by Arlene James
“Yes, sir. I took it up myself on my break. Nice woman, Mrs. Keller. Gave me a tip.”
Zach chuckled. “Good for her.” The elevator door opened, and he stepped inside. Somewhere between the second floor and the third, it struck him how easily he’d used and accepted those words. My wife. Mrs. Keller. Who was he kidding, trying to tell himself that it was the new apartment he was eager to get home to? The apartment meant nothing without someone with whom to share it, which was why he hadn’t bothered to move before now, but it wasn’t just anyone he was eager to get home to. It was Jillian he wanted to see, even though being with her was like having an ache that he couldn’t quite identify, let alone ease.
The elevator slowed and stopped. He stepped off and walked down the hallway, taking out his keys. Quickly, he let himself into the apartment. The quiet told him that Jillian had retired early. It was only about half past eight, but she’d worked hard all day, and he doubted that she’d rested well the night before. given the way she’d awakened that morning. She deserved a good rest, but he had to fight back disappointment as he walked into the kitchen and flipped on the indirect lighting.
The kitchen was neat and immaculate, the boxes gone, the counter scrubbed. Apparently she’d been busy in the hours he’d been away. He opened the refrigerator, looking for the leftovers he’d counted on for dinner. To his surprise, he found three unopened cardboard containers on the shelf, all full. Why hadn’t she eaten? Puzzled, he walked into the living room, wondering if he ought to knock on the bedroom door. It was then that he saw her. She’d made him a bed on the couch, bottom sheet neatly tucked in, top sheet folded across one arm of the couch, and then she’d apparently lain down to wait for him—and waited still, one hand tucked under her cheek, knees drawn up.
She was wearing her sleep shirt, that long, blousy T-shirt that looked more like a dress than a nightgown. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite long enough. With her legs curled up like that, her neat bottom was left exposed, save for a patch of pale-pink nylon pantie that made his heart race almost painfully. He cleared his throat, hoping that was all it would take to awaken her. She merely sighed and snuggled more deeply into the cushions, her arm settling into the indentation of her waist and drawing the skirt even higher. Zach gulped, his hand trembling as he thought about cupping that sleek, rounded cheek. From there, he could slide his fingers down into the cleft between her thighs and... Blood surged into his groin, and he shook his head, dislodging the dangerous imaginings. Bending, he reached forward and quickly tugged down her shirt, saying her name at the same time. “Jillian.”
She jerked slightly, then rolled backward and opened her eyes, smiling up at him. “You’re home.”
He had to look away from her, remembering all too well how she felt in his arms, her pliant skin warm and silky, her gentle curves so utterly female. “You, um, didn’t eat.”
She sat up, pushing hair out of her eyes. “I was waiting for you.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” he said more brusquely than he’d intended.
“I wanted to.”
“Well then, you must be as hungry as I am.”
She got up and started toward the kitchen. “I’ll get everything ready. You must want to wash up.”
“Right.” Washing up was no more what he wanted at the moment than Chinese food, but those things would just have to do.
He made quick work of the washing up, noticing as he did so that she’d been busy in the bathroom, too. No wonder she was so tired. When he reemerged into the living area, he saw that she had laid out plates and napkins on the bar, while the microwave hummed. The timer dinged as he drew near, and she turned away to transfer the now steaming cardboard containers to the countertop. “You want a fork or chopsticks?” she asked, opening a drawer and taking out each.
“Neither. Give me a soupspoon. I’m too hungry to eat dainty.”
“Spoons it is.” She laid out five, one for each of them and three to serve the steamed rice, cashew shrimp and sweet-and-sour chicken.
“You’ve been busy.” he said, filling his plate while she filled her own.
She shrugged. “I just put the kitchen to rights. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Well, it is your place.”
He dropped the spoon into the carton and looked at her. “As long as you’re here, this is our place. Besides, I don’t know anything about organizing a kitchen.”
“I noticed that when I packed the other one,” she said wryly.
He chuckled. “I didn’t figure it mattered. Wasn’t much to organize.”
“I noticed that, too.”
They carried their plates into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He pulled up his feet and propped one elbow on the arm of the couch, his plate balanced on his palm. “We’ll do some shopping,” he said, “pick up anything you think we need.”
“We can make do as we are,” she said unconcernedly, and began to eat.
He shoveled down the first plate and went back for more. When he returned to the couch, she asked conversationally, “How did your business go?”
“Fine. Kent’s problem was just a dead battery, easily taken care of. As far as the case goes. our bird doesn’t seem to be preparing to fly the coop anytime soon. I don’t think he even knows he’s been found out. Hearing is set for Tuesday, so we’re on short time.”
“Good work.”
“I work with good people.”
She spooned up a small bite of battered chicken in bright orange-piak sauce, chewed and swallowed. “How does that happen exactly—this subcontracting stuff?”
He explained as he ate. “I take bids every quarter from a number of operatives. They submit written figures, how much they expect per hour for what activity, how many hours they’re willing to work overall, when they’re available. I look at how much training and experience they have, check their references, if necessary, and make the best ‘buys’ I can. For that quarter, I agree to call on those subcontractors whose bids I accept. Over the years I’ve learned which operatives I work best with, which I can count on most, but I’m always open to new talent.”
