What's in a Name?

by Terry Odell

  He pulled away and stared at the ceiling. “I was thinking of you.”

  “I hoped so. It was … quite a turn-on.” She took his hand and placed it over her breast. “And for the record, you don’t owe me anything. She tickled his ribs. “I guess it’s a power trip—that I can do that to you.”

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea how powerful you are.” He took her hand and showed her.

  Afterward, when he could string two words together, he caressed her. “Stay with me a while.”

  She murmured something unintelligible and curled into him.

  Blake ignored his rising hunger as he lay in bed. He savored the warmth of Kelli’s body entwined with his. Throughout the afternoon, Kelli had dozed, but he’d been afraid if he slept she wouldn’t be there when he awoke. There wasn’t a single spot on her body he hadn’t studied. Fingers, lips, tongue—he wanted to memorize her every atom. He shifted and she rolled away, coming to rest on her back alongside him. He let his gaze linger once more on her face, bathed in the final remnants of daylight, relaxed in sleep.

  He thought he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen her relaxed. His eyes burned as he tried to file away the memories. During their lovemaking, much as he wanted to remember every sensation, passion made conscious thought impossible.

  Her hunger had taken him places he had never imagined. She’d been insatiable, as if she, too, needed to fill her senses with him. With them. Because it hadn’t been two entities in this bed. There had been no boundaries—no place where Kelli stopped and Blake started.

  Her eyes opened and she smiled. Her forefinger traced the stubble along his jaw, then stopped at his mouth. “Hi.”

  His throat constricted and he couldn’t speak. Besides, what was there to say? He kissed that finger, suckled it, explored it with his tongue.

  She slid her finger from his mouth to his chest, let it toy with a nipple. “I think I owe you now.”

  For a fleeting moment, he wished he could hold her to that—make her stay. Some kind of orgasmic balance sheet. “I don’t keep score.” But he’d brought her to peak at least three times after the shower. And he’d lost count after that.

  She’d said her period was due any day, that she was safe. He wondered if he cared, what it would be like to have his child with her. Would he ever be able to go back to the kind of relationship-free sex he was used to? Did he even want to? And then her fingers moved lower and he was beyond thought again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kelli caught the readout on the bedside clock when she opened her eyes. Seven p.m. Blake was staring at her, like he’d been every time she’d awakened. She couldn’t remember ever being this needy. Knowing this was her last time with Blake, she’d tried to saturate her system with him—his touch, his scent, his taste—the way his long hair felt like butterflies when he moved his kisses down her body. The way his eyes glazed right before he came. The sounds he murmured into her ear. As if she could store the way she felt when she was with him in some internal reservoir, to call on in times of drought. She kissed his neck, right below his ear.

  He propped himself up on an elbow. “Sweetheart, I’m absolutely, totally, one hundred and ten percent drained. I’m not sure I’ll ever get hard again.”

  “I’d be happy to dispute that with you, but not now. I’m kind of depleted myself.” She trailed her fingers along his jaw. “I’ve got beard burn in places I didn’t know I had places.”

  “Sorry.”

  She lowered her gaze from his eyes, bracing herself for the way he’d respond to her next statement. “I should check my email. I had a hunch and put Justin Stockbridge on it.”

  The little muscle in his jaw clenched and she knew he was trying not to show his displeasure. Hell, he was probably raging mad. She sat on the edge of the bed so she didn’t have to look at him anymore.

  Blake flung the covers away, stormed around the bed and stood over her, his hands quivering on her shoulders. “Look at me.”

  There was no anger in his tone. Only hurt. When she finally met his gaze, she saw the pain and something twisted in her chest.

  His lips pinched into a flat line and he took several deep breaths before he spoke. “You said this would be over in the morning. Even if I think you’re wrong, that we have more between us than great sex, if you say you have to leave, I’ll accept it. But I want every minute between now and you getting on that damn plane.” His voice shook and she saw him gathering control. “I want to know there’s nothing in that computer that can’t wait until morning. I want to go to sleep beside you and know you’ll be there whenever I wake up.”

