Breath of Scandal

by Sandra Brown

  The Newberrys were old residents of an affluent community. Her parents came from large families. Debra had three brothers and two sisters. All but one of her sisters were married, so there was an army of aunts, uncles, and cousins at any family gathering.

  Dillon had been welcomed into the fold by all of them. Initially, he had been aloof. It was a defense mechanism. He was afraid that if he acknowledged their acceptance, he would somehow jinx it, just as he had been afraid to accept Debra’s unqualified love.

  But now, as they lay together in the peaceful aftermath of marital lovemaking, Dillon granted himself the luxury of basking in his good fortune. He had earned the college degree that was going to open doors of opportunity for him. He was part of a large and loving family, which was something he had never had before. His bride was smart and sweet, funny and sexy.

  He clasped handfuls of her hair and lifted her head off his chest, turning her face up to his. “You’d better stop that nibbling.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “I like it so much you might get more than you bargained for.”

  “Impossible.” Smiling, she lowered her lips to his belly and kissed it. “Dillon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Teach me how to, you know, uh, make love to you with my mouth.”

  His eyes, which had been drowsily half-closed, sprang open. Except for the time he had spent in the correctional institution, Dillon had always taken the availability of sex for granted. From the very first time, it had always come to him.

  One morning during summer vacation from junior high school, Dillon had answered the knock on his grandmother’s back door.

  Mrs. Chandler, their next door neighbor, was young and vivacious. She had big eyes, big breasts, and long legs, which she often showed off by wearing short shorts that separated and defined her cleft and bottom. Her husband drove a truck for the Safeway chain and was away from home more often than not. Boredom kept her a frequent visitor of the Burkes.

  “Hi, Dillon. Is your grandma home?”

  She knew damned well that his grandmother wasn’t at home because her car wasn’t in the driveway. Dillon, with thirteen-year-old recalcitrance, was tempted to point that out. But that would have been rude, and his grandmother had taught him some manners. He said, “Granny went to the store.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Chandler distressfully batted her eyelashes. “She told me to stop by and get those coupons she clipped for me. Do you know what she did with them?”

  “They’re on the hall table.”

  “Could I get them now, please? I was just about to go to the store myself when I remembered I didn’t have them.”

  Dillon read through that lie, too. She wasn’t dressed for grocery shopping. She was outfitted for seduction. Out of curiosity, he pushed open the screen door. She bounced in. He made no move toward the hall table.

  Instead, he stood facing Mrs. Chandler. He was already taller than she. She commented on his height as she ran her hands up his bare arms and across his muscled but hairless chest. It wasn’t fully developed, but it was showing tremendous promise.

  “My, my, Dillon. I didn’t realize how big you’re getting.”

  His young body was bursting with male hormones; his head hummed with lust. “So are you. Big, I mean.” His eyes moved down to her breasts. The large, dark areolas were distinct beneath her tight, white cotton blouse.

  In seconds, even that was gone, and Mrs. Chandler was guiding his beardless face to her rosy nipples and poking them against his lips. Granny Burke pulled into the driveway just as the young, faithless wife from next door reached into Dillon’s shorts to explore.

  Two days later, Mrs. Chandler got desperate enough to risk getting caught. She sneaked through the back door while Dillon’s grandmother was taking her afternoon nap. She held her index finger vertically against her pursed lips and signaled him into his bedroom. As they crept down the hall, they heard Granny’s soft snores coming from her open bedroom door.

  As soon as Dillon had shut the door to his room, Mrs. Chandler fell on him like a starving feline. Lacking the finesse that comes only from experience, Dillon was just as ravenous. When he drove into her, she was sticky and hot. He exploded with pleasure. When it was over, her only complaint was that he had come too soon.

  Patting his hand, she said, “We’ll work on that.”

  “How?” he asked, gazing at her with his serious, hazel eyes. “How do we work on it?” he whispered. “What should I have done? Show me.”

