After the third time he tried unsuccessfully to slow someone down long enough to ask about the key, his ma came in through the back door dangling it from her finger. “I made it all nice and clean for you. Some nice roses from this morning’s arrangements.”
Tim hugged her, making sure to secure the key first. “You’re the best, Mama. The very best.”
“I am. You remember that always, sí? I like the girl who you leave outside waiting. She’s very nice.”
Tim could only nod. Lola was very nice. And that Ma liked her was about the best thing that could happen. She had a great sense about people. More than one girlfriend had not passed the kitchen test. And he’d learned the hard way that no matter what he and his hormones were convinced of, if Ma simply shook her head, the truth would turn out that the girl wasn’t worth the trouble. He was often accused during breakups of being a “mama’s boy.” He wasn’t. She just kept being right.
And she liked Lola. Made his heart hurt a bit, got caught in his throat somehow.
His mother turned him toward the door and slapped his butt to send him on his way, exactly as she’d been doing since he was able to walk on his own.
Half out the door, he remembered. “Ma, can we have a table for six of us?”
“Sure”—she waved him out—“next week.”
Their game continued. He’d always done this to her. Before the Army, his lousy sense of procrastination had made most planning short notice. After the Army had cured him of that, the very nature of his visits had caused the same situation. He couldn’t help smiling.
“No, tonight. Seven o’clock.”
Fists on hips, jaw grim, she faced him. “You idiot. We are booked solid for three weeks. No stupid table for no stupid son who doesn’t even call to say he’s coming home. You want a table? You eat right here.”
She thumped a palm on the big family table, presently covered under tubs of iced fish now broken down into fillets and cutlets.
He considered for a moment. Some battles were better not to fight. Besides, he’d rather eat here than out front. He just hoped the others felt that way. He shrugged.
“Perfect, Ma. You’re the best. Though some flowers would be nice.”
“Flowers?” She glared at him, but it didn’t quite work.
He waited half in and half out of the kitchen door. Finally she turned away, but not in time to hide her smile.
“Seven,” she called out loudly enough to be heard over the busy kitchen. “You and your friends be on time.”
Tim slipped out to the woman he’d kept waiting far longer than intended.
Chapter 38
His mother had done more than put out a few flowers in the apartment above the kitchen. She’d placed little vases in a half-dozen places. Folded back the sheets on the bed. Slid the gauze curtains into place so that there was light as well as privacy. In the bathroom, fresh towels and a new bar of soap—and more roses.
“I think my ma likes you.” He turned to Lola, who hadn’t moved from the center of the little living room.
“It’s not much. We don’t use it very often.” It had a living room big enough for a couch, chair, television, and a bookcase of cookbooks and trashy novels. Two bedrooms, neither big enough for more than a queen-size bed and a dresser. No real kitchen, but with the restaurant downstairs, just a couple burners and a mini-fridge were plenty. He pulled the fridge door open to see fresh juice and a bottle of bubbly. He looked down at the floor that separated them from his ma’s kitchen and sent a thank-you.
He slipped up behind Lola and did what he’d been dying to do all day. He slid his hands around her waist and across her belly, slowly pulling her back against him until she filled his arms.
He could feel her loosening up. Whatever was bothering her, she started to let go. She laid her head back against his shoulder, and he slid a hand up to rest between her breasts, over her heart.
“I—” Her voice sounded strained.
“Shh.” He made it soft in her ear. “It’s just me. Just us.”
“Oh.” She laughed a little, a ripple where her back lay against his chest. “Like that isn’t scaring the shit out of me.”
Tim puzzled over that, letting his hand that wasn’t over her heart rub back and forth across her belly, like soothing a child with an upset stomach.
“I’m scaring you?”
“No. Yes. We—” Again she stopped. Then she reached up and back, sliding a hand behind his head. She turned her head enough and pulled him into a kiss. A long, slow lingerer of a kiss.
With her other hand, she took his hand from her heart and set it over her breast. Even through the sports bra he could feel her growing arousal.
As she continued to kiss him, not releasing her hold on him, he slowly explored the front of her body. Her hands sometimes just rode along on his arms, other times guiding him with the slightest pressure, first over her shorts, then under. Her long fingers riding smooth over the backs of his own.
She arched back against him, pressing his hands harder against her, breast and loins. She broke the kiss to simply lay her head back against his shoulder as Tim explored, massaged, reached.
He nuzzled her neck as his fingers entered her. She drove her hips back against him and used her own hand to increase the pressure he applied.
For a moment he opened his eyes and caught sight of her. The full-length hall mirror faced them, showed her front on.
He could see her writhe as he moved against her.
“You are so damned beautiful. I can’t even think around you.” He knew his voice was rough, as if the words were all he could throw forth.
Apparently past speech, she drove against his hands and he wrapped her tight in his arms as her body convulsed.
He’d never seen a woman come. Not like this. Beneath or atop him, yes. But never fully exposed like this. His hands moved as if they belonged to someone else, his arms and face the only part of him that showed in the reflection.
