THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, I'm just co­ming in­to it."

  Anot­her step bac­k­ward. Anot­her mis­si­le. This one the Ming tem­p­le dog Marc had bo­ught her du­ring a trip to Be­i­j­ing so­me ye­ars back.

  Cur­sing, her in­ten­ded tar­get le­apt for­ward and ca­ught her wrist. A hard twist sent the ce­ra­mic dog to the flo­or. Anot­her twist bro­ught her arm up be­hind her back.

  The bru­tal hold wi­ped out Di­ane's glee and fi­red her ra­ge all over aga­in. The sop­his­ti­ca­ted shell she'd cul­ti­va­ted la­yer by la­yer over the ye­ars crac­ked and fell away. All that was left was fla­ming, fu­ri­o­us fe­ma­le.

  "I've kept qu­i­et all the­se ye­ars. I've wat­c­hed you ma­ke a fo­ol of yo­ur­self over and over aga­in with tho­se…t­ho­se sim­pe­ring twits who dra­ped them­sel­ves all over you. But I won't ke­ep qu­i­et any lon­ger."

  Strug­gling, twis­ting, ra­ging, she fo­ught his hold. He to­ok a kick to the shins, cur­sed aga­in and slam­med her aga­inst his chest.

  "If you se­du­ced Trish, you bas­tard… If you got her preg­nant…"

  He ne­eded both hands to hold her now. Both arms. He ban­ded her aga­inst him, mus­c­les bun­c­hing, his fury every bit as fi­er­ce but far mo­re con­t­rol­led than hers.

  She fo­ught him, ha­ting that he co­uld con­ta­in her, ha­ting him for be­ing so stu­pid, so dam­ned blind.

  "Trish isn't in yo­ur le­ague! She isn't an­y­w­he­re clo­se to yo­ur le­ague! You might just un­der­s­tand that if you'd stop jum­ping in­to bed with wo­men half yo­ur age and… and…"

  The band tig­h­te­ned, cut­ting in­to her ribs.

  "And what, Di­ane?"

  She co­uldn't bre­at­he, co­uldn't wig­gle. Grit­ting her te­eth, she cho­ked back the thick, clog­ging mint that thre­ate­ned to co­me up her thro­at.

  "I told…you ear­li­er, Slo­an. You ha­ve to…fi­gu­re it out…for yo­ur­self."

  "Oh, I've fi­gu­red it out."

  The pres­su­re eased an in­fi­ni­te­si­mal deg­ree, just eno­ugh for Di­ane to gulp in air.

  "Are you re­ady to lis­ten to me now?"

  "That de­pends on what you…" The war­ning flex of his mus­c­les had her grin­ding her te­eth. "Yes!"

  "Then lis­ten ca­re­ful­ly. I'm only go­ing to say this on­ce. I didn't sle­ep with Trish. If she's preg­nant, I'm not the fat­her. You got that, Wal­ker?"

  She lo­oked in­to his eyes. She'd wor­ked with this man too many ye­ars, had lo­ved him too long, to be­li­eve he was lying to her now.

  "Yes."

  "Go­od. Then we ne­ed to cle­ar up anot­her ap­pa­rent mi­sun­der­s­tan­ding. The re­ason I ha­ven't tri­ed to jump in­to the sack with you is be­ca­use I didn't want to ru­in eit­her our par­t­ner­s­hip or our fri­en­d­s­hip. The for­mer is what ke­eps Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering hum­ming. The lat­ter hap­pens to be in­fi­ni­tely mo­re pre­ci­o­us to me than get­ting you in­to bed."

  Igno­ring her de­ri­si­ve ho­ot, he al­te­red his stan­ce in a mo­ve so smo­oth and swift it left her blin­king. One mo­ment, Di­ane was loc­ked aga­inst his chest. The next, she was off her fe­et and in his arms.

  "Not that I ha­ven't wan­ted to," he sa­id, as ca­su­al­ly as if they we­re dis­cus­sing the we­at­her. "You wo­uldn't be­li­eve the num­ber of oc­ca­si­ons I've had you na­ked and on yo­ur back in my he­ad."