  He was right. Even if Justin’s email provided the key to her puzzle there would be nothing she could do with the information tonight.

  She touched his cheek. “I’ll bet you’re starved. I can reheat the leftover chicken while you shave.”

  Kelli awoke before dawn, cradled in Blake’s arms. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words after last night’s dinner, escaping to a fantasy world where only the two of them existed and neither wanted to speak and break the spell. They’d made love once more, then spent the night being close. She rolled away and lay on her back.

  Blake’s grip on her tightened, but he barely stirred. She wondered how much he’d actually slept. She’d kept her promise, not even leaving his side to turn off the computers.

  “Wake up.” She pulled away and turned on the bedside lamp.

  A muffled grunt, followed by a yawn. “What are you doing?” He rubbed his eyes.

  “I have things to do and a plane to catch. And I promised to be here when you woke up.”

  “Then I’m going back to sleep.”

  She’d steeled herself for this moment. “Blake. Please. It’s tomorrow. Time to get back to reality.” She averted her eyes.

  “Pumpkin time, Cinderella?” Despite his obvious attempt to keep things light, she heard the dull resignation in his tone. So, he’d finally realized what they had wasn’t something to base a lifetime on. Their worlds had touched, but they would never interlock.

  She crawled out of bed and stripped the blanket and top sheet off. She was working the bottom sheet out from under Blake when he threw his hands up in surrender.

  “I’m up. I’m up.” He climbed into a pair of drawstring flannel pants, bundled the sheets and started for the door. “I’ll get these into the washing machine. Why don’t you go play with your computer and I’ll make coffee. And maybe I can handle toasting a bagel, too.”

  “Thanks.” She found a discarded t-shirt of Blake’s on the floor and wriggled into it, savoring his scent as she made her way down the hall to the office. Clean breaks healed best.

  She leafed through the phone book and found a listing for an airport shuttle service. After arranging a pickup time, she hung up, fighting the feeling she’d betrayed Blake. He’d be mad, but she didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of that drive, sitting in the confines of the truck’s cab with him. She could already hear the stumbling attempts at conversation, then the awkward, painful goodbyes once they got there.

  She saw the green arrow on her email icon and clicked open her inbox. Bless you, Justin. She downloaded the attachment and sent it to the printer.

  Scrolling through the documents on the screen while she waited for them to print, she saw bright yellow highlights. She looked back at his email message.

  Here you go, K. I took the liberty of cross-checking the lists against each other. Figured you thought they must be connected—if not, no big deal. Only took a few minutes.

  Leave it to Justin to put two and two together and go one step further than she’d asked. A quick glance at the time told her she had about an hour left. She grabbed the pages from the printer, gathered all her files and set off for the dining room, where she could spread everything out.

  * * * * *

  Blake came into the kitchen from the service porch after starting the laundry. He studied the toaster oven, wondering why his brother couldn�
�t have a plain, ordinary, stick-the-bread-in-the-slot-and-press-a-lever toaster instead of this box with dials, buttons, timers and temperature settings. He wanted a toasted bagel, for God’s sake, not a gourmet meal. He adjusted the drawstring on his pants and toyed with the idea of asking Kelli to help, but there was no way in hell a kitchen appliance was going to defeat him.

  When he heard movement in the dining room, he turned his attention away from the toaster oven, poured another mug of coffee—he knew how to handle that one—and stepped to the doorway. He paused to absorb Kelli’s presence, watching her arrange file folders on the table and spread sheets of paper around.

  He carried her coffee to the table, setting it well away from the papers. “Good news?”

  She glanced up, barely looking at him. “I think so. Justin got his teeth into this one. I need to lay it out so I can see what he found.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What?” She looked up, puzzled at the irritation in his tone.

  “For the coffee. The bagels will be a bit longer.”