  His concern had been so unexpected, his interest so genuine, that she cried. She spent the remainder of the summer coaching him on how to please her and complaining that the “gorilla” she was married to didn’t even know where “it” was or what it was for. “He just screws me until I’m too sore to walk and thinks he’s proved that he’s a terrific lover.”

  Dillon was a diligent student. He learned how to please, how to give what a woman needed and wanted. It was never far from his conscience that Mrs. Chandler was another man’s wife. What they did together was immoral, he knew. He made repeated vows to himself that he would stop. But then she would come to him all excited and eager, and he couldn’t resist her temptation or availability. Besides, he didn’t feel he owed a truck driver any consideration. The driver of the rig that had killed his parents had walked away from the grisly scene unscathed.

  A few days after Labor Day, Mrs. Chandler came to tell his grandmother that her husband was being transferred. “We’re moving to Little Rock next weekend.”

  “Good riddance,” Granny had muttered as she watched Mrs. Chandler pick her way through the rose bush hedge that separated their yards. Dillon had glanced sharply at his granny, wondering if she had known all summer long what was going on each afternoon in his bedroom while she was asleep in hers. They never talked about Mrs. Chandler again.

  But Dillon never forgot her. He supposed men never forgot the first woman of whom they had carnal knowledge. He had used her body as an experimental laboratory, but he didn’t feel guilty for that. She had pursued him and had derived as much satisfaction as he—and sometimes more.

  He applied the lessons he’d learned with Mrs. Chandler to the easy girls at school—most of whom were older than he. Then one of his “stepsisters” in the foster home benefitted from his expertise. She was a heavy girl with foul breath and bad skin who was pathetically grateful for the tenderness he showed her each night. The girls he met on the streets were jaded, and his encounters with them had little emotional impact.

  He was as randy as a billy goat by the time he was released from reform school and entered college. Again, nature was on his side. Both psychologically and physically, he was mature beyond his years. The potential that Mrs. Chandler had spotted in him at thirteen had become realized: he had a tall, strong, lean body, and he was personable and well liked. He had no difficulty making friends with other young men or wooing desirable coeds into his bed.

  The first woman ever to have gone down on him was a whore, contracted by his fraternity as a party favor for the rushees. She had a routine: a wag of her tits; a quick blow job; that’ll be ten bucks, please. There had been other times since then, but most women approached this specialized kind of lovemaking with dutiful resignation, as though it was something expected but unenjoyable. Never before had a woman gazed up at him with longing and love and asked to be taught the technique. He sifted Debra’s hair through his fingers and said softly, “You don’t have to.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “I want to. Are you embarrassed?”

  He laughed shortly, realizing that he was. “A little.”

  “I want to do it right.”

  “There’s no right or wrong way.”

  “But I’ll bet there’s a difference between right and righter.” She inched up his body and laid her lips against his, whispering, “Teach me the righter way.”

  Much later, Dillon gazed down at his bride while she slept peacefully beside him. She was so pretty that it made h
is throat ache with emotion. More than that, she was a beautiful person. Guile, in any of its various forms, was foreign to her.

  He was the only man to have possessed her body, and that was a privilege he didn’t take lightly. She had given him her heart and entrusted her love into his safekeeping. She was relying on him to keep her financially and emotionally secure for the rest of her life. The greatest challenge he would ever face was being all that Debra wanted and needed him to be.

  In a fierce whisper that cut through the darkness of the still room, he told himself, “Don’t fuck up.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Mr. Burke, Pilot wants to see you right away.”

  Giving a mock salute, Dillon acknowledged the message that the passing secretary had called to him from the doorway of the cubicle office that he shared with three other draftsmen. He tossed down his pencil and covered his mouth with his fist. Behind it, he muttered curses while ignoring the covert glances of his co-workers.

