Articles liés à The Deep Blue Alibi: A Solomon Vs. Lord Novel
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Chapter One
World's Richest Lobsters
"Forget it, Steve. I'm not having sex in the ocean."
"C'mon," he pleaded. "Be adventurous."
"It's undignified and unsanitary. Maybe even illegal."
"It's the Keys, Vic. Nothing's illegal."
Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord waded in the shallow water just off Sunset Key. At the horizon, the sun sizzled just above the Gulf.
"In this light, you're really magnificent," he said.
"Nice try, hotshot, but the bikini stays on."
Still, she had to admit that there was something erotic about the warm water, the salty breeze, the glow of the setting sun. And Steve looked totally hot, his complexion tinged reddish bronze, his dark hair slick and lustrous.
If only I didn't have to drop a bombshell on him tonight.
"It'll be great." He slipped his arms around her waist. "A saltwater hump-a-rama."
Dear God. Did the man I think I love really say "hump-a-rama"?
"We can't. There are people around."
Twenty yards away, a young couple with that honeymoon look—satiated and clueless—peddled by on a water bike. On the beach, hotel guests carried drinks in plastic cups along the shoreline. Music floated across the water from the hotel's tiki-hut bar, Andre Toussaint singing "Island Woman."
Why couldn't Steve see she wasn't in the mood? How can someone so good at picking a jury be so oblivious to the ebb and flow of his lover's emotions?
She pried his hands off her hips. "There's seaweed. And sea lice. And sea urchins." She'd run out of sea things. "We can do it later in the room."
"Bor-ing."
"So you find our sex life a big yawn?"
"I didn't say that."
She sharpened her voice into cross-exam mode. "Isn't it true that after a few months, all your girlfriends start to bore you?"
"Not the ones who dumped me."
"Do you realize you have relationship attention disorder?"
"Whatever that is, I deny it." He pulled her close, and she could feel the bulge in his swim trunks. "I love our sex life. And the room's fine. Clean sheets. A/C. Nice view. Why don't we go in now and get started?"
Get started? Makes it sound like cleaning the kitchen.
"You go. Start without me."
"C'mon. We can catch the sunset from the balcony."
She looked toward the horizon, where thin ribbons of clouds were streaked the color of a bruised plum. "We won't make it in time."
No way she was going to miss the orange fireball dip into the sea. She loved the eternal rhythm of day into night, the sun rising from the Atlantic, setting in the Gulf. Day after day, year after year. What dependability. She doubted Steve understood that. If he had his way, the sun would zigzag across the peninsula, stopping for a beer in Islamorada.
She had another reason to postpone the lovemaking.
The bombshell.
She'd been thinking about it all the way to Key West. A pesky mosquito of a thought, buzzing in her brain. She hated to ruin the evening, but she had to tell him, and soon.
"Okay, I give up," Steve said. "Coitus postponus. What time do we meet your uncle?"
She brought her legs up and floated on her back. Looking toward the horizon upside down, the sun floated at the waterline, connected to its reflection by a fiery rope. "Nine o'clock. And I told you—he's not really my uncle."
"I know. Good old Hal Griffin. Your father's partner, the guy who bought you fancy presents when you were a spoiled brat."
"Privileged, not spoiled. Uncle Grif's the one who named my mother 'The Queen.' "
"And you 'The Princess.' "
So Steve had been listening after all, she thought. "You think the name fits?"
"Like your Manolo Blahniks."
She started swimming, heading out to sea, toward the setting sun. Smooth strokes knifing through the water, now glazed a boiling orange. Steve swam alongside, struggling to keep up. "What I don't get is why Hal Griffin called you after all these years."
The same question had been puzzling Victoria. She hadn't seen Uncle Grif since her father's funeral when she was twelve. Now, without warning, a phone call. "All I know, he has some legal work for me."
"You mean for us."
"He didn't know about you."
"But you told him, right? Solomon and Lord."
"Of course."
Is this how it begins? A little white lie, followed by bigger, darker ones.
God, she hated this. She had to tell Steve the truth. But how?
He was flailing away, kicking up a storm, trying to catch her. Except for swimming—all splash, no speed—Steve was an accomplished athlete. He'd run track in high school and played baseball at the University of Miami, where he was a mediocre hitter but a terrific base runner.
"Solomon takes off . . . and steals second!"
