoving the bag into the Goddess’s avid hands. “Do you know how much I have endured to procure this mix for you? I nearly died in the process,” he seethed.

  With a nonchalant wave of her elegant hand and a puff of cigar smoke, the Goddess smirked. “Nearly died? Really, my Adonis? You are fond of histrionics, aren’t you?”

  He lowered his eyes, his face reddening even more, as he realized for the thousandth time, yet as though for the first, that he would never die. He was destined to spend the rest of his life enslaved to the Silver Goddess. He watched resentfully as she snatched her spoon from the glass table and began to prepare her wine. She poured a luscious Tuscan varietal into the goblet, carefully dipping the spoon into the bag and retrieving a sparing amount of herbs. Her eyes flashed like lightning in a forest as she stirred the herbs lovingly into the wine. Inhaling the hypnotic fragrance, she closed her eyes and opened her lips, pressing them to the rim of the glass.

  Reluctantly, her lover stared, as the liquid flowed into her mouth and seeped into her system. There was no denying the woman’s overwhelming sexuality. It had drawn him in once and for all time. Reflexively, the muscles on his powerful body began to tremble, as perspiration continued to drip down his brow, moistening his wavy dark hair. The Silver Goddess peeked at him from the corner of her eye and grinned to herself, knowing he was enraptured and her prisoner once again. Today, before she surrendered to the hazy dreams of an herbal sleep, she would have her lover. She drained the goblet without offering him any, then turned to face him. With admiration she gazed up at his towering height, taking inventory of his large hands and chiseled features.

  “My lover, come closer. Won’t you join me?” She purred, as he followed helplessly up the coiling stairs to her cool, spacious lair that bred searing heat.

  “My name is Thaddeus,” he said under his breath. “And I do not belong to you.” The Silver Goddess didn’t seem to hear his softly spoken words, as she slinked out of her robe. Naked, she glided into her bedroom, reclining upon the silver quilt. Thaddeus helplessly disrobed as she watched him with greedy satisfaction.

  “Closer, lover,” she purred and stretched like a kitten upon the bed.

  “Thaddeus,” he gritted insistently while obeying her command and slowly approaching the silver bedpost. “And you smell like cigar smoke, damn it. Put on some perfume.”

  She pretended not to hear him, but inside she was vibrating with fury. Why did the man keep repeating his name? Didn’t he know after all these years that it pained her to speak any man’s name except that of her beloved Pedro?

  Pedro. Momentarily, the Silver Goddess could see him on the edge of her vision. There he stood, magnificent with his flawless bronzed physique, shirtless, barefoot in the scorching sand. They had met in Ushuaia and traveled the continent of South America together, dancing the tango in Buenos Aires and attending carnival in Rio de Janeiro. One fateful day, he had mused how he wished their time together could be infinite. Imagine if they could spend all eternity together. He had read her a poem with a recipe for immortality. Rapidly approaching her mid forties, the Silver Goddess had been fearful of losing her youthful beauty. With this potion, she would remain crystallized in all her plush vitality and allure. Together, she and Pedro had ventured to the Island of Vinova and imbibed the prescribed wine and herbs. The wine promised an eternity together. Never would they grow old. Never would they die. Never would they part.

  But they did part. She forced herself to relive that irreversible day when ominous gray clouds had breathed across the sky from the tip of dawn, seeping into the sunshine in their hearts. How many seasons had they spent together in genuine bliss? How many blazing sunsets before their union became mundane and colorless? She had never expected to tire of Pedro and feel the fiery flush of passion morph into arctic indifference. Each time he had looked at her in the days before she banished him, his eyes had shimmered with frost. Pedro had been gone for 99 years, and she acknowledged with an unwilling sadness that some day, buried inside the Immortality Abyss of her own making, she would inevitably lose count of how much time they had spent apart.

  The Silver Goddess wrapped her arms tightly around Thaddeus, trying to drown out these memories with his body. Rhythmically, they danced the erotic tango that was balm for them both.

  Chapter 1

  San Francisco, California

  Present Day

  Like tropical rain, beads of sweat pattered down Herculea Sanchez’s face. Her kickboxing class had run five minutes over, she noted, frowning, as she glanced at the time on her cell phone. Would she have time to drive home, shower, dress, and get to the meeting at the university? She wiped a towel across her brow and jogged towards the locker room to splash her face with cold water. As she moved, she felt a pair of eyes on her. Sliding the towel off her face, she looked up and locked eyes with a man she had never seen before. Scandalized, Herculea felt his midnight brown eyes bore into hers as he appraised her shamelessly.

