by Sandra Brown
He moved to the table, picked up his beer, and took a long drink. Finally he looked over at her. “Don’t pretend that you disagree. I know you agree.”
“We get along so well.”
“We did. We do. We had some great times. No one’s to blame for this. There’s no right side or wrong side. It’s simply a matter of our wanting different futures.”
She thought on that for a moment. “I made no secret of what I wanted, Hammond. If I had wanted hearth and home, I would have stayed in my hometown, obeyed my father, and married immediately after high school—if not before—and started having babies like my sisters did. I would have spared myself their scorn and his sermons. I wouldn’t have struggled to get where I am. I’ve still got a long way to go to get where I want to be. From the beginning you knew what my priorities were.”
“I admire you for them.”
“Correction. What my priorities are.”
“I hope you surpass all the goals you’ve set for yourself. I mean that sincerely. It’s just that your personal goals leave no room for anything else. They’re incompatible with the commitment I want from a life partner.”
“You really want a Holly Homemaker?”
“God, no,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. He stared into near space for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure what I want.”
“You’re just sure you don’t want me.”
Again, he knew that she was more miffed than hurt. Nevertheless, no woman liked being rejected. He respected her enough to let her down gently. “It’s not you, Steffi. It’s me. I want to be with someone who’s at least willing to compromise on a few points.”
“I never compromise.”
Softly, he said, “You’re slipping. You just made my case for me.”
“No, I gave you that one.”
“Thanks, I’ll take it.”
Then they smiled at each other, because beyond their physical attraction they had always admired one another’s shrewdness. She said, “You’re very smart, Hammond. I like smart and admire intellect. You have a sharp wit. You’re tough when toughness is called for. You can even be mean when you have to be, and mean really gets me off. You’re indisputably good-looking.”
“Please. I’m blushing.”
“Don’t be coy. You know you set hearts aflutter and jump-start hormones.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re generous and thoughtful in bed, never taking more than you give in return. In short, all the things I desire in a man.”
He placed his hand over his heart. “It would take much longer for me to enumerate all the qualities that I admire in you.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments. I’ll leave that kind of feminine wiliness to the Davee Pettijohns of the world.”
He chuckled.
“What I am leading to is…” She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’d consider carrying on as we have been until—”
He stopped her with a firm shake of his head. “That wouldn’t be good, or fair, for either of us.”
“There’s no option B?”
“I think a clean break would be best, don’t you?”
She smiled sourly. “It’s a little late to be soliciting my opinion, Hammond. But yes, I suppose if that’s the way you feel, I don’t want you sleeping with me out of pity.”
He gave a full-blown laugh then. “The very last thing you are is an object of pity.”
Placated, she said, “You’ll miss me, you know.”
“Very much.”
Curling the tip of her tongue up to the center of her upper lip, she opened her blouse. It didn’t surprise him that her nipples were tight and dark with arousal. Steffi’s biggest turn-on was an argument. Nothing stimulated her better than a shouting match. Typically their rowdiest sex had followed a confrontation of one sort or another. He realized now that she had guaranteed herself an ultimate win for every dispute. His climax had always been her victory. That, if nothing else, validated his decision.
She flashed him a mischievous grin. “One last time? For old times’ sake? Or are you too high-minded and principled to fuck a woman you’ve just dumped?”
“Not exactly a romantic lead-in, Steffi.”
“So now you want melodrama and romance? What’s got into you, Hammond?”
He was tempted to take her up on her offer, not because he had any desire for her, but because sleeping with her might help blur the clear and sweetly painful memory of last night. To have another woman now might ease the weighty sense of loss.
While still considering it, his telephone rang.
Steffi laughed without humor as she closed her blouse and rebuttoned it. “You lucky bastard. Fortune just continues to smile on you, Hammond. You’ve been saved by the bell.” She turned on her heel and went into the living room to retrieve her things.
Hammond reached for the telephone. “Hello?”
“It’s Monroe.”
Not that County Solicitor Monroe Mason needed to identify himself. He knew only one pitch of voice, and that was booming. The man’s vocal cords seemed to have come equipped with a built-in megaphone. Hammond immediately adjusted the volume on the telephone receiver.
“Hey, Monroe, what gives? I spend one night away from Charleston and all hell breaks loose.”
“So you’ve heard?”
“Steffi told me.”
“I understand she’s already in the thick of it.”
Hammond glanced into the living room, where Steffi was stepping into her shoes and tucking in her blouse. Hammond put his back to the door and lowered his voice. “She seems to think she’s got the case.”
“Do you want her to have it?”
Hammond realized that his shirt was sticking to his torso. When had he begun to sweat? He rubbed his forehead, and discovered that it was damp, too. There was a reason for this uncustomary perspiration: He had met with Lute Pettijohn yesterday afternoon in his suite at the Charles Towne Plaza.
Monroe Mason should know that. Now was the time to tell him.
But why make an issue of it?
