by J. A. Jance
“What are you staring at?” she demanded, one hand on her hip. “Haven't you ever seen a woman in a robe before?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
I retired to the bathroom to contemplate my dilemma, finally opting for skivvies and no lights. That, of course, presented another problem. No light in a familiar room is one thing, and no light in a city apartment is another. But no light in a strange room where they've never heard of streetlights can be murder on shins, toes, and other unprotected parts of the anatomy. I blundered my way into bed after a bruising game of blindman's buff.
Settling into the roll-away, I discovered the bed frame formed a rigid hump directly under the small of my back. It was a long way from the king-sized comfort I had grown accustomed to. At last I concluded the bed wasn't any worse than some of the rocks I had slept on just for the hell of it during my hunting and camping phase. This at least had a somewhat higher purpose.
I tossed around a few minutes before dozing off. I had just entered that deep, initial alpha sleep when I heard her say, “Beau?”
Adrenaline pumping, I made a dive for the .38 on the floor beside me. The roll-away tipped up on one corner, pitching me headlong onto the floor in a tangle of sheets, pillow, and blankets. Ginger switched on the bedside lamp.
“What happened?”
“I fell out of bed, goddammit! What's wrong? Did you hear something?”
“No, I was wondering if you were awake.”
“I am now,” I grumbled. I didn't want to get up. The light still blazed while I sat on the floor clad in a discreet loincloth of sheet. I glared at her, and she started to giggle.
“It's not funny,” I muttered.
She nodded, covering her mouth with her hand to contain increasing ripples of laughter. “Yes it is,” she gasped at last. “You ought to see yourself.”
I looked down. I had to admit that what I could see was pretty funny. The gun had skidded under the bed. No way was I going to crawl around on hands and knees searching for it. With as much dignity as I could muster, I unraveled my legs. At last, wearing the sheet as a toga, I stood on my feet, surveying the debris that had once been a tidy roll-away bed.
“This is a very large bed,” Ginger said seriously, stifling her mirth. “It's probably more comfortable than that thing, too.” That much was inarguable. I said nothing. “Care to join me?”
“Come on, Ginger. Get serious.”
“I am serious.” All laughter was gone from her mouth and eyes. “There's plenty of room,” she added. “We're consenting adults. We haven't crossed any state lines.”
“But you're the wife of the soon-to-be-elected lieutenant governor.”
“The soon-to-be-former wife of the soon-to-be-elected lieutenant governor,” she corrected with a hint of a smile.
I moved to the far side of the bed and alighted cautiously on the edge of it. I waited for lightning to strike. It didn't.
“Would you like me to call the desk and see if they have any bundling boards?”
I turned on her. “You're making fun of me.”
“I can't help it.”
Tentatively I slid first one leg, then the other under the covers, clutching the sheet firmly in one hand as a security blanket. I settled warily on my pillow before I turned to look at her. She sat propped up in bed observing me with undisguised interest.
The deep neckline of her gown fell away revealing a firm swell of breast.
“Do you think I'm beautiful?” she asked gravely.
I looked up guiltily, convinced she had caught me peeking. “Of course you're beautiful. Very beautiful.”
“Sig used to tell me that. I never knew if I should believe him.”
“My God, Ginger! How could you not believe him?”
“I still see a drunk when I look in the mirror.” It was a comment made without guile. She wasn't fishing for a compliment: she was attempting to understand, to sort out what was real and what wasn't.
Obviously we weren't going right to sleep. I propped my pillow next to hers, examining her carefully, critically in the golden glow of the bedside lamp behind her. I studied the curve of her forehead, the clear green eyes under delicately arched brows, the fine, straight nose, the gentle pout of her lower lip. “You're not the same person now. I think that's what Sig wanted you to realize.”
She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, musing aloud. “I thought if I once quit drinking, that I'd be good enough, that Darrell would finally pay some attention to me. There are a lot of stories like that in A.A., you know, marriages that bounce back from the brink of disaster. But this is a thirty-six-year-old body. I can't compete with tender blossoms from the secretarial pool.”
Silence lengthened between us. Never glib, I could think of nothing to say. But then, I had never before found myself in quite this situation.
“What's the scar on your chest?”
“Huh?” Her question startled me. I looked down as though I had forgotten it was my chest and my scar, the stark white of an incision high-lighted against the rest of my skin. “It's from a bullet,” I said.
“When did it happen?”
“Last spring sometime,” I said carefully. The time, the date, the place are as indelibly inked on my soul as the scar is on my flesh.
“Did you catch him?”
“Who?”
“The man who shot you.”
“It was a woman. She's dead.”
“Oh.”
“Do you mind turning out the lights?” I asked. I didn't want to talk anymore. The conversation was circling too close to my own hurt. It was one thing to help Ginger with hers. Dealing with my own was something else.
The light snapped off. I could feel Ginger settling on her side of the bed. I groped under the bed and located my .38. Once it was within easy reach, I lowered my pillow, resting on it as if it were full of thumbtacks or nails.
“Beau?”
“Yes.”
“Could I just lie next to you? I need an arm around me. Someone to hold me.”