  “No problem. I can grab something later.” She stopped and he saw her take a breath. “I’m sorry.” She picked up the coffee and inhaled, then took a sip. “Thanks.”

  He crossed behind her, longing to close those final few inches and feel her body against his. “So, what do you have?”

  “Justin was checking out donors to the projects similar to Camp Getaway that Thornton was behind and also to contributors to Hollingsworth’s campaign fund. He cross-referenced them and—”

  “And Thornton gave money to Hollingsworth, or Hollingsworth to Thornton, right?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “But why would Thornton donate money to Hollingsworth’s campaign? He’s running for governor of Illinois. Isn’t Thornton’s operation based out of Denver?”

  She leafed through a few sheets of paper, selected one and pointed. “Here. When Justin gets going, he can be determined.”

  “Sounds like someone else I know,” Blake mumbled.

  Ignoring the comment, she went on. “Thornton is based in Denver, yes. But,” she tapped her finger on the page, “he maintains a residence in Illinois.”

  He sat down, trying to piece it together. “Okay, so you’ve connected Thornton and Dwight. What does that give us?”

  Apparently the use of “us” hadn’t registered. Or if it had, it hadn’t bothered her.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But for one thing, it shows Hollingsworth knew about Camp Getaway, which makes it possible he’d seen my picture in the brochure and hooked it up to the one he saw at Dr. Einsel’s office. He must have connived something with Thornton—got him to recommend you to Stockbridge.”

  Kelli continued to leaf through printouts and Blake went back to battle the toaster oven. He found a dial that said, “light,” “medium,” and “dark,” and gave a triumphant grunt. “Gotcha now.” He put the bagels into the oven and searched for something that said, “on.”

  “Justin, I could kiss you,” he heard Kelli say.

  Biting back the urge to offer himself in Justin’s place, he stepped into the dining room. “What?”

  “Apparently Justin decided to do some deeper searches.” She handed him five sheets of paper.

  He scanned the pages. It was a list of names. A fraternity roster spanning ten years. Both Dwight’s and Thornton’s names were on it. “Okay, they’ve known each other a long time.” He let his eyes peruse the rest of the list. “You see this?”

  Kelli stepped beside him, her scent and body heat almost overwhelming his internal promise to accept the terms she’d laid down yesterday. He swallowed and pointed to a name. “James V. Griffith. You think he’s related to campaign manager Vance?”

  “Could be.” She took the paper from him. “Or maybe the V is for Vance and he uses his middle name. This list doesn’t have the years listed. Just names. Are they that far apart in age?”

  “I’ve never thought about how old Dwight is.” He could see the wheels turning in Kelli’s brain. “You’re going to check that, aren’t you?”

  “Getting their years of graduation shouldn’t be hard.”

  Something dinged in the kitchen and he went to check on the bagels. He pulled them out of the small oven. “Ouch.” He dropped the hot rolls onto the counter and blew on his fingers. He grabbed two paper towels. No point in dirtying dishes if they had to leave soon. He looked for a knife and sensed Kelli standing behind him.

  “You know, most people slice them before they toast them.”

  Without turning, he said, “I guess I have other things on my mind.”

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Kelli rushed from the room and he tore a chunk off his bagel and spread some butter on it. When Kelli came back, her eyes held a look of fiery determination.

  “This can’t be a coincidence.” She held a business card and was looking at the list again. “Paul Little, Edward Franklin, and Oliver Moser. Also members of the same fraternity.”

  “Who are they?” he said around another mouthful of bagel.

  “Partners in Vance Griffith’s law firm. They all go way back.”

  “And this means?”

  She paused. “I’m not sure yet, but it’s got to mean something. Too much of a coincidence not to.”

  He handed Kelli the second bagel and she took it, holding it in her hand and staring at it like it, too, might hold some answers. He washed down his bite of bagel with some coffee. “Is it so farfetched to think a group of fraternity brothers would stick together? Except for Dwight, they seem to have gone into the legal profession. Not unusual for them to keep in touch.”

