by Gayle Wilson
Fourteen
The ease she'd felt drinking coffee with Mac Donovan this morning had been lost during the course of the day they'd spent together. Maybe part of that was due to her worry about Dwight. Or Mac's reaction to his department's decision that Tate hadn't been involved in Dan's death. Whatever had caused the increased tension between them, she had become more aware of it as they neared the reality of spending another night together.
She had managed to swallow a couple of pieces of the pizza he'd ordered for dinner, more out of recognition that she needed to eat something than because she was hungry. Mac had stoically finished the rest, but then, judging by the friendliness of the delivery guy. he ate a lot of the stuff. Or he was a very good tipper.
"More wine?" He held the bottle over her glass.
"Not for me, thanks."
"Pretty bad, huh? Somebody gave it to me last Christmas. I hadn't had an occasion to open it since."
Sarah wasn't sure how this qualified as an occasion, and although she was no expert, she had had far worse than the inexpensive merlot. "It's fine. I'm just not much of a drinker. Maybe because of what I do."
"Waitress, right?"
"Since the divorce."
"And before?"
"I helped Dan with his business. He's a contractor. Was a contractor."
"I would think that with all the construction, somebody would be looking to hire."
"Me? Probably. I haven't asked."
"I've heard the money waiting tables here can be really good. Especially in some of the places in the Quarter."
"I haven't asked there, either."
He took a sip of the wine he'd added to his glass, letting the subject drop. Normally she would have been more than willing to do the same. For some reason she felt an obligation to try and explain her life since Danny's death.
"I guess that in employment, like in everything else, I've followed the path of least resistance. I make enough to pay the rent and to feed me and Toby. There's been no incentive to do anything else."
She realized she had just used the past tense. As if something had changed.
"It's an easy trap to fall into." Mac looked at her over the rim of his glass.
"I couldn't figure out why I should do anything else."
"Divorce is always hard. Divorce on top of the rest.
"Did it affect you like that? Your divorce."
"The death of my marriage was so gradual I think the only emotion both of us felt when it was over was relief that we didn't have to goon pretending."
"That's sad."
"Yeah. That, too."
"Sorry. If anyone should know better than to ask personal questions it's me."
"It happened three years ago. And what you asked wasn't all that personal."
"She still live here?"
"She remarried less than a year later. An insurance salesman from Mobile. They've got a house there and another on the Gulf. He comes home nights."
"And she knows he always will."
"I'm not sure she was worried about me not coming home so much as she was tired of being shut out. At least that's what she told the therapist. That I never talked to her about what I was working on. I figured who the hell would want to hear me talk about the stuff we deal with every day. Most of it isn't exactly dinner conversation."
Stuff like Danny's murder.
"I'll do the dishes." She pushed up from the table to collect their plates. "Then I think I'd better take Toby out again. Is there a park or a public green within walking distance?"
"The dishwasher's empty. We can just stick them in there. And although this neighborhood may be safer than the one you're used to, I wouldn't call it risk free. I'll walk him for you."
"Thanks, but I could use the fresh air. And you're right. This is considerably safer than the area where we normally walk."
"Look, I know you don't want me tagging along, but under the circumstances. I really don't think it's smart for you to go out on your own."
"What gave you the impression I didn't want company?"
"I don't know. Maybe because you seemed to enjoy the run so much this afternoon when it was just you and him."
"Toby likes you. Which means he might actually mind you. And I don't. Mind having you along, that is."
She carried the dishes over to the sink to rinse them off before she inserted them into the dishwasher. Mac brought the glasses, finishing the wine in his while she loaded the plates and silverware.
"I'll get my jacket and the beast," he said as he set the empty goblet down on the counter.
They had locked the dog in the bedroom while they ate. Otherwise he would have watched every bite either of them took, hoping for a handout.
"If only he were," she said.
"A beast?"
"I might feel better about going back to my apartment if Toby were more protective."
"Toby's a lover not a fighter," Mac agreed.
"When we got him and discovered what a wuss he is. I was actually relieved. No matter how friendly a dog seems, you can never know his temperament until lie's lived with you a while and you've watched him interact with people."
"Good dog for a kid."
"Yes, he was," she said, relieved that the overwhelming feelings of grief and anger Tate's release had revived seemed to be fading. Or rather to have become hidden again under the commonplaces of human interaction.
"I'll bring your jacket," Mac said. "The one you wore today?"
"That's fine. I'm going to finish up in here."
"Don't worry too much. The maid comes tomorrow."
"Should I do something with my things?"
"She's the maid, not my mother." Mac reassured. "She wouldn't care if the Mongol Horde was staying here, as long as they weren't too messy."
He disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Sarah leaned back against the counter, wondering how the hell she'd ended up living with a divorced cop and worrying about becoming gossip fodder for his maid. As if any of that mattered.