Tentatively, I held up the covers. She slid across the bed and nestled into the crook of my arm. I inhaled the fragrant perfume of her freshly washed hair. I felt the curve of her hip next to mine, the gentle swell of her breast under a layer of covers. For a long time we were quiet. I think I was holding my breath.
“Beau?”
“Yes.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I'm trying to remember which of the Ten Commandments says ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.’”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Covet me?”
Right then I realized the Garden of Eden was a put-up job. “Yes.”
Her hand flitted across my chest, her touch inflaming every strained nerve in my body. She pulled herself up until she lay on my chest, her lips grazing mine.
I was conscious of the tantalizing feel of silk against my skin, the musky odor of a woman's awakening body. She kissed me, cautiously, as though unsure of my response. I wasn't sure either. I waited long enough to be sure lightning still didn't strike, then I pulled her to me, my mouth seeking hers, finding her hungry, willing, eager.
She guided my hand through the cleft in her gown. Her breast was taut and expectant beneath my cupped fingers. I sampled her ear and traced the slender curve of her neck with my teeth and tongue. She gasped, and her body arched as gooseflesh swept across her skin beneath my fingertips.
She slipped from my grasp. I heard her impatiently cast off the silken barrier of gown. My Fruit of the Loom hit the floor as well. Ginger came back to me naked, sleek, and ready. Beyond pleasure, she sought only release.
She slid her body onto mine, moisture finding moisture, need finding need, plunging me deep within her. I grasped her slim waist, raising her, lowering her, hearing her sharp intake of breath each time I probed closer to home, each time I led her to the brink then drew her back, offering and withholding the final gift
.
“Now,” she whispered. “Please.”
When the flood came, it engulfed us both. We surfaced in a quiet pool, spent and out of breath. “That was wonderful,” she whispered.
“I'll bet you say that to all the guys,” I teased.
She was suddenly subdued. “There's only been one other,” she said. “He's never been this good. Ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I drew her into my arms, cradling her head on my shoulder. “Are you going to shut up and go to sleep? It's late. The desk clerk is coming for the goddamn roll-away at eight in the morning.”
“I'll be quiet,” she said. “I promise.”
She snuggled against me. We lay like that for a long time. Her breathing steadied and slowed. I listened as her heart beat next to mine, a thud followed by a smaller echo. Deliberately I tried to slow my breathing, hoping to God I wouldn't snore. Time passed slowly. I stared, sleepless, at the empty space above the bed, wondering how long it takes to learn to sleep double in a double bed, to misquote a familiar song. Probably a long time.
“Beau?”
“What now?”
“I can't do it.”
“Do what?”
“Sleep like this. I don't know how to sleep with anyone but Darrell.”
I pulled her to me, holding her for a moment in a crushing bear hug. I kissed the top of her forehead, then shoved her playfully toward the other side of the bed. “Go sleep over there, then, spoilsport.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. I understand.”
And I did understand. Ginger Watkins had been caught up in the need to know she was still alive—a normal phenomenon in the after-math of death, an instinctive affirmation of survival. If I hadn't been there, she would have found someone else. I just got lucky.
CHAPTER
8
The telephone jarred me awake at seven. “Detective Beaumont? Darrell Watkins is on the phone. He wants to speak to Mrs. Watkins. Should I put him through?”
I felt the unaccustomed warmth of a body snuggled close to mine. It took time to clear my head. I turned, and Ginger stirred, nestling comfortably against me. She had evidently moved there in the middle of the night, our sleeping bodies overcoming our conscious objections. “Sure, that's fine,” I said into the phone.
With a noisy clatter I fumbled the phone back into place. “Ginger. Wake up. You've got a call.”
Her eyes opened and focused on mine with a look of startled dismay. The phone rang again before she could say anything. I handed it to her.
“Hello?” Ginger said, her voice still thick with sleep. “Oh, hello Darrell.” There was a long silence as she listened to what he had to say. Meanwhile, I lay naked under the covers, considering the best way to get to the bathroom while maintaining some degree of modesty.
“No. I haven't changed my mind,” she said firmly. That galvanized me to action. I had no intention of eavesdropping on her domestic conversation. I groped on the floor, found the discarded roll-away sheet, and wrapped it around me. With clean clothes from the closet, I withdrew into the bathroom and took a bracing hot shower.
The water pounded me. Despite lack of sleep, I was invigorated, stimulated. Exhaustion, my constant companion for months, dissolved. I was incredibly happy, except for one small cloud on my horizon. Ginger might be remorseful.
I didn't want guilt or regret to tarnish what had happened between us, even if it was nothing more than the survivor's time honored, near-death screwing syndrome. Maybe that's all it had been for Ginger, but not for me. It had reawakened J.P. Beaumont's lost libido. I was glad to have the old boy back.
Humming under my breath, I emerged from the bathroom. Ginger sat on her side of the bed with her legs tucked under her. She was wearing the lush silk robe.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Do you always sing in the shower?”
“Only when I'm happy,” I told her.
“I see.”