A good primer for lawyering, Victoria figured. Conning the pitcher, pilfering the catcher's signs, then stealing a base. Even the word would appeal to Steve. He had been particularly adept at spiking opposing fielders and kicking the ball out of their gloves. But like a lot of athletes, he didn't know his limitations. He thought he was good at everything. Poker. Auto repair. Sex. Okay, he was good in bed, very good once she taught him to slow down and stop trying to score from first on a single.
A hundred yards offshore, she started treading water, waiting for him to catch up.
"So where are we eating?" he asked, breathing hard.
So very Steve. He would plan dinner while still eating lunch. "Uncle Grif made reservations at Louie's Backyard."
He made an appreciative hmm sound. "Love their cracked conch. Maybe go with the black grouper for an entree, mango mousse for dessert."
Sex and food, she thought. Did he ever think about anything else?
"And we'll be back in the room in time for Sports Center," he continued.
Yes, of course he did.
Was it his imagination, or was something bothering Victoria? Steve couldn't tell. She'd been quiet on the drive down the Overseas Highway, occasionally glancing toward the Gulf, where red coral heads peeked through the shallow turquoise water. He'd asked how her cases were going—they divided up the workload as his, hers, and theirs—but she didn't want to talk shop. He'd sung some old Jimmy Buffett songs. But she didn't join his search for a lost shaker of salt.
Now he told himself that nothing was wrong. After all, he was holding Victoria in his arms as they treaded water. In the glow of the twilight, she was stunning, her skin blushed, her butterscotch hair pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones. Small breasts, long legs, a firm, trim body. He felt a pleasurable stirring inside his trunks. The air was rich with salt and coconut oil, and he was with the woman he loved, a woman who, for reasons inexplicable, seemed to love him, too.
By his calculations, they still had time to hit the room, make love, and meet Griffin at Louie's. Maybe do it in the shower as they cleaned up for dinner, the Solomon method of multitasking. He just wished the sun would hurry the hell up and call it a day.
Nearby, two windsurfers caught a final ride. Overhead, seabirds dipped and cawed. From the beach, he heard the sound of salsa coming from the bar's speakers, Celia Cruz singing "Vida Es un Carnaval."
Damn straight. Steve felt his life was a carnival, a sun-filled, beach-breezed, beer commercial of a life. This was better than knocking off a mega-insurance company for a seven-figure verdict. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine. Better, too, than stealing home in a college baseball game. That he'd done, against Florida State. Of course, his team lost. But still, a helluva moment.
"Steve, we need to talk," Victoria said.
"Absolutely." He watched a pink sash of clouds at the horizon turn to gray. A slice of the sun nestled into the water. On the beach, the tourists yelped and cheered, as if they had something to do with this nightly miracle. "What do we need to talk about?"
"Us."
Uh-oh.
In Steve's experience, when a woman wanted to talk about us, life's carnival was about to fold its tent. He quickly ran through his possible misdemeanors. He hadn't been rude to her mother, even though Her Highness loathed him. He hadn't left the toilet seat up for two weeks, at least. He hadn't flirted with other women, not even the exotic dancer he was representing in a prickly lewd and lascivious trial.
"So what'd I do now?" Sounding defensive.
Victoria put her hands around his neck, twining her fingers, as they treaded water in unison. "You treat me like a law clerk."
Oh, that. At least it wasn't something that would toss him out of bed.
"No I don't. But I am the senior partner."
"That's what I mean. You don't treat me as an equal."
"Cut me a break, Vic. Before you came along, it was my firm."
"What firm? Solomon and Associates was false advertising. Solomon and Lord is a firm."
"Okay, okay. I'll be more sensitive to . . ." What? He'd picked up the phrase from Dr. Phil, or Oprah, or one of the women's magazines at his dentist's office.
"I'll be more sensitive to . . ."
You toss around the words when your girlfriend is upset. But it's best to know what the hell you're talking about. "Your ...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
World's Richest Lobsters
"Forget it, Steve. I'm not having sex in the ocean."
"C'mon," he pleaded. "Be adventurous."
"It's undignified and unsanitary. Maybe even illegal."
"It's the Keys, Vic. Nothing's illegal."
Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord waded in the shallow water just off Sunset Key. At the horizon, the sun sizzled just above the Gulf.
"In this light, you're really magnificent," he said.
"Nice try, hotshot, but the bikini stays on."
Still, she had to admit that there was something erotic about the warm water, the salty breeze, the glow of the setting sun. And Steve looked totally hot, his complexion tinged reddish bronze, his dark hair slick and lustrous.