  He stood and yanked his jacket off the back of his chair. Without bothering to roll down his shirt sleeves, he shoved his arms into the sleeves of the jacket and strode from the office. It was one of hundreds that comprised the sprawling complex belonging to Pilot Engineering Industries of Tallahassee. The name of the company was misleading, as it had nothing to do with aviation. The construction engineering firm was named after its founder and CEO, Forrest G. Pilot. It was said that Forrest G. was a descendant of the notorious Pontius Pilate and that he had inherited his ancestor’s penchant for crucifixion.

  Today, it seemed, Dillon Burke was to be the one executed.

  “He’ll be with you presently, Mr. Burke. If you’ll please be seated.” Forrest G. Pilot’s secretary nodded toward a chair in the reception area outside the inner sanctum.

  Belligerently, Dillon threw himself into the chair. He was furious with himself for his behavior the day before. Apparently one of Pilot’s spies had reported on Dillon’s vocal criticism. Pilot didn’t like discontent within his ranks. Ideally, his army of drones toiled in their assigned chambers and kept their opinions of his management to themselves. Until yesterday, Dillon had complied with that unwritten policy.

  Initially he had felt lucky to be hired by Pilot Industries, which was well known throughout the Southeast. Neither he nor Debra had minded relocating. It had seemed like an extension of their honeymoon. His starting salary hadn’t been terrific, but Dillon had been confident that he could quickly escalate it. He had reasoned that once his supervisors spotted his potential, they would want to keep him happy at the risk of losing him to a competitor. He had envisioned a meteoric rise straight to the top.

  It hadn’t worked out that way. The company hired dozens of young engineers fresh from college graduation. None was given an opportunity to advance. Dillon wasn’t playing in the big league and he wasn’t making big money. Debra claimed to be blissfully happy, although Dillon knew she must miss the luxuries her father had lavished on her. She deserved better than their cramped, one-bedroom apartment.

  Time seemed to be standing still for him. Daily he grew more impatient. There was so much he wanted to do, and at Pilot Engineering Industries he wasn’t getting to do any of it. He would have quit months earlier if the unemployment rate weren’t so high. Until he had an excellent prospect, he couldn’t afford to lose this job.

  The buzzer on the secretary’s desk sounded. “You can go in now, Mr. Burke,” she said with chilly politeness.

  Dillon adjusted his necktie as he approached the intimidating door. He grasped the brass knob aggressively and pushed it open.

  Pilot set aside the drawing he had been studying and peered at Dillon over the silver frames of his reading glasses, nodding him into a chair on the other side of his desk. Dillon didn’t let Pilot’s stare intimidate him. He waited him out. Finally Pilot said, “I understand you’re unhappy with us, Mr. Burke.”

  If he was going to get canned anyway, he had nothing to lose by being honest. Screw Forrest G. Pilot if he didn’t like what he had to say. Debra, he knew, would be the first to back him up for speaking his mind. “That’s right. I am.”

  “I like for my employees to be happy. It makes for a more congenial workplace.”

  “I didn’t intend to be disruptive. I saw something I didn’t like and expressed my viewpoint, that’s all.”

  Pilot removed his glasses and ruminatively polished the lenses with a linen handkerchief. “Why should it upset you that Mr. Greyson was appointed supervising engineer for that medical-clinic project?”

  “I wasn’t upset. I was pissed off. I had submitted a formal request to my supervisor for that job. He assured me it would get to your desk.”

  “It did.”

  “Oh, I see. You passed over me in favor of Greyson.”

  “Mr. Greyson has been with the company for ten years. You were hired only last year, straight out of Georgia Tech. Your grades and the sample work you submitted when you applied were impressive enough for us to hire you, but you’re still a rookie.” He spread his hands wide. “Mr. Greyson has more experience.”

  “I’ve got more talent.”

  Dillon’s immodest candor took the older man by surprise. He barked a short laugh. “And, it would appear, more balls.”