I looked at her, trying to assess the effect of her husband's phone call, hoping for some sign to indicate if she was glad to see me or if she wanted me to drop into a hole someplace. Her face remained inscrutable.
“Is Darrell coming up?” I asked, for want of something better to say.
“He wanted to, but I told him no. He thinks he can talk me into changing my mind. It won't work. I told him I'm staying here the rest of the weekend. I had planned to, anyway. There's no sense in going home just to fight.”
“Will they cancel the workshop?”
She smiled mirthlessly. “Not even Trixie Bowdeen has nerve enough to go through with it after what happened to Sig.”
“Who's she?”
“Chairman of the parole board.”
“You don't like her much, do you.”
“No,” she responded.
With my hair combed and a splash of aftershave on my face, I surveyed the roll-away with an eye to making it look more like someone had slept in it and less as though a heavyweight wrestling match had occurred. I gathered up the sheets and blankets and started to put it to rights.
“Beau?”
Busy with the bed, I didn't look up when she spoke. “What?”
“Do you think badly of me?”
I abandoned the roll-away. “Think badly of you! Are you kidding? Why should I?”
“Because of last night. I didn't mean to… I—”
In two steps I stood beside her. “Look, lady,” I said gruffly, placing my hand on her shoulder and giving her a gentle shake.
“It's the blind leading the blind. I was worried about how you'd feel this morning, afraid you'd be embarrassed, think I'd taken advantage.”
She reached out and took my hand. She kissed the back of it, then turned it over and moved it from her hairline to her chin, guiding my fingers in a slow caress along the curve of her cheek.
“I'm not embarrassed,” she said softly. “Greedy, but not embarrassed.” She allowed my hand to stray down her neck and invade the soft folds of her robe. She was wearing nothing underneath.
Her robe fell open before me. Our coupling the night before had been in pitch-blackness. Now my eyes feasted hungrily on her body. She was no lithe virgin. Hers was the gentle voluptuousness of a grown woman, with a hint of fullness of breast and hip that follows child-bearing. A pale web of stretch marks lingered in mute testimony.
My hand cupped her breast. It changed subtly but perceptibly. The nipple drew erect, the soft flesh taut and warm beneath my fingers. She caught my chin in her hand and turned my face to hers until our lips met. “Please, Beau,” she whispered, her mouth against mine.
I shed my clothes on the spot while she lay naked before me, tempting as a pagan sacrifice offered to me alone. My fingers and tongue searched her body, exploring her, demanding admittance. She gave herself freely, opening before me, denying me nothing. She took all I had to give and more, her body arching to meet my every move. A final frenzy left her trembling against my shoulder, my face buried in her hair.
“It wasn't an accident, was it?” she said, when she could talk.
“What wasn't an accident?”
“Last night.”
“I don't understand.” I was mystified.
“While you showered, I was wondering if last night was an accident or if it could have been that way all along.”
I raised up on one elbow to look at her. Her face was serious, contemplative.
Understanding dawned slowly. No one had ever before made love to her like that. Darrell Watkins had never tapped the wellspring of woman in her—not in eighteen years of marriage. I kissed her tenderly. “That's the way it's supposed to be.”
“The bastard!” she said fiercely. “The first-class bastard! I'll take him to the cleaners.”
I had unwittingly unleashed Hurricane Ginger into the world. “Maybe he doesn't know any better.” I inadvertently defended him, and she gave me a shove that sent me sprawling from the bed onto the floor.
“He's been givi
ng it away to everyone else. By God, it's going to cost him.” Angry tears appeared on her cheeks.
The phone rang on the other side of the bed. I scrambled to reach it. “This is the desk. Can I come get that roll-away now? I'm almost ready to leave.”
I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anytime. The bed's all ready to go.” I spoke casually, all the while motioning frantically to Ginger. She hopped out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“By the way,” I continued, stalling for time, “before you come, would you ask the dining room to have my usual table set for two? We'll be down for breakfast in a few minutes. I don't want to wait in a crush of reporters.”
“No problem,” Fred replied.
I rushed back into my clothes and made the room as presentable as possible. I went so far as to beat an indentation in the pillow on the roll-away. I also did my best to straighten one side of the king-size bed.
Ginger's transformation was speedy. Dressed, brushed, and wearing a subtle cologne, she emerged from the bathroom well before the clerk arrived. She may have worn some makeup other than a dash of pale lipstick, but I couldn't tell for sure. She looked refreshed and beautiful. Smiling, she surveyed my clumsy efforts to conceal our activities. Walking to the far side of the bed, she expertly straightened the bedding.
“Whose reputation are you trying to protect?” she asked.
“All of the above,” I told her.
“I see.”
The desk clerk knocked. We managed to fold up the roll-away contraption and move it out of the room.
“Hungry?” I asked after Fred was gone.
“Famished,” she replied.
“Let's go do it, then,” I told her. We walked through a quiet Rosario morning. The only noise was an occasional squawking gull. No one else from her group seemed to be up, although several of the dining room tables were occupied. The hostess led us directly to my preferred table, one by the window overlooking Rosario Strait.
“Morning, folks,” said the same cheery waiter who had served us the night before. “What can I get you?”