There was, as Mac had said, nothing personal about any of this. Even if there had been, it was no one's business but theirs. They were consenting adults, with no ties to anyone else.
Consenting adults. The phrase, and all its implications, echoed in her head.
"Ready?"
She looked up to find Mac back in the doorway, her jacket in one hand and the end of Toby's leash in the other. The big dog was weaving in and out around his legs, his eagerness to be outside plain.
"Ready if you are."
And once more a phrase that seemed to have a dozen possible connotations reverberated inside her mind as she followed Mac out of the apartment.
Mac wasn't sure what awakened him. Only that it was not the cold, wet nose of the dog this time.
This was something more subtle. Something that had brought him awake without imprinting itself on his consciousness.
Normally he'd have turned over, pushed his pillow into a more comfortable shape, and gone back to sleep. Not this week, he thought, easing up off the couch. He brought the .38 he'd slid under the couch cushion with him.
He visually checked the front door. In the dim light from the halogens in the parking lot. he could see that the chain was engaged.
He turned, surveying what he could see of the kitchen. Before he had completed that scan, he heard the noise that had probably awakened him.
From the bedroom, he realized, adrenaline already flooding through his system. On bare feet he sprinted across the room to press his ear against the cheap, hollow-core door.
Nothing. He reached out with his left hand and turned the knob until the catch released. Then, leading with his weapon, he pushed the door open with his shoulder.
The halogens that had illuminated the living room provided enough light for him to see into the room. The bed was empty, its covers thrown back. And the door to the adjoining bath was closed.
Was that what he'd heard? Sarah getting up to go to the bathroom? Closing its door behind her?
Except neither seemed to jibe with the noises that had sent him here, weapon in hand.
"Sarah? You okay?"
No response. He crossed the room, gun extended in front of him in both hands, and put his ear against the second door.
From inside the bathroom came a sound he recognized. The water was on in the shower, and beneath its familiar pulse was the unidentifiable something that had dragged him from sleep.
His blood ran cold. He forced himself to open the door, using the same approach he'd taken in entering the bedroom. The light was off, but he could see the cloud of steam rushing out toward him.
"Sarah?"
Still no answer. He stepped inside the small room, the sound of rushing water growing louder. Again he heard the noise that had brought him here. A whooping intake as if someone were gasping for air.
Mac jerked the sliding door of the shower open, but all he could see was a black shape against the white tile. He reached behind him to flick on the overhead light.
Momentarily dazzled by its brightness, he lifted his left arm to shield his eyes until they could adjust. When they had, he knew he'd made a terrible error of judgment.
Sarah was huddled in the corner of the enclosure, her forearms crossed over her head, which was lowered so that he couldn't see her face. The sound she made was like no crying he'd ever heard. Deep and guttural, the force of her sobs shook her entire body.
"Sarah." As he said her name, he reached out and touched her shoulder.
Her head came up to reveal bloodshot eyes. She looked like a drowned kitten, her hair plastered to her skull from the incessant beat of the shower.
Mac laid his weapon on the counter behind him and reached back into the enclosure to turn off the water. In the sudden silence he could hear her breathing, small ratcheting breaths she seemed unable to control.
He almost asked what was wrong, but realized that question would be insane. What the hell was right in Sarah Patterson's life? She had buried her eleven-year-old son. And she was about to bury her ex-husband, for whose death she blamed herself.
Instead of badgering her with stupid questions, he did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed the out-sized bath cloth he'd put out for her last night off the towel rack and carried it over to where she crouched against the wall.
"Come on." He reached down to take her elbow and pull her up.
She didn't resist, standing and letting him wrap the towel around her. When he had her covered, he urged her to step out of the shower and onto the mat.
He thought about drying her off and then getting her into something warm. That would be the logical thing to do. Some rational solution to offer a woman who'd obviously reached the end of her resources.
Instead, motivated by the same vulnerability that had touched him from the start, he picked her up as he would a child. Holding her in his arms, he sat down on the closed john and cradled her against the warmth of his body.
After a few minutes, the tremors that had racked her frame began to lessen until there was only the occasional shiver. Even then he didn't release her, rocking her slightly and saying the same inane, ridiculous phrases over and over.
"It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."
He lost all track of time, but after what seemed an eternity, she shifted within his arms, pushing away from him to try and sit up.
"Sorry." she whispered.
"For what? You've got nothing to be sorry for."
"I can't even remember the last time I cried like that."
"Then maybe you ought to do it more often."
She nodded as if that made sense. "I dreamed about Dwight. Once I started..." She took a breath, her head moving from side to side.
"You've had a lot to deal with. Not just in the last few days."
"But I had dealt with it. I thought I had holding it together down to a science. Then tonight—" She laughed, the sound full of disbelief.
"I've seen grown men, cops, react the same way. And with less provocation." When she made no response to that lie, he asked, "You want to talk about the dream?"
She shook her head again.
