Night Fever

by Diana Palmer

  When he lifted his head again, her eyelids would barely open. She looked up at him dazedly. Her full lips were swollen, her face devoid of expression, her eyes yielding and gentle.

  His hands had fallen to her hips while he was kissing her. He held her gaze and moved her deliberately against him, his dark eyes studying her helpless reaction.

  “Thank your lucky stars that I have a conscience,” he said, his voice huskier than usual, deeper. “Because when it gets this bad, most men will invent an excuse to go the whole damned way.”

  “Do you really think that I could stop you?” she whispered.

  He smiled gently. “You wouldn’t want to,” he corrected. “But afterward…what about afterward, Becky?”

  Her whirling mind clung to that thought, and she realized what he was getting at. Guilt. Shame. Those would come afterward, because her particular code of honor didn’t allow for intimate interludes. To her, sex and marriage and love were intermingled, indivisible. She lowered her eyes and he let her go, if a little reluctantly, and moved away to light a cigar.

  “Did your mother ever have little talks with you about men?” he asked finally, staring out his window toward the streetlights below.

  “I wasn’t dating then, so I guess she didn’t see the need. Granddad said to be good and we got lectures in school about the hazards of promiscuity.” She shrugged. “I learned more from reading romance novels than from anyone in my family. Some of them were very educational,” she added with a faint grin.

  He turned around, chuckling at the expression in her eyes. Pure witchery. He was aching like mad, but she had a positive gift for making him laugh. “But you still don’t want to be modern and liberated?”

  She shook her head. “Not when I’m thinking properly, no.” She traced a pattern on the skirt of her dress. “I don’t know very much about men, or things I’d need to know to be liberated.”

  “Prevention, you mean,” he said quietly, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to create a child any more than you would, Becky,” he said after a minute. “I’m sure you know that a man can prevent it, just as a woman can.”

  She felt hot all over. It was a very intimate thing to talk about, especially with a man. She sat down in the chair in front of his desk. “Nothing is foolproof, they say. And there are…other things.”

  “Diseases.”

  She nodded.

  He chuckled. “You’re as cautious as I am.” His eyebrows lifted at her sharp glance. “You don’t think men concern themselves about it? Think again. I don’t sleep around.”

  She stared at him. She’d assumed that his experience had been gained with a number of women. At his age, he was certainly no virgin.

  “I used to,” he continued, puffing on his cigar as he moved to the edge of his desk and perched himself on it. “But a man gets wiser with age. Sex without emotional involvement is about as satisfying as cake without sugar in it. These days I’m careful, and damned particular.”

  “Maybe I just appeal to you because I’m not experienced,” she ventured, lifting soft, worried eyes to his.

  “Maybe you appeal to me because you’re you,” he replied, his voice deep and measured. He let his eyes slide boldly over her, from her long, honey-brown hair, to her big hazel eyes and soft mouth, down over the thrust of her breasts and her narrow waist. “I think you and I are eventually going to sleep together, Becky,” he said softly. “But whether we do or not, we’re going to be friends. I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve reached the age where I don’t enjoy it anymore. We can hang out together, at least.”

  Her heart sang. “I’d like to hang out with you,” she said, smiling up at him. “But the other…” She frowned worriedly. “I’m a coward. You see, if something happened, if something went wrong. I’m not the kind of person who could have an abortion. I don’t even like to kill bees when they’ve stung me.”

  He caught her hand and pulled her up from the chair, so that she was standing between his thighs, her eyes on an unnerving level with his. “I don’t believe in abortion, either,” he said quietly. “I believe in prevention. Let’s take it one day at a time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He slid his arm around her and drew her close. His mouth found hers easily in a kiss as soft and tender as his other ones had been passionate and fierce. He let her go then, smiling, and moved away.

  “I’d better follow you home,” he said gently. “It’s been a long day for both of us, and we need our rest.”

  “You don’t have to go all the way to the farm,” she began.

  “I said, I’ll follow you home,” he replied.

  She threw up her hands. “No wonder you’re such a good D.A. You never give up.”