It didn’t relate to Pettijohn’s murder. Their meeting had been brief. It had occurred before the estimated time of death. Shortly before, but nevertheless…
He saw no reason to tell Mason about it, any more than he had deemed it necessary to tell Steffi when she broke the startling news of the homicide to him. There was nothing to be gained by informing them of this coincidence, and much to be lost.
Wiping his forehead on his shirtsleeve, he said, “I want the case.”
His mentor chuckled. “Well, you’ve got it, boy.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You had it even before you asked.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Stop sucking up, Hammond. I didn’t make the decision independently. You got the case because the Widow Pettijohn has been calling me every hour on the hour since about ten o’clock last night.”
“What for?”
“She’s requested—make that demanded—that you be the one to put her husband’s killer on trial.”
“I’m grateful for her—”
“Cut the bullshit, Hammond. I can smell it a mile off. Hell, I’m so goddamn old, I think I invented it. Where was I?”
“The widow.”
“Oh, yeah. Lute’s dead, but it appears that Davee’s going to take over where he left off when it comes to throwing weight around. She can make noise in this county. So, to spare our office a lot of grief and bad press, I agreed to assign you to the case.”
This case would impact his career as no other case could. A high-profile murder victim. Media saturation. It had all the elements that cause ambitious prosecutors to salivate. Of course, he would feel better if Mason had assigned it to him without Davee’s intervention, but he wasn’t going to dwell on a minor detail like that. No matter how it had come about, the case was his.
He wanted it, needed it, and he was definitely the man for
the job. He had tried five murder cases before and won convictions in all except one, when the accused had plea-bargained. From the day he had joined the prosecuting side of the law, he had been preparing himself for a case of this magnitude. He had the appetite for it, and he had the know-how to come out the winner. The Lute Pettijohn murder trial was going to catapult his career right where he wanted it to go… the County Solicitor’s Office.
Since he already had the case, the confidence of his superior, and the backing of the widow, he reconsidered telling Mason about his meeting with Pettijohn. He hated to go into a project of this caliber with even the slightest disadvantage. A negligible ambiguity like this could become critically damaging if discovered later rather than sooner.
“Monroe?”
“Don’t thank me, boy. You’re in for a lot of sleepless nights.”
“I welcome the challenge. It’s something else. I…”
“What?”
Following the small hesitation, he said, “Nothing. Nothing, Monroe. I can’t wait to get started.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, then launched into his next point. “You’ll be working with Rory Smilow. Is that gonna be a problem?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“We don’t have to swap spit. All I want is a guarantee that he’ll cooperate with our office.”
“He drew first blood.”
“What does that mean?”
“I got a call from Chief Crane this afternoon. Smilow lobbied for Steffi Mundell to prosecute the case. But I told Crane about the widow’s preference.”
“And?”
He chuckled. Monroe Mason thrived on politics more than he did the law. Hammond disliked the necessary politics associated with working for the county government, but it was the part of the job that Mason reveled in. “Davee had already given our chief of police an earful, too. She told him she wanted Smilow to find the killer and she wanted you to put him away. So this is how we worked it out.”
Hammond winced as he did when the dentist approached with the anesthetizing shot and told him to expect a slight sting.
“You and Smilow will lay your differences aside until this thing’s over. Got that?”
“We’re both professionals.” He was making no promises where Rory Smilow was concerned, but a cease-fire truce was an easy enough concession. Then Mason added the second condition.
“And I’m putting Steffi in there to act as referee.”
“What?” Trying to hide his anger and keep his voice down, Hammond said, “That’s a shitty deal point, Monroe. I don’t need a monitor.”
“That’s the trade-off, Hammond, take it or leave it.”
Hammond could hear Steffi conversing on her cell phone in the other room. “Have you told her about this arrangement yet?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. You got it straight, boy?”
“I’ve got it straight.”
Even so, Monroe Mason shouted it one more time. “Steffi’s assisting you and acting as a buffer between you and Smilow. Hopefully, she can keep one of you from killing the other before we get Lute’s murderer tried and convicted.”
Chapter 10
Her lungs felt ready to burst. Muscles were on fire. Joints were screaming for her to let up. But rather than slowing down, she increased her pace, running faster than she ever had, running harder than was healthy. She had several hundred calories of carnival food to burn off.
And a guilty conscience to try and outrun.
Sweat dripped into her eyes, causing them to blur and sting. Her breathing was loud and harsh; her mouth was dry. Heartbeats drummed in time to her rapid footfalls. Even when she didn’t think she could go one step farther, she stubbornly pushed on. Surely she had surpassed her previous best speed and level of endurance.
Even so, she could never run away from what she had done last night.
Running was her favorite form of aerobic exercise. She ran several times a week. She frequently participated in fund-raising races. She had helped organize one to raise money for breast cancer research. This evening, however, she wasn’t doing it altruistically, or for the fitness benefits derived from it, or to relieve workday tension.
This evening’s run was self-flagellation.