“Sounds complicated,” she said, bending forward to place her empty plate on the floor.
He dug around in his rice, looking for cashews. “Yeah, sometimes it’s more trouble than just hiring on a staff, withholding all the taxes and providing the required benefits, but I keep at it. One of these days, though, I’m going to expand in that direction and settle into running the show rather than covering the street.”
“Wouldn’t that be safer than the way you’re doing it now?”
He nodded. “I suppose so, yeah.”
“But you just can’t give up working the street, can you?” she asked quietly.
He kept his gaze trained on his plate, though his hunger was fully sated now. “It’s not that. Just never had a reason to give it up.” He measured what he was going to say next, aware that his heart was beating harder than normal. “I always thought I’d give it up once I got married.”
“Really married, you mean,” she said almost offhandedly.
Irritation flashed through him, irritation combined with a dark disappointment. He shot up off the couch, his spoon clanking against his plate. “You say that like we’re not really married! How much more really married do you think you can get?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she replied with maddening calm. “I know how big a sacrifice you’ve made.”
“Whose talking about sacrifice?” he exclaimed. “I’m just saying that we are really married.”
“I know, but it’s only temporary.”
He wanted to lash out at her for that, but how could he when she was absolutely right? “Still,” he muttered, “we are really married.”
“I know.”
“Fine.” Bending, he swept up her plate, then carried it to the kitchen with his own. He dumped the contents into the side of the sink with the garbage disposal, rinsed the plates
and put them into the dishwasher, then closed the food containers and stashed the leftovers in the refrigerator. When he returned to the living room, Jillian was sitting in the corner with her legs folded, staring out the window thoughtfully. He sat down and tried for a light, conversational tone.
“So, what else did you do while I was gone?”
She glanced at him, then away again. “I took a bubble bath, a nice, long, relaxing soak.”
He wished he hadn’t asked. Just the thought of her lolling there in the tub, naked and surrounded by hot water and frothy bubbles, tied him in knots. He bounced up off the couch again, saying, “Speaking of baths, I really need a shower.”
“Zach, wait,” she said, unfolding her long legs and coming after him. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to her, surprised to find her so close. She backed up, right into the end of the couch, the rolled arm hitting her at the tops of her thighs. She balanced herself and inched forward again. “I, um, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He shook his head, his hands at his waist. “I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are. The question is, why?”
He prepared to bluff his way through, but did he really want to? He knew what he wanted, and maybe, just maybe, she wanted the same thing. Shouldn’t he at least find out? He took a single step toward her. “I just don’t like the idea that you don’t seem to think of yourself as being really married to me.”
“I think of myself as being really married to you,” she said. “I just don’t want you to think that I expect more of you than you’re willing to give.”
“No?” He stepped closer still.
“I think you’ve gone way above and beyond the call of duty or friendship for me already. In fact, I think you’re my hero.”
“That’s a lot of thinking,” he said softly, and she smiled. “Want to know what I think?”
“Why not.”
He lifted a hand and slid it into her hair at the back of her head. “I think you’re beautiful,” he whispered, bending his head to bring his mouth next to hers, that sweet, pink Cupid’s bow that had yielded so sweetly before. Her eyes were huge, as blue as a morning sky. When she closed them, her lids shuttering down, he felt the exhilaration of triumph, but the instant his mouth met hers, desire obliterated all else. Cupping the back of her head, he slid his lips against hers. Lifting her arms around his neck, she moaned softly, and he filled her with his tongue, tasting and teasing, plunging and retreating to plunge again, over and over, deeper and deeper, until suddenly they were toppling over the arm of the couch, legs tangling, bodies bumping.
“Zach,” she gasped, scrambling backward on her elbows, legs wrapping around him. He followed her, seeking her mouth again, reveling in the feel of her body beneath his, tussling for space on the couch. One hand found the silky fabric of her panties and slid down to cup her bottom, lifting and pressing her against the throbbing hardness in his groin as his booted feet fought the arm of the couch. She grabbed his head with both hands and pulled. At that moment, he got one foot in place and pushed, driving his body against her. He found her mouth and plunged his tongue inside, rocking his hips into the vee of her thighs. She hooked her heels into the backs of his knees and thrust upward. He thought he’d explode.
When she tugged feverishly at his T-shirt, he yanked it off, pulling it up between them and breaking the kiss long enough to get his head free. The arms came next, then he flung the garment over the back of the couch, even as he pressed her down once more, his mouth seizing hers. He moved against her, breath coming in gasps as he kissed her again and again, finally stabbing his tongue inside as she surged upward, grinding against him until the need to be inside her was as much pain as desire. He slid one hand between them, fumbling with his fly. She jerked and clawed at him as his knuckles brushed against her panties. The zipper finally went down, and he raised up onto his knees, reaching for the tiny elastic waistband of her panties. It was then that she suddenly scrambled backward, up into the corner of the couch. He froze.
“What?”
Didn’t she want him? Had he read it all wrong?
Her breasts heaved against the fabric of her gown. “W-we could accidentally make a b-baby!”