  “Count on it,” he replied, without a smile.

  He followed her home, watched from the car as she opened the front door, and then sped off with a wave of his hand.

  Becky went straight to bed. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to be in their own already.

  At breakfast, she announced that Rourke was coming to Sunday dinner. Clay didn’t say a word. He was afraid to, after what she’d already threatened. He just shrugged. He had a date with Francine that night and knew he would have some hard explaining to do to the Harris boys about Kilpatrick. He’d find some way to convince them that it was an advantage. After all, he’d know what the D.A. was up to through Becky. He brightened. Sure he would! The Harrises would love it! He relaxed and began to enjoy his breakfast.

  “Dinner?” Granddad muttered. He sighed heavily. “Well, I guess I can stand it,” he added when he saw Becky’s face. “Just don’t expect sparkling conversation.”

  She smiled at him. “Okay. Thanks, Granddad.”

  “I could show him my electric train set,” Mack murmured. He was proud of the old Lionel O-scale trains. They’d belonged to a friend of Granddad’s, who’d given them to him unexpectedly three Christmases ago. Becky had cried, because she’d never have been able to afford to give them to the boy, who loved trains almost as much as his grandfather did.

  “I’m sure he’d like that, Mack,” Becky replied. “He’s not a bad man,” she told Granddad and Clay. “He’s funny when you get to know him, and in his own way, he cares about people.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Clay said, getting up from the table. “I’m helping Francine’s father work on his car today.”

  “Have fun,” Becky said. “How’s the job?”

  Clay glanced at her, his eyes worried, his face vulnerable. “It’s fine,” he lied. He glanced at Mack and watched the younger boy’s face harden with dislike. He turned away. “See you later.”

  Becky glanced at Mack, puzzled by his expression. “Have you and Clay argued?” she asked him.

  “He wanted me to do something for him and I said no,” Mack said curtly. “Well, he isn’t my boss,” he added defensively. He put down his fork. “Want me to milk for you?” he asked. “I’ve been practicing. I’m really good, Becky—you ask Granddad if I’m not.”

  “He is,” Granddad had to admit. He smiled at the boy. “I’ve been teaching him. Thought it might help you out a bit if he could do that much,” he murmured uncomfortably.

  “It would,” she replied. She got up and kissed Granddad’s cheek. Life was getting sweeter by the day! “Thank you!”

  “Nice to see you looking so pert,” he added, smiling. “You glow.”

  “She sure does,” Mack agreed. He grinned. “It must be love.” He struck a pose, his hands over his heart. “Oh, Romeo!”

  “Get out of here before I throw the rest of the eggs at you,” she muttered. “Shakespeare must be whirling like a top by now!”

  “With jealousy,” Mack called as he grabbed the milking pail and rushed out the back door.

  She shook her head and got up to wash the dishes. Granddad sat in his chair, looking frailer than usual. “Worried?” she asked gently.

  His thin shoulders rose and fell. “About Cl
ay,” he admitted. “He and Mack used to be so close. Now they don’t speak.” He lifted his eyes. “The boy’s into something, Becky. He looks just like your dad used to when he’d done something real bad.”

  “Maybe he’ll decide that he’s in over his head and get out,” she said hopefully, not believing it herself.

  Granddad shook his head. “Not now that he’s got that girl. She’s a bad girl—the sort who’ll use any persuasion to keep a boy in her clutches. You mark my words, Harris put her up to it. There’s no telling what those boys are doing, and Clay’s going to catch the blame for it sooner or later. He can’t see what they’re up to. By the time he does, it may be too late.”

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. He got up slowly from the table. “I’m an old man. I’m glad I don’t have a long time left to live. It’s not a good world anymore, Becky. Too much selfishness and dirt out there for me. I grew up in a gentler time, when people had honor and pride, when a family name meant something. It’s the pressure and pace of life, don’t you see? Back when people worked the land, they depended on God. Now they work for machines and depend on them.” He shrugged. “Machines stop when the power goes off. God doesn’t. But maybe they have to learn that for themselves. I’m going to go lie down for a spell.”

