Chapter 3 – Sausages & Mustard
He's trying to concentrate, he is, really! But what the shit … how is he supposed to when she's lying there …. a goddess in Gucci … well ok, not Gucci, just a Rio de Sol mustard-yellow bikini which might have looked great on the shop window dummy but which is currently running a poor second to all that exposed skin.
He knows she's watching him, aware of his furtive glances, he can tell, she's doing that wicked little thing she does with her teeth, biting on her lower lip and trying to keep her mouth from curving upwards. Her eyes … he can't tell about those, the large sunglasses cover the upper part of her face … makes her lip-chewing, smile-hiding, sexy-as-hell mouth misdemeanours all the more noticeable.
He knows she's checking him out, he's aware of the lip chewing getting more intense whenever he bends over to grab a beer can from the iced bucket on the floor or to seize the tongs from the lower shelf. He knows her and spends just that little extra time on choosing the can or carefully replacing the tongs … gives his ass just that little bit of extra stretch, smothers his own grin.
The sausages are sizzling on the grill and his detective is sizzling on the sunbed and he'd better try to keep his mind on the job at hand or they're going to end up with charcoal for lunch. The breeze sweeps in off the ocean and helps to cool his skin … not his thoughts. He turns the sausages, tries to take his mind off the glistening body on the deck behind him, the way the skimpy, water-soaked, yellow material fails to hide shapes and contours that ought to be banned at barbecues, especially when cooking sausages … it takes little imagination to leap from one type of packaged meat to the next, not that these trunks are doing much in the way of packaging … tenting, yes … packaging, no.
He's going to have to take a step back or the ones on the grill aren't the only bangers that are going to get burnt, and yep he's going with that British terminology because he sure as hell thinks it's so apropos right now!
He hears the slight squeak of the sunbed on the deck, hears the padding of feet and then she's entering his peripheral vision, and heading past him to the sliding doors … and there's a definite swaying of hips, an undulating oscillation which makes the minute bikini the perfect frame to the Albertolli of asses, the Beardsley of behinds, the Caravaggio of cabooses, the da Vinci of duffs, the Kandinsky of keisters, the Monet of matakos, the Rembrandt of rears, the Turner of tooshies … fuck the sausages! He's got a more pressing problem to deal with …