In the faint glow of her night-light, Hank’s face broke out into a wide grin and her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Whatever you say, Mama.”
“Good night, Hank.”
Knowing she’d accomplished nothing, Charlotte kissed Hank’s forehead again and walked toward the bedroom door.
“Daddy won’t mind,” Hank whispered to her back.
Charlotte came to a sudden stop in the hallway, those words reverberating in her heart and skittering down her spine. She glanced heavenward, her gaze cut short by the white ceiling, thinking just how wrong Hank was. She pictured Kurt up in heaven, peering down on her, not exactly judging her—he’d never really judged her—but he’d have that disappointed look on his face. He’d be disappointed in her current state of lust, her surrender to the needs of the flesh.
That look on Kurt’s face always made Charlotte feel so uncomfortable in her own skin.
She arrived in the kitchen and her eyes immediately were drawn to the double glass doors in the family room and the vision of Joe seated at the wrought-iron table, his long legs stretched out to rest on an unoccupied chair in front of him, his right hand absently dangling down to rub Hoover’s ear. The two of them seemed to stand guard, watching the flashlight beams dance inside the tent across the yard.
It was tempting indeed, tempting to look at Joe’s silhouette and think of Kurt and everything her husband had been—guardian, provider, father, lover, friend. Charlotte straightened her shoulders and prepared to go outside, telling herself that Joe could never fill the space Kurt once occupied. Joe was her sexual fantasy man, and fantasy men didn’t make good husbands and fathers. Everybody knew that.
But Joe had helped clear the table that evening, hadn’t he? He’d been so loving and patient with Hank. He’d formed an easy friendship with Bonnie and Ned. He’d been a good sport with a pack of rowdy boys. And those were all things a girl didn’t usually expect from her sexual fantasy man.
Right?
She opened the back doors and Joe looked up and smiled. There was a small lantern on the table, which cast a soft bluish light over his features, making his black eyes that much more mesmerizing. He removed his feet from the chair and sat up quickly, wiping off the cushion, then patting it to indicate he wanted her to sit close.
She wondered what in the world they’d have to talk about. They knew nothing about each other, except for that brief encounter so long ago and the few quick conversations they’d had in the last two weeks. Had it been two weeks? On one hand, she still felt the shock of recognizing him at the punching bag like it was yesterday. On the other, it was difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t right next door, when her body wasn’t alive with the proximity of him.
She sat down and crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. Joe just looked into her eyes, silent, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
Charlotte returned his gaze and pondered the mystery of sexual attraction. Why did one man, like Jimmy Bettmyer, make her skin crawl, while another, Joe Mills, made her libido do the Lambada? Sexual attraction had as many layers as organic whole wheat phyllo dough. What she felt for Joe was based in the physical senses, of course, the resonance of his voice, the breadth of his hand, the male scent at the crook of his neck, the black liquid passion of his eyes. But another part of the attraction was intangible. She felt joy in his presence. She felt sensual and alive. She felt like herself.
She couldn’t stop her thoughts—they came racing at her too fast and hard to fight back—and Charlotte found herself comparing Joe to Kurt. It was unfair, like comparing a Ferrari to a Volvo, and she knew it.
With Kurt, she felt safe. He was strong and steady and reliable, and when he touched her, it was with the same reserved strength he used to interact with the rest of the world. When they made love, it was pleasant and sweet and usually over too soon. Most often, it was with Charlotte beneath him—that was the way he preferred it—and despite his position, he always left it up to her to control the pace and timing. Her favorite part was when he would hold her afterward and stroke her hair.
That was when the dark thoughts would rush into her, as she hid her face in his chest. That’s when she’d admit to herself that she longed for so much more, something elusive and wonderful that she and Kurt just couldn’t seem to produce together. She wanted certain physical sensations, yes. She wanted her legs up over her ears. She wanted to ride a man’s body hard. Every once in a while, she wanted to be flipped over onto her belly and taken from behind by a man who was blinded by a need much like rage, a force that would propel her into the dark rushing swirl of sex.