The rest was Lola, her head thrown back against him. One leg raised, the ankle hooked behind his knee to open herself further to his explorations.
Even as he watched, she reached her arms up behind his neck, clasped them together and held on as her body bucked.
A low, primal sound started where his hand disappeared inside her waistband and echoed upward. Not finding release, he could feel it roll up her body where it lay against his, past diaphragm and chest until at last it poured from her throat. The sound of a woman in pure rapture.
***
A sound Lola didn’t recognize ripped through her, shattering something deep inside. The sound of Lola LaRue coming alive. Her body bucking to a familiar and soothing rhythm, her heart doing something else entirely.
Slowly returning to herself, she managed to open one eye. One that was quickly followed by the other.
A mirror.
A mirror reflecting her well-ravaged self, limp with pleasure, held in place by a man’s strong arms.
He’d rested his head on her shoulder and was swaying her gently back and forth. Tim was a damned genius at making her feel totally incredible. She hadn’t felt this good since, well, just since. He’d known exactly what to do for her. Exactly.
She tried to identify the other feeling. The change. What was different, but it eluded her hazy consideration. She had tried using sex to bury the fear of how much she liked Tim, of how easily she could see herself living in a small, cozy yet elegant apartment like this one with him. A world of a perfect mixture of fine glass and cozy furniture, a hideaway nest that welcomed and protected. Lola had kissed him until she could forget. It had worked and it hadn’t. She’d forgotten the fear, but with Tim the sex was never just sex. It was something more. Something different.
As she became more and more aware of her body, she finally became aware of his body and how its need still pressed against he
r. That she knew how to solve.
The other feeling was unfamiliar, of being so exposed in the beveled-glass oval mirror yet so at ease. That was less certain.
Lola shoved her shorts the rest of the way off her hips, retrieving the foil packet she’d stuffed there before letting them slip to her ankles.
At ease in a man’s arms, that was new. Enjoying herself, sure. But at ease?
When he made to move his hands, she clamped them back on her. She liked how she looked in Tim’s embrace, one arm wrapped around to hold her opposite breast, one still between her legs, still reaching inside her. Holding her.
Sex was about fun. Or release. Or usually power.
She leaned forward against his grasp to open a little airspace between them, her languid body reawakening already against the slow-dance massage of his hands. She pulled his running shorts down, though they caught before she could finally get him free. With her hands slipped between their bodies, she managed to sheath him.
Sex with Tim was about something else.
He didn’t look down, he just watched her in the mirror. Watched her watch him.
Tim was about safety.
When he was ready, she moved his hand from her breast to her hips, then slowly bent forward. Bent until she could reach out to the side and hold on to the rose-patterned couch accented by the dozen bouquets scattered about the room in contrasting vases.
She’d never felt safety as a part of sex.
Still their reflections retained eye contact. She wanted to close her eyes as he slipped into her from behind, filled her like no one ever had, as he still cupped her in front. But she didn’t.
With Tim, she felt absolutely safe.
She kept her eyes open, her head tilted just enough to see his reflection as he took her with those strong arms and powerful legs. He drove into her, his eyes slipping helplessly closed, yet Lola remained transfixed by the image they made.
Safe was not a feeling she knew anywhere.
She kept her eyes open as they both peaked and flew.
Safe was a feeling she wouldn’t mind having more of. A lot more of.
She watched a woman in the mirror who she didn’t recognize. One whose body was flying upward, yet at the same moment was falling, tumbling out of the sky, right toward this man.
Right toward Tim Maloney.
Chapter 39
They made it down to dinner by seven, perhaps with a little less time to spare than Tim would have preferred, but they made it.
He’d lost some time, and his brain had lost any access to his blood supply, when Lola stepped out of the bathroom. With her hair brushed back into a flowing mane, that lopsided smile solidly in place, and a clingy, mostly backless red dress custom-made for Lola’s sleek shape that spoke of elegance and roared of sex, she took his breath away.
He’d told her to dress nice even though they’d be back in the kitchen. He knew the others would as well.
They were the first downstairs, but the Secret Service detail was well ahead of them. They’d discreetly staked out the kitchen.
When Tim and Lola entered, his mama came over clutching a big soup ladle that she’d been about to use. She gave the much taller woman a big hug. Lola looked startled but quickly leaned down and returned the gesture. A bemused smile on her face.
“You look beautiful, my dear girl. Far better than my lump-head of a son deserves.” She now wielded the soup ladle close enough to his nose that he backed away into one of the Secret Service agents who had the indecency to prop him up and then nudge him forward, back into the fray.
“‘Oh, some friends they coming for dinner, Mama.’ You, boy, if the lady you’re so trying to impress were not here, you would get such a smack. I should have known better. All these years, I think I should know your games.”
Tim ducked inside the arc of the swinging ladle and scooped her into his arms. “You should know me that well. I love you too, Mama,” he whispered into her ear and was rewarded with a tight and hard hug.
When he let her go, she looked flushed with pleasure, though doing her best to hide it with a frown.
“Go, sit. Stay out of my way or I hit you but good.” She wielded her ladle again and then nearly danced her way back to the soup tureen.
