"You got me tipsy," she said. "You knew I had to drive."
"Hey, don't blame me for what you imbibe. You want a brandy?"
"No, I don't want a brandy!" She slumped against the sofa, her head thrown back.
Brody himself was somewhere on the far side of tipsy, contentedly so. He slid a cigarette from the pack, and Cat groaned.
"Do you have to?"
Normally he'd have said something like, No, but I'm going to anyway. Instead he held the cigarette poised at his lips for a moment, then tapped it back into the pack.
"Thanks," she said, and he could tell he'd surprised her. He'd surprised them both.
Brody draped an arm on the sofa back behind her. Strands of silky copper-colored hair teased the sensitive inside of his elbow, below the sleeve of his navy blue T-shirt. "Now you have to do a favor for me."
Her smirk spoke volumes. "And what might that be?"
His muzzy mind hadn't gotten that far. "Uh … you have to play strip poker with me."
"Oh yeah, that's real nurturing."
"Okay, how about … you give me a nice soothing bubble bath. Wash my back."
"I'm not that drunk, Brody."
"So I guess naked mayonnaise wrestling is out of the question."
"I never said that. Regular or low-fat?"
"I only have regular."
She threw up her hands in mock disappointment. He slipped his fingers down to her satiny shoulder, bared by her sleeveless apricot-colored top.
"Have I ever told you I have a thing for mayonnaise?" he asked.
She looked at his hand on her shoulder, then at his face. "Is that so?"
"Just the thought of you covered in all that slippery, shiny—"
"Slimy, don't forget slimy."
He stroked her upper arm, taking care not to scrape her with the bandage. "Slathered in mayo from head to toe. And with only one way to get it off."
"Can I assume this one way has nothing to do with soap and water?"
He stared into her crystal blue eyes, their gaze slightly unfocused. He said, "Only the human tongue can do a really thorough job."
"Gee, I never saw that one coming."
"A task like that takes heroic patience and attention to detail. It's not a job for your average tongue."
Cat looked away. But not before her eyes flicked to his mouth.
"It takes flexibility," he continued. "Stamina. All those nooks and crannies. I'm a nook man myself, but crannies have their charm."
He leaned in close, drawing her scent into his lungs, that faint woodsy-floral fragrance that had driven him half mad that first night, when he'd been unable to see her, when he'd had to rely on his other, underused senses.
He said, "It'd take a long time to lick it all off. Where would be the best place to start, do you think?" He turned her face and made her look at him. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks rosier than before. "You think about where and I'll see if I can guess."
She tried to avert her face, but he refused to let her. He smiled. "That would've been my choice, too."
"You fraud. You don't know what I'm thinking."
"Betcha I do."
"Betcha you don't."
"Here?" He slid his fingers under her knee, exposed by her black denim shorts, and lightly stroked the soft skin there.
She made a funny little sound and said in a choked voice, "No."
"Really. How about here?" He traced a path between her breasts as she tried to flatten herself against the sofa.
"Uh-uh," she said.
"I know." His fingers glided along the smooth inside of her thigh and under the hem of her shorts. She grabbed his wrist and clamped her legs together, effectively trapping his hand there, though he doubted that was her intention.
"That's it, isn't it?" he asked. "That's the place."
Her voice was breathless. "It took you three guesses.
His fingertips were at the very top of her thigh. He lightly caressed the baby-soft skin. "I remember how sensitive you are here."
"That's enough." She tried in vain to move his hand.
"I believe I may have scratched you here with my whiskers—" he rubbed his bristly cheek "—ungroomed barbarian that I am. Did I hurt you?"
"No. Yes. A little. But it was okay."
"It was okay? You liked it?"
"I didn't say that." She arched a bit as his fingers inched north, to the elastic leg opening of her panties. "Maybe. A little."
If he hadn't plied her with demon alcohol, he'd never have made it this far, he knew. Hell, he'd never have made it past her shoulder. If she were stone-cold sober, there'd now be fresh skid marks on his driveway.