But she also wanted something beyond the physical. She wanted that otherworldly sense of connection she’d had with Joe, the way he’d used his mind and words and emotions to push her past the corporeal into oblivion. She wanted to know she was being loved by a man who’d surrendered to his desire for her, who wouldn’t hold back, who couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.
Once, only once, she’d summoned the courage to come right out and ask Kurt for what she wanted. It shocked him. He pulled away from her, paced the bedroom, and told her he respected her too much to degrade her that way.
“What in the world are you thinking over there?” Joe asked.
Charlotte shook her head. Like the grief, the regret could attack her without warning. Tonight, it was relentless. She felt powerless against it.
She thought of her wedding night. She was completely exhausted. Ironic as it was, after all the years of wanting and waiting, she was not at all interested in having sex on her wedding night. By the time the reception was over and the revelers left their hotel suite, it was two in the morning. Her head throbbed from the champagne and the lack of food—she’d been too excited to eat. Her feet hurt from the narrow heels she’d worn with her wedding dress. Her mouth hurt from hours of smiling. She could barely keep her eyes open.
But Kurt had swept her up off the hotel sofa and carried her lovingly to the big king-size bed, where he murmured to her to not be afraid, that he wouldn’t hurt her, that he loved her more than anything in the world.
Charlotte’s body shook. She was scared to death that at this most sacred moment Kurt would discover that someone had been there before him and she’d be found out—her ruse exposed—and he’d want the marriage annulled. Tears sprang into her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him everything, her lips forming the first words of the sentence that would spell her doom—”Remember the day I picked you up at National Airport?”—when her new husband’s mouth came down on hers and he’d kissed her hard and his hands went to her breasts and she surrendered herself to whatever fate would bring.
Fate brought a pleasing but silent coupling, followed by Kurt apologizing because he knew it must have hurt her. He told her he felt her shaking, saw her tears, and hoped that she could forgive him for being so rough.
Rough? she’d asked herself. That was rough? And so began thirteen years of comparing her husband to the mystery man who’d made her lose her freaking mind in a firestorm of lust and forceful language, the man now sitting across from her on her back patio, gently stroking her knee, and staring at her like she was some odd creature on display at a petting zoo.
“Charlotte?”
Then she thought of the evening she found her husband dead. He didn’t answer when she told him dinner was ready, so she walked toward the family room, repeating his name while she wiped her hands on the green-checked kitchen towel. Her brain had started to buzz with alarm before she reached him. Something about the way he lay on the couch didn’t look right. He appeared too loose. His chest wasn’t rising and falling. The instant her warm fingers made contact with the cold skin of his cheek, she screamed.
It wasn’t until hours later that she remembered her hideous secret wish. That Kurt would just disappear, so she could take a lover.
“Charlotte? Are you all right?”
She took a deep breath and straightened in the chair. She tried to smile at Joe. “Do you have any
idea how strange it feels to be sitting here with you? You’re not supposed to be real. You’re my fantasy.”
He laughed a little. “I think I know exactly how strange it feels.”
“Do you have any idea how weird it was to have you here today for the barbecue?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you know how often I thought of you over the years?”
“How often, Charlotte?”
“Every single day.”
“I can beat that,” he said, his white smile flashing in the night. He tapped his front tooth with his index finger. “At least twice a day for me.”
She laughed, stopping his hand from continuing the warm circular movement around her knee. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Never—especially if it makes you feel so outrageously ashamed that you decide you need to make it up to me.”
Charlotte shook her head and smiled. “I already feel guilty enough.”
“Maybe it’s time you stopped feeling guilty at all.”
His hand was back, but this time it was higher, and his palm was stretched hot over the surface of her thigh, where it kneaded gently.