  “Do you feel all right?” she asked hesitantly.

  He stopped in the doorway and smiled back at her. “I’ll do, despite all those pills you and the doctor shove into me. I’m not done for yet.”

  “Good for you,” she said, smiling.

  He nodded and ambled back into his bedroom. Becky did the chores inside and went out to feed the chickens. It was warm now, early spring, and easy on the bare arms. She was in jeans and a tank top, with her hair in a long pigtail, and she felt like a million dollars. Just for today, her problems didn’t exist. And tomorrow, Rourke was coming to dinner!

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, the D.A.’s coming to your house for dinner?” Son demanded furiously when he met Clay and Francine at the garage.

  “He likes my sister,” Clay said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s great! Becky talks about him all the time. He’ll tell her what he’s working on and she’ll tell me.” He glanced at Son to see how this information was taking. “It’s like having our own pipeline into the D.A.’s office.”

  “It hasn’t occurred to you that he might be on to us, and keeping tabs on you through your sister?” Bubba added, his red face even redder than usual.

  “She won’t have anything to tell him,” Clay replied. “Besides, she’s so goofy over him that she’d have let it slip if he suspected us.”

  “Listen, Cullen, you’re lucky we didn’t phone in a tip about you and the D.A.’s car,” Son said, ice-cold. “Your baby brother wouldn’t play ball. If it hadn’t been for that friend of yours who gave us a tip on the elementary school, we could have lost the whole territory!”

  “A kid died because of the crack,” Clay began.

  “So a kid died. He did too much stuff—it happens all the time. Don’t you go bleeding heart on us,” Son scoffed. “If you don’t have the guts to get your fingers dirty, you’re no good to us. And if we decide to turn you out, we’ll do it in style, all the way to your sister’s boyfriend—so good that you’ll never get out of stir.”

  “That’s right,” Bubba added.

  Francine clung to Clay’s arm, tossing her long black hair. “Leave him alone. He’s no fink,” she said.

  “I haven’t told anybody anything,” Clay agreed. “Look, I like having a little money in my pocket and some decent clothes to wear,” he muttered, feeling a little guilty because he knew how hard Becky had worked for him and the others.

  “Then don’t rock the boat,” Son replied. “Hold up your end. There’s a deal going down in a couple of weeks. We’ll expect you to help get the stuff to the local dealers.”

  “Sure. I’ll do my part,” Clay agreed. He smiled, but it wasn’t easy. He’d discovered that it was a lot easier to get into lawbreaking than it was to get out. He’d closed all the doors behind him now. He slid an arm around Francine and walked her back to the car.

  “It’s okay,” she told him gently when he opened the door for her, but she looked worried. “They won’t tell on you.”

  “Won’t they?” he asked. He drew in a heavy breath. “My God, if they turn me in for wiring Kilpatrick’s car, Becky will never forgive me. She’ll never believe I didn’t do it. I didn’t, Francine—you know I didn’t!”

  She glanced over her shoulder at her cousins. In the beginning, she had wanted to help them out. Now she saw Clay for another reason entirely. He treated her like a lady; he bought her things. Nobody had ever been that kind to her before.

  “Listen, I’ll help. Somehow, I’ll help. But Clay, don’t do anything stupid, you know?” Her dark eyes pleaded with him. “Don’t go off the deep end and tell your sister anything. If they even suspected, they’d both point a finger at you and send you up for life.”

  “They’d send themselves up, too,” he argued.

  “No. They’d be out in no time. They’ve got the money to buy people, Clay. Don’t you understand what this is all about? They can buy policemen, city councilmen, judges—there’s nobody they can’t get to! But you don’t have that kind of pull. You’d do the time. Please, Clay, keep your nose clean!”

  He smiled at her. “Worried about me?”

  “Yes, you idiot,” she said furiously. “God knows why, but I love you!” She kissed him fiercely, got in the car, and drove off before he had time to react.

  Clay was over the moon. He walked back to the garage to talk to Son, but heard only half of what Son said to him about setting up the buy.

