All Night Long

lightly across his. “What would you like to talk about, instead?”
    He eased her onto her back and lightly pinned her wrists above her head. Slowly he lowered his mout o hers.
    “I’ll think of something,” he said.

Thirty-One
    Alight rain blanketed the gently rolling landscape that surrounded the picturesque town of Santa Elen he following morning. The vineyards that encircled the community and stretched into the hills beyond were veiled by mist.
    It was such a safe, comfortable, self-contained little world, Luke thought, a world he had known fro he cradle. Too bad he would never be able to settle into this pleasant realm the way Hackett and Jason had. The wine-making life was a good one, but it required a passion that he could not give it.
    But he did have other passions, he thought. Irene was now at the top of the list.
    She looked at him from beneath her umbrella. “Something wrong?”
    “No. Just thinking.”
    “About what?”
    “That I wasn’t cut out to be a winemaker.”
    “What do you think you were designed to do?”
    “Funny you should ask.” He draped one arm around her shoulders, surprised to find himself feeling not just protective but possessive. “I seem to be in the process of discovering the answer to that question.”
    He studied the warmly lit windows of The Vineyard restaurant across the street.
    “Let’s go. Time to do breakfast. Forty-five minutes and we’re out of there.”
    “Only forty-five minutes?”
    “I want to get on the road as soon as possible.” Luke checked his watch. “I’ll listen to the new job offer while I eat. I’ll turn it down very politely and you and I will leave.”
    “Fine by me. But that may be cutting it a bit short as far as your family is concerned.”
    “I warned the Old Man that I didn’t plan to hang around here long this morning. It’s an hour’s drive into the city. The idea is to catch Hoyt Egan at his apartment this morning, remember?”
    Her expression tightened. “I remember.”
    The Vineyard was surprisingly crowded with early morning breakfast eaters. A young woman dresse n jeans and a white shirt greeted them cheerfully.

    “Hi, Brenda,” Luke said. “I’d like you to meet Irene Stenson. Irene, this is Brenda Bains. Her father, George, owns this place.”
    “How do you do?” Irene said.
    “Nice to meet you, Miss Stenson.” Brenda picked up a menu. “We’ve been expecting you.” She looke t Luke. “Your dad, Mr. Foote and your brothers are waiting for you in the private dining room at the back, Mr. Danner.”
    “I know the way,” Luke said.
    “If you’ll follow me, Miss Stenson.” Brenda turned. “Mrs. Danner and Katy are at a table near the window.”
    “Thanks,” Irene said.
    “Forty-five minutes,” Luke reminded her.
    She gave him an amused look and allowed herself to be led away across the restaurant.
    He watched her for a moment, enjoying the sleek, graceful sway of her hips. Then he picked up th ay’s edition of a San Francisco paper that was lying on the counter and scanned the headlines whil e walked toward the rear of the restaurant.
    The Webb campaign had done an excellent job of keeping Pamela’s death a low-profile event, h oticed. He had to turn to page three before he found a photo of Ryland Webb and Alexa Douglass emerging from a funeral chapel hand in hand. Both were dressed in somber, dignified, well-tailored black.
    Behind Ryland and Alexa stood a much older, gray-haired man. The caption identified him as Victor Webb, Pamela’s grandfather. This was the Webb Maxine had said everyone liked, Luke reminded himself, the one who had done so much for the people of Dunsley.
    He read the short article that accompanied the photo. There was nothing unexpected or startling in it.
    . . . Following the private service, Senator Webb met briefly with reporters. He requested that the privacy of his family be respected. He also stated that when he returns to Washington he intends

    to work for legislation aimed at dealing with mental health and drug addiction issues.
    “This sor f tragedy has befallen far too many people in this country,” he stated. “It is time the government took action. . . .”
    Luke stopped in front of the private dining room. He tucked the newspaper under one arm and opened the double doors.
    The Old Man, Jason, Hackett and Gordon Foote were seated at the polished wooden table. There wa o coffee on the table. No cutlery, plates, napkins or menus, either. Bad sign, Luke