A baby. He reeled mentally, trying to fully grasp the reality of the situation. Was she saying she didn’t want him or that she didn’t want a baby? Or was it both?
“We shouldn’t,” she gasped, drawing her legs up. “It isn’t right if we’re only going to be together two months.”
Two months. She was telling him that whatever happened, she wouldn’t be staying longer than the necessary two months. She was his wife for two months only. Zach sat back on his heels, feeling as though she’d opened his chest and ripped his heart out. If only it were that easy! He blinked and slowly shifted his legs out from beneath him so that he sat on the couch. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
“Zach,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing his shoulder.
He jerked away. If she touched him now, he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened next.
“Oh, Zach,” she sighed, moving closer. Suddenly he knew he had to get out of there before he did something he’d regret.
Rising to his feet, he turned away, muttering breathlessly, “I’m going to take a shower—a cold shower.”
“Zach,” she said again, but he didn’t turn back this time, didn’t even pause until he’d closed the bathroom door between them.
He turned on the tap, yanked off his boots and shoved down his jeans and briefs, then stepped out of them. Stripping off his socks, he got into the shower and let the cold water pour over his head and shoulders until it gradually warmed. She wanted him, but not enough to stay, not enough to risk a baby. Now he knew. Now he knew. And now he wished he didn’t.
Sunday was devoted to unpacking boxes and organizing the apartment. Both Jillian and Zach slept late, ate little and spoke only as necessary. The easy camaraderie of the day before was gone, driven out by unsated passion and private hurts. Jillian felt on the verge of tears all day, and it was almost with relief that she greeted the telltale ringing of Zach’s cell phone—until she realized the call had to do with Janzen. She listened with bated breath to the one-sided conversation until Zach hung up the phone.
“What’s happened?”
Zach sighed and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Padgett was watching Eibersen last night. Eibersen got drunk in his motel room and tried to get in his car and drive off but couldn’t get the door unlocked, so he struck out on foot. Apparently he was so drunk that Padgett was worried he’d fall into the street and get hit by a car, so eventually Padgett pulled over and offered him a ride. Eibersen asked to go to Camille’s house, said he had to find out where you are.”
“Dear God,” Jillian whispered. Was Camille still in danger?
Zach went on. “Seems he went to the deli last week and was told you weren’t working there anymore, so he figured to make Camille tell him where he could find you. According to Padgett, Eibersen was babbling about Camille making you pretend you didn’t want him to keep him away from you and how he wouldn’t believe it because the two of you are meant to be together. He kept saying that she had brainwashed you, that he had to show you that you belong with him instead of her hand-picked stooge, meaning me, I suppose.”
Jillian sighed and put a shaking hand to her head. “This would be funny if it wasn’t so frightening.”
“Yeah, like Camille wants us together,” Zach commented wryly.
“Or like you would be anyone’s stooge,” she said. “What did Padgett do?”
The corner of Zach’s mouth lifted in a semismile. “He bought Eibersen a few more drinks. Eibersen finally passed out, and Padgett took him back to the motel and put him to bed.”
Jillian closed her eyes in relief. “That’s good. He didn’t get to Camille then.”
“It’s not that good,” Zach said. “Eibersen knows Padgett now, which means I’ve got t
o find someone else to cover him.”
Jillian bit her lip. “This thing has gotten so complicated. Why can’t he just leave us alone?”
Zach folded his arms, inclining his head. “According to Dr. Shorter, this behavior is usually compulsive. Mix in the alcohol, and you’ve got a person pretty much out of control.”
Jillian lifted worried eyes to unreadable ones. “What’s going to happen, Zach?”
For a long moment he didn’t answer, but then he shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” With that he turned and walked away.
Jillian spent Monday setting up her studio. Zach went into the office as usual, called twice to see if she needed anything and came home late, apparently expecting her to be ready to go to his brother’s for dinner as planned. Jillian had showered and was in a confusing panic, trying to decide what to wear, when he showed up at the bedroom door.
“You aren’t ready?”
She ignored the question on the grounds that the answer was all too obvious. “Zach, thank goodness! Tell me what to wear tonight!”
Eyebrows aloft, he walked over to the bed and looked down at the variety of dresses and dressy slacks laid out there; then, hands on hips, he walked over to the closet and went through her things. In short order he extracted a pair of dark jeans and a little lace top that wrapped and buttoned at the waist. “Something go under this?” he asked, holding up the lace top.
“A kind of camisole,” she said, rushing to a dresser drawer.
“Okay, then. Wear this.” He handed over the jeans and cream-colored top.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“What about shoes?” she asked, running to the closet and grabbing a pair of flats and a pair of sandals, both made of cream leather.
He pointed at the sandals. “Those.”
He sounded so sure of his choices. “Okay, okay. What do you think about a belt?” She grabbed the hanger with all her belts on it out of the closet. He looked them over and picked a skinny gold chain with a pearl drop on one end.
She threw the stuff on the bed and yanked the towel off her wet head. Her hand went to the belt of her bathrobe, as she kicked off her house shoes. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, realizing that he was just standing there grinning at her.