If only I didn't have to drop a bombshell on him tonight.
"It'll be great." He slipped his arms around her waist. "A saltwater hump-a-rama."
Dear God. Did the man I think I love really say "hump-a-rama"?
"We can't. There are people around."
Twenty yards away, a young couple with that honeymoon look—satiated and clueless—peddled by on a water bike. On the beach, hotel guests carried drinks in plastic cups along the shoreline. Music floated across the water from the hotel's tiki-hut bar, Andre Toussaint singing "Island Woman."
Why couldn't Steve see she wasn't in the mood? How can someone so good at picking a jury be so oblivious to the ebb and flow of his lover's emotions?
She pried his hands off her hips. "There's seaweed. And sea lice. And sea urchins." She'd run out of sea things. "We can do it later in the room."
"Bor-ing."
"So you find our sex life a big yawn?"
"I didn't say that."
She sharpened her voice into cross-exam mode. "Isn't it true that after a few months, all your girlfriends start to bore you?"
"Not the ones who dumped me."
"Do you realize you have relationship attention disorder?"
"Whatever that is, I deny it." He pulled her close, and she could feel the bulge in his swim trunks. "I love our sex life. And the room's fine. Clean sheets. A/C. Nice view. Why don't we go in now and get started?"
Get started? Makes it sound like cleaning the kitchen.
"You go. Start without me."
"C'mon. We can catch the sunset from the balcony."
She looked toward the horizon, where thin ribbons of clouds were streaked the color of a bruised plum. "We won't make it in time."
No way she was going to miss the orange fireball dip into the sea. She loved the eternal rhythm of day into night, the sun rising from the Atlantic, setting in the Gulf. Day after day, year after year. What dependability. She doubted Steve understood that. If he had his way, the sun would zigzag across the peninsula, stopping for a beer in Islamorada.
She had another reason to postpone the lovemaking.
The bombshell.
She'd been thinking about it all the way to Key West. A pesky mosquito of a thought, buzzing in her brain. She hated to ruin the evening, but she had to tell him, and soon.
"Okay, I give up," Steve said. "Coitus postponus. What time do we meet your uncle?"
She brought her legs up and floated on her back. Looking toward the horizon upside down, the sun floated at the waterline, connected to its reflection by a fiery rope. "Nine o'clock. And I told you—he's not really my uncle."
"I know. Good old Hal Griffin. Your father's partner, the guy who bought you fancy presents when you were a spoiled brat."
"Privileged, not spoiled. Uncle Grif's the one who named my mother 'The Queen.' "
"And you 'The Princess.' "
So Steve had been listening after all, she thought. "You think the name fits?"
"Like your Manolo Blahniks."
She started swimming, heading out to sea, toward the setting sun. Smooth strokes knifing through the water, now glazed a boiling orange. Steve swam alongside, struggling to keep up. "What I don't get is why Hal Griffin called you after all these years."
The same question had been puzzling Victoria. She hadn't seen Uncle Grif since her father's funeral when she was twelve. Now, without warning, a phone call. "All I know, he has some legal work for me."
"You mean for us."
"He didn't know about you."
"But you told him, right? Solomon and Lord."
"Of course."
Is this how it begins? A little white lie, followed by bigger, darker ones.
God, she hated this. She had to tell Steve the truth. But how?
He was flailing away, kicking up a storm, trying to catch her. Except for swimming—all splash, no speed—Steve was an accomplished athlete. He'd run track in high school and played baseball at the University of Miami, where he was a mediocre hitter but a terrific base runner.
"Solomon takes off . . . and steals second!"
A good primer for lawyering, Victoria figured. Conning the pitcher, pilfering the catcher's signs, then stealing a base. Even the word would appeal to Steve. He had been particularly adept at spiking opposing fielders and kicking the ball out of their gloves. But like a lot of athletes, he didn't know his limitations. He thought he was good at everything. Poker. Auto repair. Sex. Okay, he was good in bed, very good once she taught him to slow down and stop trying to score from first on a single.
A hundred yards offshore, she started treading water, waiting for him to catch up.
"So where are we eating?" he asked, breathing hard.
So very Steve. He would plan dinner while still eating lunch. "Uncle Grif made reservations at Louie's Backyard."
He made an appreciative hmm sound. "Love their cracked conch. Maybe go with the black grouper for an entree, mango mousse for dessert."
Sex and food, she thought. Did he ever think about anything else?
"And we'll be back in the room in time for Sports Center," he continued.