  Clay went home in a daze. He hadn’t touched drugs in quite a while now, except as a middleman. He didn’t need them since Francine had come along.

  Clay arrived to find Mack working on his trains. He stepped into the bedroom to watch, but Mack just ignored him. “Look, can’t you forgive me?” he asked the younger boy.

  “You and your sleazy friends killed a buddy of mine,” Mack said, glaring at him.

  “It wasn’t me,” Clay muttered, glancing toward the open door to make sure nobody was near enough to hear him. “Listen, I’ve got myself in a hell of a fix. I let them talk me into making a buy, and now they’re threatening to put me in jail for good. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I got a lot of money.”

  “Money won’t bring my friend back,” Mack said coldly. “And if Becky knew what you were doing, she’d throw you out of the house.”

  “She probably ought to,” Clay said wearily. He felt old. One mistake, and it had led to so many that he didn’t know when it would ever stop. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Mack, I didn’t sell any crack at your school. You’ve got to believe that. I’m bad, but I’m not that bad.”

  Mack picked up his locomotive and fiddled with it. He felt sick. “You’re a pusher. I don’t want you in my room.”

  Clay started to speak, gave up, and left as quietly as he’d come. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so alone or so ashamed of himself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Becky was all thumbs as she prepared Sunday dinner. She was just home from church, still in the gray jersey dress she’d worn to services, her hose-clad feet in faded blue mules while she puttered around the kitchen trying to put together a meal.

  She’d suspected Kilpatrick would be early, and he was. When she heard his car she ran to let him in, ignoring the gravy bubbling on the stove. But Mack had beat her to the door and was being, of all things, polite.

  “She’s in the kitchen, Mr. Kilpatrick,” Mack began.

  “No, she’s right here,” Becky returned, flustered. She smiled at Rourke, approving of the way he looked in tan slacks, a yellow knit shirt, and a trendy tan plaid sports coat.

  “Go back and watch your dinner, girl. Mack and I will entertain Mr. Kilpatrick,” Granddad yelled from his seat, but the look in his eyes said a
lot more, not much of it complimentary.

  “You could come in the kitchen with me,” Becky said weakly.

  “Nonsense. You’ll burn the gravy,” Granddad scoffed. “Sit down, Mr. Kilpatrick. It’s not what you’re used to, but you won’t fall through the chairs just yet.”

  Kilpatrick stared at the old man with pursed lips. “You don’t pull your punches. Good. Neither do I. Are you allowed to smoke, or does the doctor think a cigar will kill you?”

  Granddad looked taken aback. Becky disappeared back into the kitchen. Silly me, she thought, worrying about Rourke being savaged by Granddad.

  She got the meal together as quickly as possible. Raised voices drifted over from the living room briefly, then there was silence, then muffled conversation. When she poked her head around the door to call them to come to the table, Granddad looked out of humor and Rourke was smoking his cigar quietly and smiling.

  No need to ask who’d come out on top, she told herself. She put everything on the table and had Granddad say grace. Clay was nowhere in sight. He’d probably decided that the D.A. was more than he could swallow along with lunch. It was just as well, too, because it was hard enough with Granddad.

  They ate in silence, mostly, except for a few kind words from Rourke about the food. Afterward, Granddad excused himself and shut himself in his room. So much for his promise not to make waves, Becky thought miserably. Mack went out to feed the chickens, leaving her and Rourke alone in the kitchen while she washed dishes.

  She bent her head over the sink, her long hair half obscuring her face. “I’m sorry,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I thought they were going to behave. I guess it was too much to ask.”

  “They’re afraid of losing you,” he said perceptively, glancing down at her while he dried the plates and utensils she’d washed and rinsed. “I don’t suppose you can blame them. They’re used to having you around to do the work.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes more eloquent than she knew. “Even housekeepers get days off,” she replied.

  He reached down and kissed her gently. “You’re a lot more than a housekeeper. They don’t want you to fall into the clutches of a man with nothing more than sex on his mind.”