Tim turned for the table and wished he’d found a way to tell her just how much he loved her. She’d not set the table as if just for his friends. She’d made it beautiful, but not like the front of house. Rather than each place setting being laid with the perfection of a three-star restaurant, it was perfectly casual. Perfectly.
The centerpiece included flowers and some vegetables scattered as if the table was still being used for food prep and sorting. The tableware was the family’s stoneware, not the fine-colored glass that was served out front. Napkins were varicolored accents tossed beside the plate as if hurriedly dropped, but he’d been trained by his parents and knew how much work it took to create that casual appeal.
Lola was eyeing the several agents in black suits intently.
When Tim came up beside her, she reached out and hooked her fingers under the edge of his pectoral muscle near his underarm. It took a moment to figure out what was happening, but he was too late to react by the time he did.
Lola dug her fingertips into the brachial plexus nerve cluster and clenched her hand into a fist, vising it against the edge of his pecs with a shockingly strong grip. Pain rocketed across his chest, so sharp he didn’t dare move, actually stopped breathing because even the slightest motion hurt like hell.
Lola leaned in until their noses were less than an inch apart, and for the first time Tim didn’t feel the least bit romantic about their proximity. By the look on her face, what he could see of it through his pain-squinted eyes, his death might be imminent and he was powerless to stop her.
“Who the hell is coming to dinner?” A feral growl from the queen of the pride, the alpha lioness about to rip out his jugular with her clenched teeth.
He’d have answered if he could, truly. He was feeling a bit light-headed, suffering from the anoxia of holding his breath too long, as if they’d flown above 15,000 feet without oxygen masks.
He heard the kitchen door swing open behind him and Major Beale call out, “You’ll never guess who we found lurking in your alley, Mrs. Maloney. You really need a better level of security.”
Lola turned enough to glance over Tim’s shoulder.
He didn’t dare turn and his vision was tunneling slightly. He’d have to breathe soon or pass out, but he wasn’t looking forward to the agony the motion would cause.
Her expression eased briefly, but then her fist clenched impossibly harder.
He squeaked. He heard the sound escape his own throat. He could do nothing about it.
She looked at him, bewildered for a moment, and then released her hold as if shocked that she’d done such a thing.
Blood roared back into the nerve cluster Lola had grabbed, the pain spiked, and his knees folded until he sat abruptly on the hard floor.
***
Emily looked at Lola, then cast a quick, surprised glance at Tim on the parquet floor. Lola could do nothing about it, she was too busy gawking at the man hugging Tim’s mother.
Her body snapped to attention. Even as her mind registered how stupid she must look doing so in a red cocktail dress.
President Peter Matthews wandered over and clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder where he still sat on the floor.
“What are you doing down there, Tim?”
“Breathing, sir.” He clutched his chest with one hand. Maybe she had been a bit rough.
Lola was trying to hold strict attention, but she could feel her eyes turning to watch the President’s progress. He was a good-looking man on television and in the magazines. But in real life, while he looked about the same, his magnetism radiated outward. He had a narrow face with a good str
ong chin. Hair that famously flowed free to his collar. Then he aimed his thousand-watt smile at her.
“By how you’re standing, you must be one of Emily’s crew.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” was all she managed.
Emily came up and hooked a hand through Lola’s goosefleshed arm. “At ease, Chief Warrant.”
At the command, Lola’s body automatically stepped her left foot out to shoulder-wide, keeping her right foot in place, hands clasped tightly behind her back, her spine no less stiff. At least Major Beale was also wearing a nice dress, a knee-length of darkest blue, so Lola didn’t feel too exposed by wearing a skimpy cocktail dress.
“Peter, this is Lola LaRue. A damned fine copilot and a nice lady besides”—Emily shook her by the arm as if trying to shake the cyclic loose from her iron grasp— “once she learns to relax a bit. Clearly I don’t need to make introductions in the other direction.”
With Emily’s assistance, Lola managed to drag a hand forward and have it warmly shaken.
A wicked twinkle entered the President’s brown eyes as he glanced down at Tim still on the floor. “Didn’t warn you I was invited?”
“No, sir, Mr. President.”
“Bet he won’t be making that mistake again.”
She couldn’t stop returning the smile. “I’d bet not, sir.”
A beautiful man talking on a cell phone came up behind the President. The White House Chief of Staff Daniel Drake Darlington III was almost as popular with the newsies and even more photogenic than his boss. Mr. Darlington was the sort of man to adorn the poster-covered walls of teenage girls.
Lola had read about him. He looked like a studly California surfer but was actually an intellectual Kentucky farmer. He’d rocketed upward to become the most powerful non-elected person in government. Yet even the most vitriolic D.C. gossip mills seemed to agree that he was doing a magnificent job.
Introductions complete, she managed to unlock her knees, and they all drifted to the table. Tim recovered his feet with some assistance from Mark and ended up to her right. She turned to discover the President landing to her left and her heart rate at least doubled, leaving her light-headed and a bit giddy.
Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers) Page 19