"You want to go back to bed? Try and get some sleep. I'll sit in there with you."
Her eyes searched his face, which he tried to keep as expressionless as possible. After a moment she shook her head again.
"Coffee?" he suggested, remembering last night.
"Come with me."
In context those words made no sense. Then suddenly, looking down into her eyes, they did.
Ripe for the picking.
Sonny's words. Sonny's fear.
Not one he'd shared. Not then.
He pushed the words through a throat gone dry. "I think you need to tell me exactly what that means."
"Come to bed with me."
"I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not a eunuch. And because, frankly, it's been a while."
"More than a year."
He started to correct her and then realized she wasn't talking about him. Until a year ago, she and her ex had been trying to make their marriage work.
"I got mad at Sonny because he insinuated I intended to take advantage of you."
Her lips curved, almost a smile. "Did you?"
"No. But...that would be."
"You didn't start this. Mac. I did."
"While you were coming off a crying jag."
"There's an expression I haven't heard in a while."
"Okay. How about while you were feeling emotionally battered. Vulnerable. Or a half dozen other terms Sonny would gladly supply"
"You always care so much what he thinks?"
"He usually thinks pretty highly of me."
"Then why would it surprise you that I do, too?"
"Is that what this is about? Thinking highly of me?"
"Partly. It's also about need. And loneliness. And nightmares."
"I told you I'd sit with you until you go to sleep."
"That takes care of the last two."
He could feel himself beginning to react to the thought of taking her to bed. Feeling that elegant body move beneath his. Having those slim, beautiful legs wrap around him as he drove deeper and deeper into the sweet, wet heat of her.
"There are a thousand men—**
"And I didn't invite any of them into my bed. Your bed," she amended, her lips curving again.
He began to shake his head, more in self-denial than in rejection of what she'd offered.
"Whatever you're thinking about my motives." she said, "you're probably wrong. I think somewhere inside I've known I was going to ask you for a while now. I wasn't consciously thinking it, but everything was in place for this to happen. Then I watched your hands tonight as you poured the wine, and I wanted them moving over my body."
Not to respond to her admission would take a self-control he didn't possess. Besides, every response he was making was of the physiological variety, the kind few men, even at his age, had a whole hell of a lot of choice about.
The curve of her lips deepened. And something happened in her eyes. Something even more inviting than her words.
"You have very nice hands, Mac."
She raised one of hers to lay it against the side of his face. With her thumb, she brushed over the fullness of his bottom lip.
"And whatever you're worried about," she went on, "don't. I know what I'm doing. You aren't coercing me. You aren't taking advantage of me. You aren't doing a single thing that's wrong or immoral. You offered me your strength when I cried. Your warmth when I was cold. This is no different. Mac. Except this time, I have something to offer you."
Fifteen
It was strange that, after being celibate so long, she'd had no doubts about the lightness of this. No second thoughts, not even now. And no regrets. The only thing that had given her pause was the way Mac had responded.
She had expected his initial reservations, of course. After all, he was a de
cent man, and anyone with any sort of moral compass would have thought that any decision she made right now would be influenced by her emotional state. What she hadn't expected was the way he had gone about making love to her once he'd made up his mind.
Making love...
That was exactly what this felt like. As if he were making love to her. And taking the time to do it right.
When he'd carried her out of the bathroom and laid heron the disordered bed, she'd expected some cursory foreplay, quickly followed by the main attraction. In all honesty, that's what she'd been hoping for when she'd issued her invitation.
It hadn't played out that way, despite the fact that he had been as physically ready as she had. Instead, when he'd stripped off his T-shirt and sweatpants, and then slipped into bed beside her, he'd begun a slow seduction.
Not that she had objected to his attention to detail. It was simply something she hadn't required. Because of that, it had taken her a few minutes to readjust her expectations.
Once she had, his patiently experienced approach had dissolved the few remaining tendrils of tension, allowing her not only to relax, but to become a willing participant in what promised to be a mutually satisfying endeavor.
Right now, his lips tracked along her jawline and then down her throat. Occasionally on that journey, they had hesitated, seeming to make a more detailed examination of some particular spot before they moved on, leaving a trail of moisture in their path.
She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the sensations building within her lower body. Almost unfamiliar after so long an abstinence, they seemed more powerful than they ever had before.
Because Mac was unfamiliar? An unknown element? After all, wasn't that one of the romantic fantasies every woman supposedly harbored—making love to a stranger?
As that thought formed. Mac's mouth strayed lower. His fingers, slightly callused and totally masculine, cupped along the outside of her breast, urging its fullness inward toward his lips. They closed around her nipple, suckling gently at first and then becoming increasingly demanding.
Then—again unexpectedly—he began to tease the tautening bud with his teeth, nipping and then releasing it, to again caress with his tongue. Myriad nerve endings, placed in that area by a generous nature, reveled in the contrast.