  "What?"

  Glass crun­c­hed un­der his fe­et as he stal­ked ac­ross the ro­om. "Is that the ruby Bac­ca­rat bowl I ga­ve you for yo­ur bir­t­h­day?"

  "It…it was," she stut­te­red, still stun­ned by the bomb he'd just de­to­na­ted.

  It must be the cre­me de men­t­he, she tho­ught wildly. It had to be the cre­me de men­t­he.

  "Damn. I li­ked that bowl."

  Sha­king his he­ad, he drop­ped her on the so­fa. His knee ca­me down bet­we­en her thighs, trap­ping her skirt and Di­ane with it. Still stun­ned and de­ci­dedly wo­ozy now, she wat­c­hed him pop the but­tons on his shirt.

  This wasn't the first ti­me she'd se­en him shir­t­less. She co­uldn't co­unt the po­ol par­ti­es, the cru­ises aro­und the har­bor with fri­ends and bu­si­ness as­so­ci­ates, the swe­aty wor­ko­uts on the Uni­ver­sal tuc­ked away in a cor­ner of his of­fi­ce su­ite when he co­uldn't get out for his mor­ning run.

  But this was the first ti­me Marc had strip­ped off his shirt in front of her. The first ti­me he'd tos­sed it asi­de and re­ac­hed down to rid her of hers. The first ti­me he'd ha­uled her aga­inst him aga­in for a kiss that star­ted the ro­om spin­ning.

  She pul­led back af­ter a diz­zying mo­ment, her in­si­des ro­iling. "It's…it's the cre­me de men­t­he," she gas­ped.

  "Mmm." His mo­uth mo­ved over hers. "1 can tas­te it."

  She'd dre­amed of this mo­ment, had fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut his to­uch, his scent, his kiss. But ne­ver, ever,in any of tho­se sen­su­al fan­ta­si­es, had she star­ted to gag.

  "It's the li­qu­e­ur," she cri­ed, sho­ving at his sho­ul­ders. "Marc! I'm go­ing to throw up."

  It was a ra­re mo­ment for Slo­an.

  Not hol­ding a wo­man's he­ad whi­le she pu­ked in­to a to­ilet. God knew he'd do­ne that of­ten eno­ugh. No, what sho­ok him was se­e­ing his co­ol, un­f­lap­pab­le exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant flus­hed and em­bar­ras­sed and cur­led in­to a tight ball of mi­sery.

  The sight ge­ne­ra­ted all kinds of un­fa­mi­li­ar sen­sa­ti­ons, not the le­ast of which was the fi­er­ce ne­ed to ca­re for her the way she'd ca­red for him all the­se ye­ars. The ur­ge spe­ared from his chest to his gro­in, whe­re it pro­du­ced a hard-on of gi­gan­tic and pa­in­ful pro­por­ti­ons.

  "Co­me on," he sa­id when she'd fi­nis­hed em­p­t­ying her sto­mach. "Let's get you cle­aned up."

  Mo­aning, she put her hands over her fa­ce. "Go away."

  He wasn't go­ing an­y­w­he­re. Not to­night. May­be not to­mor­row. He un­der­s­to­od her ne­ed for a few mo­ments of pri­vacy, tho­ugh. Pus­hing to his fe­et, he clo­sed the bat­h­ro­om do­or be­hind him.

  He was at the bed, yan­king down the du­vet, when a war­ning hiss ma­de him snatch back his hand. A gray blur shot out from be­hind the bra­id-trim­med sham and stre­aked in­to the li­ving ro­om.

  Marc pa­id no at­ten­ti­on to the cat. His en­ti­re body was one ta­ut cab­le, thrum­ming with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on for the wo­man who'd ta­ken the ani­mal in des­pi­te her pro­fes­sed dis­li­ke of all things fe­li­ne.