“Joe—”
“I’ll go crazy if I don’t touch you, Charlotte. I’ve been looking at you all day, thinking about touching you, wondering when it would be safe to touch you again, knowing exactly how you feel in my hands.”
She couldn’t do this with a tent full of kids not twenty yards away. She knew how it was with Joe—five minutes and she’d be on him like white on refined rice. Charlotte decided it would be best to end the evening with a warm “thank you” for all his help and a kiss on the cheek. No lip-to-lip contact. She tried to rise from the chair, but Joe caught her hands and pulled her back down.
“What I’ve always remembered, so clearly, is how dainty you were. How big my hands felt on your hips and waist, how feminine and soft and sweet you were.”
“Oh, please.” She tried to get up again, but his strong hands held her in place.
“You had this tiny waist and trim little knees and the sweetest round breasts with the perkiest little pink cherry nipples—”
“Stop right there—”
Joe bent close to her, his face not an inch from hers, her hands still gripped tight in his own.
“And this beautiful small perfect peach between your legs, Charlotte. A ladylike little split fruit covered in peach fuzz—so juicy and hot that I’ve never been able to forget it.”
Charlotte felt numb. No one had ever spoken to her like this before—well, just once, thirteen years ago—and she couldn’t help but notice that Joe’s words sounded like something right out of one of her poems. She wondered if his voice had been the poetry inside her soul all the while.
The thought startled her.
“Sorry, but I’m not so dainty anymore.”
Joe pulled back a bit and smiled.
Charlotte hoped her voice didn’t sound shrill. She hoped she didn’t sound as hysterical as she felt. She wanted to come across as practical, because someone needed to be practical here and it didn’t appear as if it was going to be Joe. “Like I said—”
“You’re not that girl anymore.”
She huffed. “That’s right, Joe. I’m not that girl from the side of the road. What I am is a thirty-five-year-old widow with a mortgage and a job, a woman who’s carried two babies inside her, squeezed them out, nursed them with those little cherry nipples you seem to have liked so much, and frankly, all my dainty parts have been put to hard use.”
He continued to grin and said nothing. It was definitely time to say good night.
“You are beautiful to me, Charlotte.” Joe’s words came out in a rough whisper. “From what I can tell, you’re still dainty and feminine, and I’ll be damned, but you smell exactly the same as you did back then. You feel the same in my arms. Your kiss still tastes the same. And I swear, Charlotte, if I don’t get another one of those kisses right this second—”
He raised his hands to cup the sides of her face, then slowly, so slowly, brought his lips down onto hers. Charlotte felt as though all the blood in her body rushed to her mouth, as if not a single red blood cell wanted to miss out on the sensory block party now taking place on her lips and tongue.
He pressed on, pushed open her lips to receive him, and kissed her senseless. He kissed her until she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t remember her name. He kissed the living hell out of her.
Just the way she liked.
Chapter Fifteen
“I’ve been thinking about it and I believe you have to sleep with more than two men in your life before you can be considered a slut, Charlotte.”
Joe watched her nod seriously, and he couldn’t resist the urge to trace the outline of her jaw. Her chin ended in such a soft little rounded point. He marveled at how smooth her skin was. How pale she seemed beneath his darker hand.
She was kicking him to the curb tonight, but she was doing it sweetly, like she did most everything. There was no doubt about how much she wanted him—he felt it in her kiss, the way her hands gripped him, the feverish look in her eye—but she was right. It wasn’t the time or place.
Joe glanced over Charlotte’s shoulder toward the tent. Most of the dueling flashlight beams were now off, and only an occasional flicker of light appeared, followed by a brief exchange of whispers. The campers were finally falling asleep.
“You going to be okay with the boys?” He rubbed her upper arms as she stood in front of him in the driveway.
She smiled. “Of course. I’ll sleep on the family room couch in case they need anything.”
“Want me to stay?”
He saw a flicker of interest in her eyes, followed by a polite shake of her head. “No, thanks. I can handle it.”
