Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra Davis

      “Don’t bother me with semantics.”

      We were presented with our pizza and I forced myself to wait until the bartender physically let go of the plate before tearing into it. Marcus must have been equally famished, because our conversation came to a halt as we devoured the pie at locust speed. I indicated to Marcus that he should eat the last piece. I was trying to lose five pounds and I had developed a kind of warped diet reasoning in which I don’t have to count the calories of the food I eat if somebody else finishes it. It doesn’t make sense but it does make me feel less guilty, so I choose to delude myself.

      I sipped at my third drink while Marcus polished off our dinner. Alcohol was great for diets. If you drank enough of it, you didn’t feel guilty at all.

      Marcus checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s almost eight. We want to be fashionably late but not late-late.” He signed the charge slip and waited impatiently for me to collect my purse and jacket before hurrying me out of the restaurant and into the parking garage.

      “You know, there’s no way we’re going to find a parking spot within five miles of the gallery,” I said, “and the bus will practically take us to its door, plus it will be faster than looking for a—”

      “Honey, you do not impress a man by showing up on a bus.” His tone relayed the sympathy he felt for any woman who was so misguided.

      “You never know, I mean he is an artist, a.k.a. a liberal eccentric. Maybe he prefers public transportation for the sake of the environment, or maybe he likes to rub elbows with all us common people who don’t have cars or won’t drive them for fear of losing our parking spots.”

      “Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”

      I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under the strap of my super-hip new platforms and caressed the forming blister. We would have to walk four city blocks at least—if we were lucky to even find parking.

      When we finally did reach the gallery I was ready for a painkiller. Six blistering blocks. I peered through the crowd and eyed the little makeshift bar set up in the corner. Vodka always made a good pain reliever. Much more fun than ibuprofen.

      Marcus shoved his wrist in front of my face. “See! I timed this perfectly. We are now officially fashionably late.”

      “Just like the artist.” We turned to acknowledge a short little balding man who was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Can you believe that this guy actually had the nerve to show up ten minutes late to his own opening? I know he’s all the rage right now, but he still needs to show us collectors a little respect. Don’t you agree?”

      Marcus just stared at him blankly. Neither he nor I was a collector. We just wanted to pick up the artist. In the interest of furthering that goal, I asked the all-important question. “So which one is Balardi, anyway?”

      I looked in the general direction of where the man was pointing. I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating. “Marcus, do you see that?”

      “Uh-huh, nobody could miss that, girlfriend.”

      The disgruntled stranger took his cue and slunk away to complain to someone else, as Marcus and I watched, slack jawed, as Donato Balardi worked the room. His black wavy hair grazed his shoulders, Antonio Banderas–Zorro style. He was slender, but the well-defined pecs visible beneath his silk shirt prevented him from looking slight in any way. His dark Latin eyes surveyed the room until they finally focused on us.

      “Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Marcus dug his fingers into my arm. “I know he’s gay, I can just feel it.”

      “No way,” I protested. “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive the women of the world of something that beautiful.”

      He was upon us. If I reached my hand out I could actually touch those pecs. I summoned up my last bit of willpower and moved my gaze upward to his face. Sensual smiling lips, tanned skin and brown searching eyes looking at…

      Marcus.

      “Welcome, I am Donato Balardi.”

      Their handshake lasted way too long to be innocent.

      Well, shit. Here it was, an enchanted evening: I had seen a stranger across a crowded room, he had walked to my side, and I was all set to make him my own—and instead he was coming on to my male hairstylist.

      Sometimes I hated San Francisco.

      Marcus and Donato (God, even their names sounded good together) were now fully engaged in some pseudo-conversation while they actively undressed each other with their eyes. I excused myself and headed for the bar—not that either of my two gentleman companions noticed. A friendly, relatively cute bartender (probably gay) greeted me.

      “What can I get you this evening?”

      “What cocktail has the highest alcohol content—?”

      “Is this what you drink when you’re not consuming coffee milk shakes?”

      I spun around. There, smiling down at me, was the sexy Frappuccino-bashing Neanderthal from Starbucks.

      CHAPTER 3

      “She looked down at the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. Someone had been in the house.”

      —Sex, Drugs and Murder

      “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Are you following me?”

      The Neanderthal let out a deep, rich, surprisingly Homo sapiens–sounding laugh. “Well I’m glad to see your ego’s intact. No, I’m a friend of the gallery owner, Gary Sussman. We shared an apartment back in New York.”

      “Well how special for you.” I turned my attention back to the bartender. “Vodka martini straight up.” I refocused on my nemesis. “Well, you probably want to go reminisce with your friend. Don’t let me stop you.”

      He extended his hand. Say what you like about his taste in coffee, you couldn’t knock the man’s hands.

      “I’m Anatoly Darinsky.”

      “That’s funny. I don’t remember asking for your name.”

      “And yet I gave it.” His hand remained suspended in the air.

      What the hell. “Sophie Katz.” I placed my palm against his with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. Yep, strong handshake. Maybe it was time to upgrade his status from Neanderthal to Cro-Magnon.

      “Katz…your father’s Jewish?” Anatoly asked as he signaled the bartender to make him a duplicate of my drink.

      “He converted for my mom.”

      “But Katz…”

      “His last name was Christianson and my mother said she would rather choke on a hairball than be Mrs. Christianson so my father got inspired and they both changed their names to Katz.”

      Anatoly searched my face, undoubtedly looking for some hint of jest. “That’s…interesting,” he said.

      I shrugged; personally, I still hadn’t decided if the reasons behind my parents’ name change were the result of creative thinking or indicative of a shared psychosis.

      Anatoly tactfully let the subject drop. “So what do you think of Balardi?”

      “He’s magnificent,” I said, stealing a glance at Donato, who was vigorously flirting with Marcus.

      “Really? You’re a big fan of spilled paint?”

      “Spilled paint? What are you talking about—? Oh, you’re talking about his art.”

      Anatoly made a little noise of disgust, which, in turn, perked me right up. It was always good to be able to annoy the people who annoy you, even