Shadowfires

offer much of a dinner, I'm afraid. I have the
makings of a salad. And we could cook up a pot of rigatoni, open a
jar of Ragu' sauce.
    “A veritable feast fit for a king.”
    She brought the pistol with her to the kitchen and put it down on
the counter near the microwave oven.
    She had closed the Levolor blinds. Tight. Ben liked the view from
those rear windows-the lushly planted backyard with its azalea beds
and leafy Indian laurels, the property wall that was completely
covered by a riotously bright tangle of red and yellow bougainvillea-
and he reached for the control rod to open the slats.
    “Please don't,” she said. “I want… the privacy.”
    “No one can see in from the yard. It's walled and gated.”
    “Please.”
    He left the blinds as she wanted them.
    “What are you afraid of' Rachael?”
    “Afraid? But I'm not.”
    “The gun?”
    “I told you-I didn't know who was at the door, and since it's been
such an upsetting day…
    “Now you know it was me at the door.”
    “Yes.”
    “And you don't need a gun to deal with me. Just the promise of another kiss or two will keep me in line.”
    She smiled. “I guess I should put it back in the bedroom where it
belongs. Does it make you nervous?”
    “No. But I-”
    “I'll put it away as soon as we've got dinner cooking,” she said,
but there was a tone in her voice that made her statement seem less
like a promise than a delaying tactic.
    Intrigued and somewhat uneasy, he opted for diplomacy and said no
more for the moment.
    She put a big pot of water on the stove to boil while he emptied
the jar of Ragú into a smaller pot. Together, they chopped lettuce,
celery, tomatoes, onions, and black olives for the salad.
    They talked as they worked, primarily about Italian food. Their
conversation was not quite as fluid and natural as usual, perhaps
because they were trying too hard to be lighthearted and to put all
thoughts of death aside.
    Rachael mostly kept her eyes on the vegetables as she prepared
them, bringing her characteristically effortless concentration to the
task, rendering each rib of celery into slices that were all
precisely the same width, as if symmetry were a vital element in a
successful salad and would enhance the taste.
    Distracted by her beauty, Ben looked at her as much as at the
culinary work before him. She was almost thirty, appeared to be
twenty, yet had the elegance and poise of a grande dame
who'd had a long lifetime in which to learn the angles and attitudes of perfect gracefulness. He never grew tired of looking at her. It wasn't
just that she excited him. By some magic that he could not
understand, the sight of her also relaxed him and made him feel that
all was right with the world and that he, for the first time in his
often lonely life, was a complete man with a hope of lasting
happiness.
    Impulsively he put down the knife with which he had been slicing a
tomato, took the knife from her hand and set it aside, turned her
toward him, pulled her against him, slipped his arms around her, and
kissed her deeply. Now her soft mouth tasted of champagne instead of
chocolate. She still smelled faintly of jasmine, though beneath that
fragrance was her own clean and appealing scent. He moved his hands
slowly down her back, tracing the concave arc to her bottom, feeling
the firm and exquisitely sculpted contours of her body through the
silky robe. She was wearing nothing underneath. His warm hands grew
hot-then much hotter-as the heat of her was transmitted through the
material to his own flesh.
    She clung to him for a moment with what seemed like desperation,
as if.she were shipwrecked and he were a raft in a tossing sea. Her
body was stiff. Her hands clutched tensely, fingers digging into him.
Then, after a moment, she relaxed against him, and her hands began to
move over his back and shoulders and upper arms, testing and kneading
his muscles. Her mouth opened wider, and their kiss became hungrier.
Her breathing quickened.
    He could feel her full breasts pressing against his chest. As if
with a will and intention of their own, his hands moved more urgently
in exploration of her.
    The phone rang.
    Ben remembered at once that they had forgotten to put it on the
answering machine again when they had finished contacting people with
the news of Eric's death and funeral, and in confirmation it rang again, stridently.
    “Damn,” Rachael said, pulling back from him.
    “I'll get it.”
    “Probably another reporter.”
    He took