He Huffed and He Puffed Read Online Free

to his room Strode was thinking young Harvey had provided him with a perspective he’d lacked. Joanna Gillespie was a rich woman; she could give free concerts the rest of her life and still die rich. By the same token, she could live quite well on what she made playing the fiddle and never need the money she’d inherited. There was, however, a considerable difference between being able to live quite well and being out-and-out rich .
    But it wasn’t just the money. The Gillespie family relationships had evidently been more strained than Strode knew. If parents and daughter had been on good terms, the violinist would never have thought of killing them, money or no money. But she’d been deprived of a normal childhood by being told she was an invalid; there was bound to be some resentment left over from that. Papa had opposed her pursuit of a career; he’d never understood or cared that music was the raison d’être of her life. And Mama—well, Mama had made her sick.
    Strode unlocked the door to his room and went in. He was fidgety, not ready to sleep yet. One used to be able to count on bellboys to provide certain services, he mused, but no longer. Strode knew he’d want a woman tonight; he always did, when he was moving in for the kill. He should have brought Tracy with him.
    No, that would have been a mistake. Tracy was beginning to think of herself as Mrs. A. J. Strode number five, and that was bound to mean trouble. Strode had no intention of marrying her. Tracy was a great-looking babe, and she was funny; he got a kick out of listening to her chatter. But she was also willful—she’d probably say independent . A kept woman, independent!
    The truth was, Tracy just liked getting her own way. Still, he would have been glad of her company right then. He decided to call her number in New York. He got the answering machine; she was out.
    Strode frowned. That was something else that needed looking into.
    A ringing telephone woke Strode at eight the next morning.
    It was Joanna Gillespie herself. After apologizing for calling so early, she explained she already had a luncheon engagement. “I’m still not going to sell, Mr. Strode,” she said pleasantly. “I hope you didn’t come to Pittsburgh on my account.”
    â€œAh, but I did,” he said smoothly. “At least let’s talk—don’t make my trip a complete waste. It won’t hurt to talk about it, will it?”
    â€œNo, so long as you aren’t expecting anything,” she agreed. “I tell you what. I was about to order breakfast—why don’t I order for two? We can talk while we eat.”
    â€œSounds good. I’ll need half an hour.”
    Thirty minutes later Joanna Gillespie opened her door and greeted him with an automatic smile. She wore a bulky top of the kind Strode hated because it so successfully hid a woman’s figure. Last night she’d worn a floor-length skirt and today she had on gray slacks. Must have bad legs , Strode thought. Her face was bare of make-up; she certainly hadn’t put herself out any on his account. But she seemed relaxed and at ease, quite a contrast to the intense ball of fire he’d seen in action at Heinz Hall the night before. He complimented her on her performance.
    â€œThank you. It did go well, didn’t it?” she said, taking it for granted that he would have gone to hear her play. “It was a good audience. Very up.”
    â€œThey were ready to applaud before you’d played a note,” Strode remarked with amusement.
    â€œSome audiences are like that. Others come in with Show me! written all over their faces.”
    â€œWhich kind do you work harder for?”
    She shrugged. “Once I start playing, I forget there is an audience. It doesn’t really matter.”
    They were in a comfortable-looking suite; Strode could see one bedroom and a small kitchen. When breakfast arrived, Strode insisted