Of course, it was unreasonable to presume that today’s physical exertion would atone for yesterday’s transgressions. Atonement could only come to one who was genuinely and deeply remorseful. While she regretted that their meeting had been calculated, not capricious; while it hadn’t been the random encounter that he believed it to be; while a twinge of conscience had caused her to try and end it before it culminated in lovemaking, she had no remorse that it had evolved as it had.
Not for one moment did she regret the night she had spent with him.
“On your left.”
Courteously she edged to her right to allow the other runner to go past. Pedestrian traffic on the Battery was heavy this evening. It was a popular promenade, appealing to joggers, in-line skaters, or those out for a leisurely stroll.
This historically significant tip of the peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper rivers converged and emptied into the Atlantic was on every tourist’s agenda when visiting Charleston.
The Battery—comprised of White Point Gardens and the seawall—bore battle scars from wars, woes, and weather, as did all of Charleston. Once the site of public hangings, later a strategic defense post, the Battery’s main function today was to provide scenery and pleasure.
In the park across the street from the seawall, the ancient and proud live oak trees which had defied vicious storms, even Hurricane Hugo, shaded monuments, Confederate cannons, and couples pushing baby strollers.
There had been no break from the oppressive heat and humidity, but at least on the seawall overlooking Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter in the distance, there was a breeze which made it almost balmy for the people who were out to grab the remnants of a beautiful dusk that spelled the end of the weekend.
Slowing to a more prudent pace, she decided it was time to turn back. As she retraced her course, each impact with the pavement drove a splinter of pain up her shins and thighs into her lower back, but at least it was manageable now. Her lungs still labored, but the burning sensation in her muscles abated.
Her conscience, however, continued to prick her.
Thoughts of him and their night together had been launching surprise attacks on her all day. She hadn’t allowed herself to entertain these recollections for long, because doing so seemed somehow to compound the original offense, like an intruder who not only invaded his victim’s property, but also violated his most personal belongings.
But she couldn’t stave off the thoughts any longer. As she wound down her workout, she invited them in and let them linger. She tasted again the food they had shared at the fair, smiled when she remembered his telling a silly joke, imagined his breath in her ear, his fingertips against her skin.
He had been sleeping so soundly, he hadn’t awakened when she slipped from the bed and dressed in the dim room. At the bedroom door she had paused to look back at him. He was lying on his back. One leg had been thrust outside the covers; the sheet caught him at his waist.
He had wonderful hands. They looked strong and manly, but well tended. One had a loose grip on the sheet. The other rested on her pillow. The fingers were curled slightly inward toward his palm and until moments ago had been nestled in her hair.
Watching his chest rise and fall with peaceful breathing, she had struggled with the temptation to wake him and confess everything. Would he have understood? Would he have thanked her for being honest with him? Maybe he would have told her that it didn’t matter, and drawn her back down beside him, and kissed her again. Would he have thought more or less of her for admitting what she had done?
What had he thought when he woke up and found her gone?
No doubt he had panicked at first, thinking that he’d been robbed. Straight out of bed, he had probably checked to
see if his wallet was still on the bureau. Had he fanned out his credit cards like a poker hand to make certain that none were missing? Had he been surprised to find all his cash present and accounted for? Had he then felt tremendous relief?
Following the relief, had he become puzzled by her disappearance? Or angry? Probably angry. He might have taken her sneaking out as an affront.
At the very least she hoped that, having awakened and noticed her gone, he hadn’t simply shrugged, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. That was a sad but distinct possibility which caused her to wonder whether or not he had even thought of her today. Had he replayed the entire evening in his head just as she had, taking it from the instant their eyes had locked across the dance floor until that last time…?
His lips brushed kisses across her face. He whispered, “Why does this feel so good?”
“It’s supposed to feel good, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But not like this. Not this good.”
“It’s…”
“What?” Angling his head back, his eyes probed hers.
“It’s almost better.”
“Being still, you mean?”
She closed her thighs around his hips, hugging him tighter, securing him. “Like this. Just having you…”
“Hmm.” He buried his face in her neck. But after a long moment, he groaned. “I’m sorry. I can’t be still.”
Lifting her hips, she gasped, “Neither can I.”
Suddenly, lest she stumble, she stopped running and bent from the waist, resting her hands on her knees as she sucked in the sultry, insufficient air. She blinked salty sweat out of her eyes and tried to dry them with the back of her hand, only to realize that it was dripping, too.
She must stop thinking about it. Their evening together, while being wildly romantic to her, probably had been nothing out of the ordinary for him, regardless of all the poetic things he had said.
Not that it mattered one way or the other, she reminded herself. It made no difference what he thought of her, or if he thought of her at all. They could never see each other again.
After a time she regained her breath and her heart rate slowed, then she jogged down the steps of the seawall. More than the exhausting run, the certainty of never seeing him again sapped her of energy. She lived only a few blocks from the Battery, but walking those seemed longer than the entire distance she had run.