The Wicked Wife (Murder in Marin Book 2) by Martin Brown

left Viktor and Willow no other times to rendezvous before he flew off to London, and she to Paris, for a series of personal appearances and the taping of her segment on Project Runway.  
    Halfway through her trip, William arrived, joining her at the Georges Cinq. When he knocked on the door of her room a little before six in the evening, he was holding two-dozen long-stemmed yellow roses.  
    Willow put her arms around him and kissed him passionately.  
    “I was thinking of going out to dinner, but if you prefer we can stay in,” William suggested.
    “Oh no, we have to go out! I have a big night planned. We have dinner reservations at Epicure at eight o’clock. Then we’re meeting LeBon and the new love of his life, Jacques Allard. He’s a famous jewelry designer, and he makes the most beautiful pieces! Then we’re going over to the Latin Quarter, to have cocktails at Le Six .”
    “Sounds wonderful, sweetheart. Maybe I should jump in the shower and freshen up after that long flight.”
    “Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s a wonderful shower, so take your time.”
    William stood under a steady stream of hot water, hoping to breathe a little energy into his travel-weary bones. Even though he had a comfortable first class seat, the strain of a long work day, followed by an eight p.m. San Francisco departure time, a nine hour time change, and a twelve hour flight for a four o’clock arrival time in Paris, made him feel fifteen years older than his fifty-eight years. Nevertheless, he was determined not to play the role of the aging traveler. He stood under that shower until, finally, his bone weariness faded, and the energy returned to his body.
    By the time he stepped back into the bedroom of their two-room suite, Willow was dressed and ready for a night out.  
    “You look fabulous,” William murmured. But as he reached to kiss her, Willow pushed back. “Not now, darling! You’re still damp from your long hot shower. Besides, you’ll make a mess of my hair and make-up.”
    “You’re right, sweetie.” He sighed. “I’ve just missed you.”
    “Later tonight, darling, alright?” she said, as she smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and sent him off to get dressed.

    William thought Epicure was superb. He was less than enthralled with LeBon and Allard, or Henri and Jacques, as they insisted they be called.  
    Willow tried to include William in the conversation, which drifted casually from French to English, and back again. William, never the linguist, tried his best to keep up. But between the rich food, the bilingual gymnastics, his befuddled body clock, and a full twenty-four hours without sleep, he found himself falling further and further behind.  
    In spite of his valiant effort, when it was time to get the check, he insisted on staying to pay, but told the three of them to grab a cab over to the Left Bank while he went back to the hotel for some much needed sleep.  
    Watching the three of them leave, for the first time in his relationship with Willow, William wondered if he could successfully ignore the substantial gap in their age.  
    He thought about this as he strolled along the Avenue Matignon, turning onto the Champs-Elysees at Franklin D. Roosevelt. For just a moment, FDR came to mind. The world famous president was just five years older than William was now when he died of a massive stroke. Could his trying to keep up with Willow do to William what twelve years in the White House did to Roosevelt? It was a sobering thought. After having it, however, William quickly chided himself for being ridiculous.  
    Still, the age issue bothered him in a way it had not before, as he dragged himself back to his suite, got into bed, and turned out the light.

    In the cab on the way over to the nightclub in the heart of St. Germaine, LeBon and Allard teased Willow about her aging billionaire. Now that he was no longer around, LeBon made a much greater effort to speak English to the one woman who peaked his sexual