  She ca­me out of the bat­h­ro­om mor­tal­ly em­bar­ras­sed. Marc didn't gi­ve her a chan­ce to ut­ter a word. Stri­ding ac­ross the ro­om, he co­ve­red her mo­uth with his.

  She tas­ted of to­ot­h­pas­te this ti­me. And eager, glo­ri­o­us wo­man. All this ti­me, he tho­ught. All the­se ye­ars. What a was­te.

  He wasn't blind. Or stu­pid. He knew what they had went de­eper than fri­en­d­s­hip, in­vol­ved mo­re than bu­si­ness.

  Nor had he li­ed abo­ut wan­ting her. But res­pect and an awa­re­ness of his dis­mal re­cord when it ca­me to long-term re­la­ti­on­s­hips had al­ways held him in check. He co­uldn't ima­gi­ne Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering wit­ho­ut Di­ane any mo­re than he co­uld be­li­eve she'd wal­ked out on him this af­ter­no­on. In­cen­sed that she'd even con­si­der le­aving him, Marc de­epe­ned the kiss.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes af­ter get­ting her in­to bed, he was qu­ive­ring li­ke a pri­ze bull at stud. Fi­ve mi­nu­tes mo­re, and he was fig­h­ting des­pe­ra­tely to fish his wal­let out of his pants poc­ket.

  "Wa­it. Di­ane. Let me get so­me pro­tec­ti­on for you."

  He was so eager he hurt. So an­xi­o­us, he shred­ded the fo­il and rip­ped the con­dom.

  "Dam­mit!"

  She lif­ted her he­ad, saw him
toss asi­de the pac­ka­ge. Her fa­ce to­ok on a lo­ok of ne­ar pa­nic. "Ple­ase tell me you al­ways carry a spa­re."

  "I al­ways carry a spa­re."

  He snat­c­hed up his wal­let aga­in, dug out an ex­t­ra and at­tac­ked the wrap­ping with mo­re ca­re. When the rub­ber snap­ped in­to pla­ce, Di­ane wet her lips. The glim­p­se of her ton­gue mo­ving over the smo­oth, slick flesh al­most pus­hed Marc over the ed­ge aga­in.

  He was sur­p­ri­sed to find him­self swe­ating and as ner­vo­us as a pimply fa­ced te­ena­ger his first ti­me out of the ga­te. De­li­be­ra­tely, he fo­cu­sed on her ne­eds in­s­te­ad of the ac­he just abo­ut ben­ding him do­ub­le. Slic­king his hands over her hips and re­ar. Using his ton­gue and his te­eth on her nip­ples. Em­p­lo­ying every skill he'd mas­te­red over the ye­ars to bring her to a writ­hing, mo­aning cli­max.

  Only af­ter she'd ex­p­lo­ded un­der him did he al­low him­self to ram ho­me.

  11

  Cleo drum­med her fin­ger­tips aga­inst the tall, dew-st­re­aked be­er glass. It was well past six. She'd gi­ve Do­no­van anot­her ten mi­nu­tes. Max.

  The siz­zle of fish and shrimp in hot gre­ase had be­en tan­ta­li­zing her for a go­od half ho­ur. Her sto­mach had be­en ma­king ob­no­xi­o­us fe­ed-me no­ises just as long.

  True, she'd ar­ri­ved well be­fo­re the ti­me she and Jack had ag­re­ed to when she'd cal­led him with the na­me of the res­ta­urant. It hadn't ta­ken her long to sho­wer, pin her ha­ir up in a twist and wig­gle in­to the splashy, jun­g­le-print dress she'd thrown in her bag at the last mi­nu­te.

  The lit­tle de­sig­ner num­ber was ni­nety-eig­ht-per­cent cot­ton and two per­cent span­dex, co­ol eno­ugh for com­fort and stretchy eno­ugh to hug her cur­ves. The fact that its hem ro­de a go­od fi­ve in­c­hes abo­ve her kne­es and sho­wed off her newly trim thighs was only a se­con­dary con­si­de­ra­ti­on.