"Where else did I scratch you?" he asked.
No answer.
"Here?" He brushed his free hand over her breasts, and the stiff nipples that pushed against her shirt. She made a strangled sound. This game was getting him hard, fueling his impatience. "Hmm?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"I wish I could've seen that," he said, imagining her sprawled beneath him, her tender skin glowing pink in the most interesting places, him kissing it all better. "All that incredible sex we had, and I've never seen you naked."
Cat's breasts rose and fell in an agitated rhythm. Her grip on his wrist had eased, and her shorts were loose enough to let him explore a bit. Her eyes drifted shut as his fingertips crept along the edge of her panties. Her mouth was slightly open, and he didn't even try to resist it.
She jumped a little when Brody's lips covered hers. He inhaled her wine-sweet breath and her ragged moan as he touched her through her silky panties. His fingertips traced the shape of her, lingered at the womanly deft, testing the slippery dampness there.
He smiled as a delicious whimper escaped her. She turned toward him, her legs opening, her hands clutching. Brody's erection was savage and insistent, a beast of prey, howling for the succulent quarry so near at hand. But he knew what kind of man took advantage of an inebriated woman, and he'd always prided himself on never having crossed that line.
He thought about sending Cat home in her current state of arousal, all ripe and ready for Mr. Perfect.
The hell with it; he'd find something else to pride himself on. He deepened the kiss and the intimate caress. Cat shuddered in his arms, moving against him. He started yanking her shirt out of the waistband of her shorts.
A sharp yip broke through the haze of blind thumping need.
"Go away, Spot."
The big animal had parked himself at their feet, tail swinging, ready to join in this fun new game. Dazed and rumpled, Cat blinked at him.
"Go away, Spot!" Brody jabbed his finger toward the kitchen. "Go!"
Spot gave two more gleeful barks and placed his forepaws on Cat's lap. She straightened and seemed to notice for the first time that her shirt was untucked. Brody cursed inwardly. It's the canned stuff for you from now on, he silently promised the aging mutt. The bargain brand.
"I—I think the rain is letting up." She squinted, trying to see through the front windows and the enclosed porch. "Sounds like it, anyway." Pushing Spot off her, she stood and righted her clothing.
Brody came to his feet, glaring at man's best friend until the animal slunk out of the room. "I can't let you drive like this. You've been drinking."
She skewered him with a sardonic look. "Something tells me I'm safer on the roads."
"Cat … look, stay here. I promise I won't try anything."
"Don't worry about me," she said, grabbing her purse from the chair where she'd left it and retrieving her car keys. "This has been a very sobering experience."
"Take a cab. I'll pay for it." He sighed in exasperation as she ignored him and stepped outside into the evening drizzle. Guilt nagged him. In truth, she hadn't drunk that much, less than two glasses, but he still didn't want her driving. It was his fault. If he hadn't pushed his luck, she wouldn't be bolting now.
"Call me when you get home," he said from the front doorway, though he knew she wouldn't. "Let
me know you got there okay."
He watched her slam the door of her white sedan. She left skid marks on his driveway.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
"So he cooks dinner for you." Brigit hurled herself into the empty barber chair next to the one Cat occupied and spun it in a circle. "That's very romantic."
"You don't know this guy," Cat said, as Ren tipped her head forward. "There's nothing romantic about Brody. He's just after sex."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Ren said, twisting the top layers of Cat's wet hair and securing them with clips. "What's wrong with a romp?"
"She's had the romp," Brigit informed him. "Now she doesn't want anything to do with him."
"Ahh!" Ren's scissors felt cold on Cat's nape as he snipped off the usual half inch. "Poor guy didn't measure up, huh?"
"He measured up too well!" Brigit said.
"Brigit!" Cat jerked her head around, earning a growl of disapproval from Ren, who firmly repositioned her. "The whole world doesn't need to know my business."
