Vanished in the Dunes Read Online Free Page B

didn’t matter. As soon as the export left an Iranian port, the title documents were negotiable and the traders in Rotterdam were more than happy to pay slightly below market price, which Posner passed on to the Iranian family’s European bank account, less a reasonable commission. Maybe she’s even somehow related to the shah’s family. So many of the prosperous Iranians he worked with claimed such a connection.
    â€œLook to your right,” he says as they pass a large house that straddles more than a hundred feet of beachfront. He pulls to a stop and they absorb the tall twin cedar turrets that flank the extensive floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
    â€œIt’s magnificent,” she says. “Do you live near here?”
    The question should not have been a surprise, but it is.
    â€œAround the corner,” he answers. His pulse quickens. She is pushing too far, but her flattery disarms him.
    â€œCan I see it?” she asks.
    She is over the line now. He has only to answer, “No,” and everything will be formal and polite, but he quickly says, “Oh, sure.”
    He moves the car less than a hundred feet and turns the corner. He wonders, almost absurdly, whether she hears the sudden rush of blood that moves through his body, sees the nervous minispasms in his fingers as they clutch the wheel, or the fine line of moisture that settles above his upper lip, but all she says is, “Oh, what a pretty street.”
    He directs the car up his driveway and stops. He lets the engine idle, and they sit for a moment. The ocean beats a cadence against the sand and there is the odd, shrill cackle of birds, but the air is otherwise quiet. He sighs, ready to move the Lexus into reverse, but she interrupts his idea of escape and asks, “Can I see the inside?”
    Even before he thinks of an answer, she is pulling the door handle open.
    â€œTake care on the steps,” he says. “They’ve just been refinished.”
    He slips his loafers off in the entrance and watches as she slides off her white sandals as well. He notices for the first time that her toes are coated with deep burgundy polish.
    â€œI like to do what the host does.”
    Her words drip with unvarnished innuendo. At the top of the stairs she turns and surveys the area.
    â€œThe view is great.”
    Then she surprises him by ignoring the view as she walks around the room, touching small sculptures, and analyzing a succession of wood-block prints and lithographs on the wall farthest from the windows.
    â€œDo you live here alone?” she asks
    â€œMost of the time,” he answers truthfully. “I’m married, but my wife spends most of her time in Manhattan.”
    She shrugs. He believes she doesn’t care. The more she speaks, the more he comes to believe she is a latent free spirit, a throwback to the sixties, someone who would have rolled naked in the mud at Woodstock, screwed her brains out for a week, and only then went off to medical school. She continues to survey the room. There is a tightening in his chest as he thinks of her naked in Woodstock or here on the forest-green couch. An intense urge begins to grip his body. He has to think of something else. Now. He turns away and imagines the ocean two hundred feet beyond the window. He thinks of the last big storm that blew shingles off his roof. He considers these things until the urge passes. He realizes more fully that this is a mistake. She shouldn’t be here.
    â€œWhere is this from? It looks like this house.”
    He needs to turn his head to see her standing in front of the pen-and-ink sketch of this very house. A rough design he made over twenty years ago and showed to an architect who liked the idea. He bought the land only after the architect agreed to design plans to fit the sketch. The drawing hangs on the wall leading to the master bedroom.
    â€œIt’s my design,” he says. “It’s this