Yes, of course he did.
Was it his imagination, or was something bothering Victoria? Steve couldn't tell. She'd been quiet on the drive down the Overseas Highway, occasionally glancing toward the Gulf, where red coral heads peeked through the shallow turquoise water. He'd asked how her cases were going—they divided up the workload as his, hers, and theirs—but she didn't want to talk shop. He'd sung some old Jimmy Buffett songs. But she didn't join his search for a lost shaker of salt.
Now he told himself that nothing was wrong. After all, he was holding Victoria in his arms as they treaded water. In the glow of the twilight, she was stunning, her skin blushed, her butterscotch hair pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones. Small breasts, long legs, a firm, trim body. He felt a pleasurable stirring inside his trunks. The air was rich with salt and coconut oil, and he was with the woman he loved, a woman who, for reasons inexplicable, seemed to love him, too.
By his calculations, they still had time to hit the room, make love, and meet Griffin at Louie's. Maybe do it in the shower as they cleaned up for dinner, the Solomon method of multitasking. He just wished the sun would hurry the hell up and call it a day.
Nearby, two windsurfers caught a final ride. Overhead, seabirds dipped and cawed. From the beach, he heard the sound of salsa coming from the bar's speakers, Celia Cruz singing "Vida Es un Carnaval."
Damn straight. Steve felt his life was a carnival, a sun-filled, beach-breezed, beer commercial of a life. This was better than knocking off a mega-insurance company for a seven-figure verdict. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine. Better, too, than stealing home in a college baseball game. That he'd done, against Florida State. Of course, his team lost. But still, a helluva moment.
"Steve, we need to talk," Victoria said.
"Absolutely." He watched a pink sash of clouds at the horizon turn to gray. A slice of the sun nestled into the water. On the beach, the tourists yelped and cheered, as if they had something to do with this nightly miracle. "What do we need to talk about?"
"Us."
Uh-oh.
In Steve's experience, when a woman wanted to talk about us, life's carnival was about to fold its tent. He quickly ran through his possible misdemeanors. He hadn't been rude to her mother, even though Her Highness loathed him. He hadn't left the toilet seat up for two weeks, at least. He hadn't flirted with other women, not even the exotic dancer he was representing in a prickly lewd and lascivious trial.
"So what'd I do now?" Sounding defensive.
Victoria put her hands around his neck, twining her fingers, as they treaded water in unison. "You treat me like a law clerk."
Oh, that. At least it wasn't something that would toss him out of bed.
"No I don't. But I am the senior partner."
"That's what I mean. You don't treat me as an equal."
"Cut me a break, Vic. Before you came along, it was my firm."
"What firm? Solomon and Associates was false advertising. Solomon and Lord is a firm."
"Okay, okay. I'll be more sensitive to . . ." What? He'd picked up the phrase from Dr. Phil, or Oprah, or one of the women's magazines at his dentist's office.
"I'll be more sensitive to . . ."
You toss around the words when your girlfriend is upset. But it's best to know what the hell you're talking about. "Your ...
They are Florida’s most mismatched legal duo—one a glamorous Miami blue blood, the other a Coconut Grove beach bum. And when they get together, you can throw every law right out the window….
What do you get when you mix beautiful people, family secrets, and a yacht washed up on Sunset Key with a hundred grand in cash and a dying man? If you’re Steve Solomon, you see a case that can get Solomon & Lord off the ground. If you’re Victoria Lord, you see a golden opportunity to go out on your own. With her uncle a murder suspect and her hunky ex-boyfriend back in the picture, Victoria is pushing to take control as Solomon struggles to keep from losing it.
As an explosive trial looms, they’re fighting against time, the law, and each other—to expose a killer who came to paradise…and hasn’t left.
What do you get when you mix beautiful people, family secrets, and a yacht washed up on Sunset Key with a hundred grand in cash and a dying man? If you’re Steve Solomon, you see a case that can get Solomon & Lord off the ground. If you’re Victoria Lord, you see a golden opportunity to go out on your own. With her uncle a murder suspect and her hunky ex-boyfriend back in the picture, Victoria is pushing to take control as Solomon struggles to keep from losing it.
As an explosive trial looms, they’re fighting against time, the law, and each other—to expose a killer who came to paradise…and hasn’t left.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurBlackstone Audiobooks
- Date d'édition2007
- ISBN 10 1433211270
- ISBN 13 9781433211270
- ReliureCD
- Evaluation vendeur
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