"And she's had to work side by side with him every day for a month," Brigit said. From the corner of her eye Cat watched her friend lift a hand mirror from the workstation and wipe lipstick off her teeth.
"But at least today's my last day with Brody," Cat said, as Ren tilted her head up and met her eyes in the wall-to-wall salon mirror. The hairdresser was tan and fit, with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut and appealingly craggy features. Cat had been going to him for years.
"So you just don't like this guy," he said.
She opened her mouth to disagree, and snapped it shut. She didn't like Brody Mikhailov. There was just so much not to like about him, from his self-absorbed life-style to what he did for a living. And to top it all off, Leon had recently divulged that Brody was close to being offered the head-writer job for that horrible new TV show, Banner Headline. It was now a close race between Brody and Mildred Maxwell, doyenne of the gossip columns.
"He's got this old dog," Cat heard herself say, wondering where that had come from. "A real creaker. You should see how Brody takes care of him. I mean, he coddles him. Cooks meals for him."
"Oh yeah," Brigit said, squirting a ball of hair mousse onto her palm to play with. "Sounds like one well-adjusted guy."
Cat started to turn toward her, only to have her head wrenched back in place. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be good to your pet when he gets old," she declared. "Spot's been with Brody forever. It's … well, it's sweet, really. He cares for him as if he were a baby."
Brigit said, "Speaking of babies…"
Cat tried to glower at her sideways. Ren paused in his snipping. "What's this?" he asked. "Are you—"
"No! I'm not pregnant!"
"Who's pregnant?" Marina, Ren's wife, called through the packed salon, from her post at the reception desk.
"Cat," he answered. "Only she says she's not."
"How do you know?" Brigit asked Cat. "You haven't even done the test."
"I know, okay? I'm not pregnant."
The manicurist looked up from the acrylic nail she was filing. "Who's pregnant?"
Ren said, "How many periods have you missed?"
Cat groaned as Brigit answered for her. "One. She was due three weeks ago."
"Almost three weeks," Cat said. "Nineteen days."
"Are you regular?" He crossed in front of her to pull side strands forward and compare length.
"Yes. No! I've been known to be late."
"Three weeks late?" Brigit asked.
"Has she missed her period?" Marina hollered.
"One," her husband answered. "Three weeks ago."
"Nineteen days!" Cat said.
"Who missed a period?" the shampoo girl yelled.
"That one." Her customer pointed out Cat. "Pay attention."
"Oh God," Cat whimpered.
"When are you going to get around to doing the test?" Ren asked, picking up the blow dryer.
"I'm not pregnant!"
A woman across the room put down her magazine and raised the hood of her dryer, displaying a rubber highlighting helmet covered with pasty white bleach and a thin shower cap. "Who's pregnant?"
"You know what they call this," Brigit said, as she pawed through a drawer full of pins, combs and tip money. "They call this denial."
"Shut up, Brigit."
"She wants a baby, but she doesn't want to have anything to do with the guy. And it's way too late to not have anything to do with this guy. Plus she's got the hots for him something fierce."
Ren turned on the blessedly loud blow dryer, then turned it off to ask, "Are your breasts tender?"
"That is none of your business!"
"Marina's breasts were real tender with all three of our kids. Even before she missed her first—"
"Would you just dry my hair?"
Brigit had to shout to be heard over the whine of the dryer. "There's nothing to those drugstore tests. You just pee on a stick!"
"You really should do that," Ren hollered. "Then you'd know for sure."
A middle-aged woman with a stiffly lacquered helmet of violet hair patted Cat's shoulder on her way out of the salon. "Congratulations, dear."
"Would you people get a life?" Cat shrieked. "I am not pregnant!"
* * *
Cat rang the bell three times before Brody finally jerked the door open. The cordless phone was at his ear and he wore a murderous scowl.
"That job was supposed to be mine!" He stalked back into the house without acknowledging her. "Is Schneider on drugs? How much of a say did Serrano have in this, that's what I want to know. She's always been buddy-buddy with Maxwell."
