Six

Chief Homicide Detective Chris MacLaren never took vacations before he met Patricia. But the damn woman ran off, again, leaving him by his lonesome to varnish a wood bench or go fishing. Since the countryside was never his thing, when an old flame lures him down memory lane, the missing person case soon turns into a murder.
Forget work, the beach, dirty dead cops, and her infuriating cop of a boyfriend’s overprotectiveness. Patricia wants to pretend the last weeks even happened and what better place for her ignorance bliss than Italy?
Although sometimes he’s too close for comfort, she soon misses the infuriating man. She returns home only to find he left for parts unknown with an old leather-clad dominatrix ex in search of her step-son.
The last time Christopher disappeared, mayhem ensued. This time, Patricia intends to stick by his side no matter what. As soon as she finds him, that is.

He had left messages, one for each morning, afternoon and evening. “Call me,” they all said, without one mentioning the Dom. Apparently, jet lag, exhaustion, and sadness did not mix well for she called regardless.
He answered on the first ring. “About time, Princess.”
She caught her breath. How could he still do this to her? “Hi.” Should she tell him she knew?
“You sound funny. Is everything all right?”
“Groovy.” She paused; he was so infuriating! “What are you doing?”
“Fishing.”
“Fishing for what?”
“What do you mean, fishing for what? Are you sure you’re OK? Where are you calling from?”
“Where do you think I’m calling from, Big guy?”
A pause on his end. “The transmission’s great. So, what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been busy getting fat on food, drunk on wine, and numbed from, hum, well, you know.”
“No, I do not know. Getting tired on what? You had better be tired of walking, Angel.”
She liked his voice, soothing and even; he had a deep, sexy voice. “A lot of things have exhausted me. How about you, Big guy?”
Another pause. She didn’t like when he took too long to answer; his breaks meant he was protecting her. She imagined too well from what, who he was shielding her this time: his old dominatrix friend. “I miss you, Angel. How about I come over?”
“Would you?”
“Yes. Right away. Where are you?”
“I’m, hum,” she hesitated. His voice was too level; he had the cop face on no doubt. Fishing indeed, but not for fish! Well, Christopher. I think it’s time I did some fishing myself. “I called Bridget earlier. How come you went to the precinct on your vacation?”
“How come you called my secretary on your vacation?”
“I wanted to ask Bridget if she wanted anything Italian. What’s your excuse?”
“I needed a few things.” I bet you did, Big guy. Leather, oversized breasts, and a whip, “An old acquaintance stopped by.”
Old acquaintance my ass! The arrogance of him, he wasn’t even claiming his innocence! “Ah. Really?”
“I told you about her. Jessica.” She had never heard of a Jessica-the-dominatrix in her life. “She saw me in the papers.”
“Did she now? How nice.” She did more than see you in the newspapers. Did she scrub your back? “Patricia?”
“Yes?”
“I like it when you’re jealous.”
The nerve of the man! “Fuck you,” were her last words before she hung up on him. So what if she had said he could do whatever the hell he wanted? Had she not forgone an Italian god for him? Surely an Italian god was much harder to forgo than a dominatrix.