“Obviously.”
He pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her small frame. He sighed in contentment when she returned the hug—a surprisingly tight grip coming from such a small woman.
“You’ve handled a lot, Charlotte. You are a very strong person.”
Her entire body sagged against him. She weighed next to nothing. He wanted to pick her up, cradle her in his arms, kiss her face, and carry her right into his house and up the stairs and to his bed.
In his dreams.
He’d already thought this through. Now that he was staying, it would be too risky to let Charlotte or the kids wander around inside his house. The pool area would probably be okay, but he didn’t want anyone getting anywhere near his office. It’s not like he had his DEA shield mounted on the wall or his reports to the U.S. attorney scattered all over the floor, but it made him uncomfortable to think of anyone seeing anything that would put them at risk.
“I don’t feel very strong sometimes, you know?” Charlotte’s voice was muffled by the front of his shirt. He felt her snuggle close, and he pulled her even tighter.
“Nobody can feel strong all the time, sweetheart.”
He felt her head bob up and down in agreement. He wanted her to hang on to him like this forever, but she was already extricating herself from his embrace.
“So. How many lovers does a woman have to have before she’s a slut?”
Joe laughed—not only at her question but also at the earnest look on her face. Charlotte had somehow managed to keep an interesting combination of innocence and passion, even into her midthirties, and it intrigued him. “You really worried that you might be considered a slut?”
She pursed her lips in thought. “At first, yes. I was sure I was going to go straight to hell.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” She broke into a wide smile. “As it turned out, I only went to Ohio.”
Joe laughed again, taking her hands in his. He dragged his thumb over the delicate bones in her fingers and her small, smooth nails. He wanted to know every single inch of her, every nook and cranny of her body and her mind and her heart.
“I was sure that everybody could see a change i
n me, because I felt so different. I was afraid Kurt could see it, and my mother, and my roommates. I was completely paranoid.” Charlotte quirked up her mouth. “The day before my wedding, my mother gave me this pamphlet called Duties of the Christian Wife. I nearly died.”
“Any good pointers?”
Charlotte laughed softly. “Not that I remember. But I gave it to Kurt to read.”
“Good move. A man can always do with a slightly different perspective than ‘Penthouse Forum’.”
“Oh, my God!” she blurted out. “Kurt never read anything like ‘Penthouse Forum’ in his life! He never even…”
Joe waited, then realized Charlotte had chosen not to finish her comment. She pulled her hands from his and crossed her arms over her chest, as if to close herself off.
“Kurt never even what?”
“Nothing.”
“It was obviously something.” She shook her head. “I really need to get some sleep.” Joe bent close to get a better look at her downturned face. “Can I ask you a question, Charlotte?”
She looked up, suddenly scanning the darkness as if to check that no one was listening. It made Joe smile.
“I guess.”
“Did you eventually have a satisfying sex life with your husband?”
“I really need to go to sleep,” she said, walking away.
“Hey, wait! What are you doing tomorrow?” Joe hadn’t meant to yell loud enough to wake up the boys, but a single flashlight beam sprang to life inside the tent.
Charlotte spun around. “It’s Sunday. Nothing much. Why?”
“I want to see you tomorrow. That’s why.”
She briefly brought a hand to her mouth before she said, “We’ll see, Joe.” Then she walked into the garage and lowered the automatic door.
LoriSue stopped brushing her hair in midstroke, pausing to check if she felt fully empowered yet. Maybe. She peered close to the vanity table mirror and studied her face. Yes, she was still beautiful, but she wouldn’t stay that way for much longer, would she? Ten years, tops, and then what would she have?
LoriSue put the brush down and separated the darkening roots of her hair, trying to jog her memory, trying to recall her face in a brunette frame. She couldn’t do it, sighed, and wandered out of the dressing room to her king-size bed. She flopped down on her stomach and kicked her feet in the air like a kid.
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