Mildred Maxwell. The Banner Headline job. Cat set her purse on a chair. He must be talking to Leon.
Brody threw up his hand. "That old tattletale hasn't had an original thought since 1961. She's been coasting for decades. Her column's a joke!"
Cat followed at a cautious distance as he stomped into the dining room, where the table was laden with cartons containing hundreds of author's copies of his many books. Angry color flooded his face; veins stood out in his neck.
"That job was supposed to be mine, Leon! Don't tell me to calm down, damn it! When am I going to get another chance like this?" Brody paused, then added, "Don't bother."
He turned off the phone and flung it onto the sideboard; it bounced off a massive ashtray carved from a petrified log and crashed to the floor. Spot emerged from under the table and hied himself off to the kitchen. Brody charged after him and snatched up his cigarettes as the dog slipped back into the dining room.
Cat stood silently in the kitchen doorway. She'd never seen Brody like this. For the first time, she realized just how much that headwriter job had meant to him. His movements stiff and mechanical, he dragged deeply on his cigarette, making an obvious effort to deal with his anger and disappointment.
Finally she said, "I'm sorry, Brody," and surprised herself by meaning it.
Her words seemed to jog him out of his own dark thoughts. "Don't," he said, spearing her with a caustic glare she'd never seen before. "The last thing I need is you spouting bogus platitudes at me." He threw open the freezer door and pulled out the bottle of vodka.
Cat looked at her feet. "I can't blame you for doubting my sincerity, after everything I've said about … your career and all. But I mean it, Brody. I wish this had worked out for you. I know how much you wanted it."
Brody stared at her for long moments, expressionless. He looked away and took another drag of his cigarette. At last he acknowledged her statement with a terse nod.
When he grabbed a juice glass and uncapped the bottle, she took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. "Listen, why don't we get out of here. We could both use a change of scenery." Somehow she couldn't stomach the prospect of Brody spending their last few hours together in a haze of boozy self-pity.
He was quiet so long she suspected he hadn't heard her. Finally he stubbed out his cigarette and li
stlessly recapped the bottle. "Where do you want to go?"
* * *
"Don't you think you're carrying this mom thing a little too far?" Brody asked as Cat buckled the worn leather safety belt around his waist and hoisted herself onto the painted horse next to his.
"When was the last time you were at an amusement park?" she responded, as the carousel began moving to the accompaniment of old-fashioned calliope music.
"If this is supposed to make me forget my troubles, I have a better suggestion."
His leer left little question as to the nature of that suggestion, but there was no real heat behind it. Cat knew a diversionary tactic when she saw one, and it occurred to her that after working with Brody for a month, she knew nothing of his upbringing. He'd managed to dance around the topic every time it came up.
Then again, hadn't she done the same thing herself? With good reason, of course—no entanglements and all that—but she had to admit she'd been no more forthcoming than he.
Their colorful mounts rose and dipped in perfect counterpoint as the circular wooden deck revolved. At the center of the structure were ancient beveled mirrors. Cat stared at them, at the wavering, kaleidoscopic images rushing past, trying to catch her own reflection. Every time she thought she had it, it winked out of sight.
That had been a mistake, looking at those mirrors. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing away the brief wave of disorientation. That was all it was, she assured herself. It wasn't nausea. And anyway, this wasn't the morning, so it couldn't possibly be—
Stop that! she commanded herself. You're not!
Grasping for conversation, she said, "There aren't too many of these old carousels left. This one's about eighty-five years old."
"Seriously?"
She nodded. "It was bought secondhand sixty years ago when this place opened. These horses are hand carved. Oh! Grab the ring!"
"What?" He looked around anxiously, his fingers tightening on the brass pole.
My God, Cat thought, he's never done this before. The revelation squeezed her heart.
Brody was on the outside horse. She pointed to the slim metal arm, fast approaching, that jutted toward the carousel. "Grab a ring when you pass that. If you're lucky, you'll get the brass one."
IN THE DARK Page 7