  Kelli shifted her gaze from the bagel to the papers. “You might be right.”

  He heard a car coming down the drive. “Get dressed,” he said to Kelli. “We’ve got company.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kelli glanced down, only then realizing she was still wearing Blake’s t-shirt and nothing else. Her ride couldn’t be this early, could it? Not likely. From Blake’s reaction, he knew who was here and he wasn’t happy about it. She watched him thrust open the door to the service porch, clearly on an intercept mission.

  She waited until the porch door slammed, then tiptoed to the window. Blake and Brian were engaged in a heated discussion of some sort, arms gesticulating, Brian marching toward the garage with Blake scurrying behind him, barefoot, hip-hopping on the crushed rock driveway. She sighed. Whatever it was, they’d work it out.

  After a quick shower, she dressed and finished packing. She crammed her papers and laptop into her gym bag. The carryon Blake had given her made a clattering sound on the hallway floor. She lingered a moment at the dining room, hoping Blake had come to peace with his father’s memory. Dropping her quick note of apology on the table, she heard a car peel down the driveway—maybe Blake and Brian still had a way to go before they worked things out. The kitchen door slammed and she hustled out the front door to wait by the road for her ride.

  A few moments later, an old Ford Aerostar with Super Shuttle on the side slowed down and she waved it to a stop. The driver clambered out, opened the sliding passenger door and reached for her suitcase.

  “Mornin’, ma’am. I’m Isaac, but folks call me Ike. Let me get that. You get yourself comfortable.” He wheezed when he spoke and looked like he might have founded the shuttle service with a horse and buggy. Rail-thin, with rheumy blue eyes behind black-rimmed eyeglasses, his white button-down shirt had a frayed collar. A chauffeur’s cap balanced a little too far back on his head and she wondered if it would fall off if he moved too quickly.

  “No problem. I’ve got it.” She slung her computer bag onto the seat and lifted her carryon, afraid Ike might collapse under the weight of the small case. She heard her name being shouted from the house. She flashed a smile. “I’m kind of in a hurry. Can we get going, please?”

  He tapped his fingers to the visor of his cap, slammed her door and got behind the wheel. “You betcha. N
obody’s ever missed a plane with Ike.” He gunned the engine and she was thrust against the seat as he drove off.

  She braved a look back and saw Blake, wet from a shower and wearing nothing but a towel around his hips, her note in his hand, rushing out the front door onto the porch. For a moment, it looked like he was going to race down the driveway, but he grabbed one of the wooden porch columns and halted. She turned away before she could see the expression on his face.

  Ike hunched over the steering wheel as they barreled down the highway to the airport in Champaign. “Guess you know the Windsors, then.”

  “Not really.” Only well enough for one of them to run out of the house almost naked.

  “Too bad about the garage. Reckon they’ll get it fixed, though. That Brian’s not around much anymore, but he’s good with his hands.”

  So’s his brother. Stop. Think about work.

  Ike went on, ignoring her silence. “Made good with his daddy’s business. Don’t see the other one much. Moved to the big city.”

  Great. Did Ike think she was there with Brian? Nothing like a little mistaken identity to set the gossip mill grinding. “Actually, Blake is staying at the house for a while. I was … working on a project with him.”

  She saw his head tilt up, probably checking her out in the mirror. She unzipped her computer tote and pulled out a file folder, leafing through pages, trying to look engrossed in something terribly important while the words swam on the page. Ike had the courtesy to stop making conversation and the rest of the drive passed in relative silence.

  “Here you go, ma’am,” Ike said when he stopped the Aerostar at the Champaign terminal curb. “Have a safe flight. According to my elbow, it might storm.”

  She looked at the clear blue sky and raised an eyebrow. “Hope not. I’ve got tight connections.”

  He handed her a card. “If you’re back this way, you call Ike. Give me a day’s notice and I’ll meet your flight.”