  “When I was hired,” Dillon continued, “I was promised an opportunity to do some actual work. This medical clinic makes three times I’ve lost an on-site job to men who are no more qualified. Frankly, I feel they were less qualified. Your system of advancement stinks, Mr. Pilot. Hard work and talent should be rewarded, not compressed into those little glass boxes you call offices.”

  “Mr. Burke—”

  “I’m an engineer. I want to build things. When other young boys were drawing cars and jet fighters, I was drawing buildings of the future and trying to figure out how to construct them.”

  Exasperated, he stood up and began pacing. “What I’m doing out there,” he said, flinging his arm toward the door, “I was doing in my freshman engineering class at Tech.”

  “Some men consider a drafting job at Pilot Engineering a real plum.”

  “Sitting at a drafting table all day long, waiting for the five o’clock bell to ring, isn’t my idea of challenging work. Anyway, in a few years computers will be doing the drafting. Draftsmen will become keyboard operators.”

  Pilot leaned back in his chair. “What is your idea of challenging work, Mr. Burke?”

  “Working with the architect, hiring all the subs, overseeing the whole project. I want to be there from the time the first shovel of dirt is turned until the last light bulb is screwed in.”

  “Then I can’t accommodate you.”

  Even though he had been expecting termination, when Dillon actually heard the words, they gave him a start. Jesus, what had he been thinking of to paint himself into such an inescapable corner? What was he going to do? How was he going to support himself and his bride?

  “The first shovel of dirt has already been turned.”

  Dillon blinked Forrest G. Pilot back into focus. “Sir?”

  “In fact, the ironwork was already up before the project was put on hold due to poor management.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Burke.” When Dillon was reseated, he went on, “While you were getting pissed off at me for not assigning you the medical-clinic job, I was considering you for another.”

  Dillon swallowed hard, but prudently kept his mouth shut.

  “Contrary to what you believe,” Pilot said, “your work has not gone unnoticed. Nor have your leadership qualities. I pride myself on having a nose for sniffing out bright, ambitious young talent. As you said, some people are content with regimented work. Others are not. You’re one of the latter.

  “Unfortunately, having ambition and youth and talent isn’t sufficient. To be really successful, one must also develop patience and self-discipline. What I should do is fire you on the spot for your insolence. But I’m not, chiefly because you’re too valuable a talent
to hand over to my competitors. And secondly, because the job I have in mind requires somebody who has the guts to be abrasive when it’s called for.

  “So, I think that now is the time for you to take your foot out of your mouth and tell me whether you’re interested in the project I have in mind for you.”

  Dillon managed to maintain his dignity. “Naturally, I’m very interested.”

  “Before we go any further, I should tell you that there is one major drawback to this job.”

  There would be, Dillon thought dismally. The devil always got his due. Something good was always followed by something equally bad—that was Dillon Burke’s version of Newton’s law. It was the cosmic scorekeeper’s system of checks and balances. However, nothing could be as bad as returning to that glass box and a drafting table. Motion was always preferable to stagnation.

  “I’m willing to tackle just about anything, Mr. Pilot.”

  * * *

  That night Dillon brought home a bouquet of flowers, a loaf of bakery-fresh bread, and a bottle of wine. “What’s the occasion?” Debra gasped breathlessly after he released her from a searing hello kiss.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Hamburgers. Why?”

  “Good. Because I brought red wine.”

  “I think you drank a bottle on the way home,” she said, sniffing his breath. “You’re acting very strange. A husband bearing gifts in the first year of marriage is as suspect as the Trojan horse. Are you having an affair?”

  “Absolutely.” He lowered his hands to her bottom and pulled her against him. “With the sexiest broad ever to come out of Atlanta.”

  “Lil’ ol’ me?”

  “None other, sugar pie. So,” he drawled with a lecherous grin, “wanna fuck?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They raced each other to the bedroom, stripped off their clothes, and made love. Afterward, while Debra was catching her breath as she lay amid the rumpled sheets, Dillon slipped from the room and returned with the gifts he had brought home. He laid them out in front of her.