  Her pri­mary con­si­de­ra­ti­on was the tin­g­le in her bre­asts and her belly whe­ne­ver she tho­ught abo­ut the kiss Do­no­van had la­id on her this af­ter­no­on. If he didn't piss her off by ke­eping her wa­iting much lon­ger, he might just get lucky to­night.

  She'd re­aso­ned thro­ugh it. Calmly. Lo­gi­cal­ly. The­re wasn't any ru­le that sa­id sex had to be ac­com­pa­ni­ed by pled­ges of li­fe­long de­vo­ti­on. If all she and Jack co­uld ma­na­ge was on­ce in a whi­le, why not ma­ke the most of tho­se whi­les? Every so of­ten wasn't bad when you tho­ught abo­ut it, and Cleo had be­en thin­king abo­ut it pretty much con­ti­nu­o­usly for the past few ho­urs.

  It was in her he­ad now, get­ting mi­xed with her bel­ly-rum­b­ling hun­ger. The men­tal ima­ge of Jack na­ked, his mus­c­les slick with per­s­pi­ra­ti­on and his eyes a hot, li­qu­id blue as he thrust in­to her, had Cleo squ­ir­ming.

  Grab­bing her con­den­sa­ti­on-co­ated glass, she dow­ned a long swal­low. The ping of her cell pho­ne ca­ught her in mid-gulp. A glan­ce at the num­ber on the scre­en had her swal­lo­wing a sigh along with the be­er. An­ti­ci­pa­ting the ine­vi­tab­le, she hit Re­ce­ive.

  "Okay, Do­no­van, whe­re are you?"

  "At the air­port."

  The sigh was har­der to swal­low this ti­me. "Whe­re are you off to now?"

  "Salt La­ke City."

  "Salt La­ke, as in the Og­den Air Lo­gis­tics Cen­ter?"

  "You got it. The Old Man wants me to bri­ef the cen­ter com­man­der."

  "So you're go­ing to let a three-star ge­ne­ral be­at you out of din­ner with a lowly for­mer cap­ta­in?"

  "Lo­oks that way. Sorry abo­ut stan­ding you up."

  The­re was ge­nu­ine reg­ret in the apo­logy. Fat lot of go­od reg­ret wo­uld do eit­her of them to­night.

  Cleo was tem­p­ted to ma­ke him suf­fer. Drop just an it­ty-bit­ty hint of what he was mis­sing out on. Li­ke ice-cold be­er. Hot fri­ed fish. Wet, squ­ir­ming fe­ma­le.

  On se­cond tho­ught…

  "Did you run tho­se pho­ne calls?" she as­ked, de­ci­ding not to go in­to de­ta­il on her pre­sent con­di­ti­on. No sen­se let­ting the man get too full of him­self.

  "I did."

  "An­y­t­hing to tell me?"

  "Not over a cell pho­ne."

  Til­ting to one si­de, she pe­ered aro­und the high-bac­ked bench. "The­re's a pay pho­ne just a few fe­et away Hang on whi­le I get the num­ber. You can find a pho­ne bo­oth the­re at the air­port and call me back on a land li­ne."

  "No ti­me. They're an­no­un­cing my flight. La­ter, North."

  "La­ter when? Hey, Do­no­van! When are you…? Dam­mit!"

  Tho­ro­ughly frus­t­ra­ted in mo­re ways than one, Cleo snap­ped the pho­ne shut and sig­na­led for a wa­iter.

  She or­de­red the Cap­ta­in Joe's Com­bi­na­ti­on #1. The mo­unds of fri­ed gro­uper, fri­ed shrimp and fri­ed hush pup­pi­es ca­me with french fri­ed swe­et po­ta­to­es. The plat­ter al­so con­ta­ined a ra­me­kin of co­les­law that Cleo ig­no­red. She wasn't in the mo­od for an­y­t­hing but gre­ase.

