How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law by Dorothy Cannell Page B

dressing gown, with that hint of midnight stubble emphasizing his good bones.
    “Is that you, Ellie?” He sat up, eyes squeezed shut, and swung his feet off the bed as gingerly as a hospital patient being accorded bathroom privileges following surgery.
    Averting my eyes from the tempting V of hairy chest, I said sternly, “You’ve had a difficult evening, I’ll admit, but you have to think about your mother.”
    “I sat with her until she fell asleep.”
    “That’s my brave darling!”
    “I’m trying, Ellie, but none of this is easy.” He drew me to him, unplaiting my hair as he talked. “You see, I’ve always looked up to my father.”
    “Rubbish! He’s a good three inches shorter than you.”
    “I thought it was only two.” Ben looked momentarily chuffed. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that I always viewed him as the guardian of the truth, and now—”
    “Don’t do that!” I pulled away to look deep into his blue-green eyes. “Don’t speak as if their lives, and yours too, have been one long lie.”
    “Are you suggesting that I think of them as star-crossed lovers?”
    “Exactly! Rather than dwell on the past, we must focus on getting the two of them back together. Their story
must
have a happy ending.”
    “They can both be extremely obstinate.”
    “Can’t we all?” I moved away from him to get undressed. “But there has to be a way to sort them out.”
    “For their sakes and ours,” he said. “Because much as I love Mum, Ellie, I don’t know how well it would work if she were to stay on here indefinitely.”
    “I see your point.” My hollow accents were muffled by my pulling my nightdress over my head.
    “You don’t think I should saddle up and go after Dad tonight?” Ben paced to the door.
    “No. They need time away from each other. And tomorrow we will come up with a plan. At the moment all I can suggest is that tomorrow we start telephoning around to see if we can get a rabbi and a priest to perform a joint ceremony.”
    “My darling!” Ben swung me up and carried me over to the bed. Lying down beside me, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. “If you could only cook worth a damn, I would be putty in your hands.”
    “The dinner was a flop, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, but being the typically insecure male, I would hate it if you could cook half as well as I do. May I suggest you concentrate on your other talents, which are infinite in their variety and”—he kissed me—“excellence.”
    “You know what I was just thinking?”
    “Tell me, my angel.” He was leaning over me, hands moving up my arms to draw down the shoulders of my nightdress.
    “William the Conqueror was a love child.”
    “As are all he-men.”
    “Are you telling me that you have made a full recovery and will not have to work through the five stages of grief, or however many there are?”
    “I’m afraid not, Ellie. Given the way I’m feeling at this moment, I’m going to need a
lot
of therapy.”
    He reached out a hand to turn off the bedside lamp, and even that momentary withdrawal seemed unbearable. After the day I’d had, nothing could have been more blissful than being with Ben on our own little island. He kissed my eyelids, then my cheeks, before taking possession of my parted lips. I inhaled the tantalizing scent of the he-man soap he used. I felt the tension seep out of my pores as his body came down lean and hard on mine. With trembling hands I parted the silk of his dressing gown and let the delicious lassitude overtake me. His supple fingers were woven into my hair, which was unfortunate, because when he suddenly sat up he almost yanked my head off my shoulders.
    “Ouch!” I yelped—seductively, I hope.
    “Shush!”
Pressing a macho finger to his lips.
    “The twins?” Sitting up, I snapped on the light and tossed back the bedclothes, ready to race out to the nursery. I hadn’t heard a peep out of the intercom, but Ben’s ears do tend to be sharper than mine.
    “It’s