  Suddenly aware of how horrid she must smell after the vigorous workout, Herculea felt the urge to run past him. She had lost count of how many lunges, jumping jacks, and squats she had done in the boot camp-style class. The man seemed transfixed, though, and was transfixing her as well. If she tried to run, she was sure she would stumble and fall, probably tripping over a treadmill and making a total fool of herself. So she continued the staring game with the handsome stranger, solidly muscled in his black shorts and tee-shirt. Finally, he broke the silence, but did not let up his intensive gaze.

  “Buenos días, señorita,” he breathed like an incantation.

  The Spanish words startled Herculea. Born in Peru, Herculea spoke fluent Spanish. But with the man’s unnerving stare and arresting presence, she doubted she could speak intelligibly in any language.

  “Hello,” she said almost in a whisper, not sure if her heart was still pounding from the intensity of her workout or the thrill of this unexpected moment.

  “Hello,” he replied in subtly accented English. “I spoke to you in Spanish because I thought maybe you are from my country.”

  “What is your country?” She asked curiously.

  “Argentina.” The word swept his full lips like a caress.

  “Ah, Argentina. I love Argentina. I was there for work once. But I’m from Peru.” The information spilled from her lips against her will.

  The stranger’s eyes widened in further interest as he asked, “What work brought you to Argentina?”

  “I’m a cultural anthropologist. My research is focused on South America, and I was in Buenos Aires for 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 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 example.”

  “Even I know that means ‘thank you,’ but we’re going to need more than that!” She exclaimed, now laughing as well.

  “I have no doubt that we’ll manage, Dr. Sanchez.” He emphasized her title, adding, “They call you that for a good reason. You earned that title, and you know it.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Rossing.” She grinned.

  At that moment, her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse as a number she didn’t recognize appeared on the screen. She let it go to voicemail, wondering if that could already be Pedro calling. No, don’t be an idiot, she thought. Men like Pedro don’t call this soon.

  Returning her focus to the meeting with Kent, Herculea listened as he combed through the itinerary their boss had arranged. It would be a whirlwind trip, as her assignments generally were, with little time to sleep and no time to sightsee. Their entire week in Brazil would revolve around interviews with capoeira artists and observations of performances. Her head started to mildly throb just thinking about it. Mentally, she made a note to arrange for a soothing massage after the trip.

  “Herculea, you look stressed,” Kent said perceptively and with more than a hint of compassion.

  She sighed. “I am. All this traveling gets to me sometimes, as much as I love my job,” she admitted, looking Kent directly in those piercing blue orbs.

  “I know what you mean. But think of it as an adventure. And summer vacation is just around the corner, so hopefully you’ll have time to decompress then.”

  This was true, Herculea realized. It was already May, and the spring semester was nearly over.

  “Y
ou’re right, Kent. I think sipping umbrella drinks is in order for this summer!” She giggled.

  “If you can find a place to do that in San Francisco, then please let me in on your secret! I moved from one rainy, dreary climate to another, it seems. I might as well move to Seattle and call it a day.”

  Herculea laughed out loud, a hearty, sincere laugh that made Kent join her as he peered admiringly into her chocolate brown eyes. For the next hour, the coworkers pored over their itinerary, scribbling notes and checking that all arrangements had been secured.

  Suddenly, Herculea could not stifle a yawn. “Oh, wow. I’m so tired. I think we have all the info we need for our trip next week. Don’t you?”

  She looked at him expectantly, hoping the workaholic would agree so she could go home and eat some dinner.

  “Yes, I think you’re right. Go home and get some rest. You’ll need it. I’ll see you on Monday.” He gave her a small smile, but she detected that he had not been quite ready to finish the meeting.

  “Okay Kent, sounds good. See you soon.”

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out of the office. Once in the hallway, she dug into the handbag for her cell phone. The mysterious caller from earlier had left a voicemail.

  “Hola Herculea. This is Pedro from the gym. I would like to take you out on Thursday evening. Are you free? Wear your dancing shoes because I’m taking you to tango. Call me.”

  Herculea saved the message and walked on slightly wobbly legs to her car. Why had he called so soon? Was this man for real? Reluctantly, Herculea forced herself to think of the motley crew of men from her past. There were a handful of lovers in her history, and all of them seemed to share a common quality: danger. She found it impossible to resist a virile lover who moved to a triple time beat initially before slowing down to an almost backwards motion when the relationship became more serious.