The Final Kill

“It makes me sweat,” she said.

“So you’d rather lose an eye? Turn over.”

“No.”

“Turn over!”

She pressed her belly into the sheets rather than give in.

He tugged at her shoulder. “C’mon, Abby. I want to see how bad you’re hurt. If you don’t turn over, I’ll turn you myself.”

She knew he could do it, so she rolled over, grinning. “You think that silly little paintball did me in? No way.”

“It got you square on the chest,” he argued. “For God’s sake, it almost knocked you out.”

“Don’t be so dramatic! All it did was smart and knock the wind out of me. A little. Besides, I got you first.”

“So you did. But I, at least, was wearing my chest protector,” he pointed out.

Pulling her jersey up over her chest, he swore again. His fingers carefully wiped the crimson glop from the flesh over her heart—where, despite her brilliant plan to one-up his character of “Frank Frett, the evil lilac killer,” he’d managed to get her with a big red splat of paint. The spot where the paintball had hit was badly inflamed. Ben stroked it gently. “Abby, this is final. If you don’t start wearing protective gear, I’m not—” He sighed.

“Not what?”

“Playing anymore.” The tone of his voice told her he knew the words sounded ridiculous, but his eyes were dead serious.

She pulled him down on the bed beside her and nuzzled his neck, while at the same time pressing herself seductively against him. “You’re not playing anymore? You sure about that?”

“I’m serious,” he said sternly. “This game is getting out of hand.”

She planted her lips against his ear. “And whose idea was it in the first place?” she murmured. “Who left me that scenario about some crazy gardener named Frank Frett killing off somebody’s lilacs? And where the hell did you get that scenario, anyway?”

He rubbed noses with her. “From watching you with your rose garden, of course. You almost leveled poor Sister Binny that day you caught her with a spray gun.”

She touched his lips with hers. “Only because I didn’t know she was using organic spray. And I made it up to her by letting her have all the lavender she wanted.”

“How kind of you. To be nice to a nun, of all people.”

“Not as kind as you, leaving that barn door open for me so I’d walk right into your snare, Frank Frett. I can’t believe you thought I’d fall for that.”

“Ah, but you did believe my fake death.”

“Okay, so I’m easy to fool where you’re concerned.”

Ben turned serious. “Easy to fool? What exactly does that mean?”

The way he said it made her think there was something she was missing. But she already regretted her choice of words. If there was something she was being a fool about, and lately her instincts had been telling her there was, she honestly didn’t want to know it. Not yet. Life was complicated enough, as her mother would say, without looking for dust balls under the bed.

“I didn’t mean a thing,” she said. “And by the way, don’t forget you promised to help us finish the remodel on the old friar’s chapel out back.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Abby. Dammit, this is it. It’s the second time you’ve been hurt during one of our paintball capers, and that wasn’t what the game started out to be.”

She grinned. “I know. But don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it. It’s our best sexual fantasy. If you hadn’t knocked me off my feet tonight, just imagine what might have happened.”

“I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.” He frowned. “Abby, ever since—Never mind. The point is, you’re way too reckless. What if you’d lost an eye?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ben. People play paintball all the time.”

“They get hurt all the time, too. There are thousands of cases every year of people being blinded by a paint-ball—and worse.” He swore. “I never should have taken you to survivor camp with me last fall. You’ve got to let this go, Abby.”

“But you agreed I needed to get my self-confidence back. And my experience there made a great article for Action Pursuit Games.”

“An article that barely paid you anything, and you already have more money than you know what to do with.”

“Not true. There’s the little chapel, and the Women’s Center for Learning needs expanding, and the old horse barn could use a ton of work—”

He groaned. “Look, I admire the fact that you decided to buy the Prayer House from Lydia and help the nuns out. But why do you have to live here?”

And now we’re getting to the real meat of things, Abby thought. What he means is, Why weren’t you happy enough living with me?

“I love your apartment in town,” she said. “But, Ben, you were out most of the time chasing criminals around Carmel, and I was alone. I wanted to be around people more.”

“You could walk around Carmel Village anytime and be up to your knees in tourists from every hemisphere.”

“But I can think better out here. It’s quiet. Besides, I can still drive to the village whenever I want to.”

The truth was, she didn’t want to all that often. Windhaven, the multimillion-dollar Ocean Drive house that she’d lived in with her husband, still held too many bad memories. Just driving by it gave her the willies.

“And as for chasing criminals around in quaint little old Carmel,” Ben said, “it’s not exactly the way I thought it would be when I moved down here from San Francisco. I thought having a chance to be chief one day would be the perfect job.”

“It’s not?” Abby was surprised. They had never talked about this before.

“It could be,” he said, “for the right person. But don’t you ever get the feeling that living in Carmel is like living in a bubble? We’re so isolated here. A two-hour drive to San Francisco, no direct flights out of Monterey to most cities…”

“Sweetie,” Abby murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “you’re not old enough to be having a midlife crisis.”

“Ha. I’m over forty.”

“No!” she said mockingly. “You’re that old? Good grief, what’s a young thirty-eight-year-old like me doing with the likes of you?”

“Growing old,” he said, grinning, “and way too fast, if you’re not careful.”

She punched him on the shoulder. “Okay, so how about this? You get a hobby.”

He snorted. “Like what?”

“Painting, maybe. Or golf.”

“Great. Then there would be three million and one painters in Monterey County. And four million and one golfers.”