  It was slos­hing aro­und hap­pily in her sto­mach when she dro­ve back thro­ugh the warm Ap­ril night. As chan­ce wo­uld ha­ve it, Marc pul­led in­to the al­ley le­ading to the gu­es­t­ho­use and ga­ra­ge right be­hind her. Le­aving the Es­ca­la­de par­ked in the gu­est-ho­use dri­ve, Cleo cros­sed the al­ley and wa­ited whi­le he ste­ered his Por­c­he in­to the three-car ga­ra­ge at­tac­hed to his ho­me.

  He swung out, un­fol­ding his long, le­an fra­me with an easy gra­ce. Cleo ca­ught a flash of tan­ned an­k­le abo­ve his po­lis­hed ox­fords and blin­ked. Had the Ca­li­for­nia ma­nia for go­ing soc­k­less fi­nal­ly re­ac­hed gen­te­el Char­les­ton?

  "I ne­ed to talk to you, Marc. Got a mi­nu­te?"

  "Of co­ur­se."

  He us­he­red her to­ward the ho­use with his usu­al co­ur­tesy, but Cleo co­uldn't sha­ke the sen­se that so­met­hing was out of whack. She fi­nal­ly pin­po­in­ted the prob­lem. His shir­t­ta­ils we­re tuc­ked ne­atly in the wa­is­t­band of his ple­ated slacks, but he'd mis­sed a co­up­le of but­ton­ho­les. And when he re­ac­hed past her to sli­de a key card in­to the se­cu­rity slot, Cleo spot­ted what lo­oked li­ke a wor­ld-class hic­key on his neck.

  Well, at le­ast so­me­one had got­ten lucky to­night. Cleo had a pretty go­od idea who Marc had hit­c­hed up with, too.

  "How's Di­ane ta­king her newly unem­p­lo­yed sta­tus?" she as­ked ca­su­al­ly.

  Her non­c­ha­lan­ce didn't fo­ol Slo­an for a mi­nu­te. He shot her a swift lo­ok be­fo­re his aris­toc­ra­tic fe­atu­res re­la­xed in­to a grin she co­uld only des­c­ri­be as go­ofy.

  "Di­ane's no lon­ger unem­p­lo­yed. I con­vin­ced her to re­turn to work."

  "To­ok a lot of con­vin­cing, did she?"

  The grin got go­ofi­er. "So­me."

  He es­cor­ted her down the hall to the mu­sic ro­om. The or­na­te cham­ber was fast be­co­ming Cleo's fa­vo­ri­te. Her fin­gers it­c­hed to pluck a few strings on that mon­s­ter of a harp.

  "Ca­re for a drink?"

  "No, thanks. I had my li­mit with din­ner."

  Nod­ding, he po­ured a ge­ne­ro­us shot of Ten­nes­see so­ur mash and knoc­ked it back li­ke a pro. Cleo no­ted the re­sul­ting slump to his sho­ul­ders with so­me in­te­rest. The su­pe­ref­fi­ci­ent Ms. Wal­ker had ob­vi­o­usly ta­ken the starch out of him.

  Splas­hing in mo­re bo­ur­bon, Marc went easi­er on this shot. "You wan­ted to talk to me?"

  "We ne­ed to dis­cuss our re­la­ti­on­s­hip."

  The lo­ok he ga­ve her ho­ve­red bet­we­en chag­rin and apo­logy. "I'm sorry, Cleo. This bu­si­ness with Di­ane has thrown me off stri­de. You de­ser­ve mo­re of my at­ten­ti­on." His ga­ze slid from her neck to her kne­es. "E
spe­ci­al­ly in that dress."

  Didn't ta­ke him long to sli­de back in­to his play­boy skin, Cleo tho­ught with a dart of ge­nu­ine sympathy for Di­ane. The wo­man wo­uld ha­ve to shor­ten Slo­an's cha­in con­si­de­rably to ke­ep him in li­ne.

  "Ni­ce to know my at­ti­re has yo­ur stamp of ap­pro­val, but I was tal­king abo­ut our pro­fes­si­onal re­la­ti­on­s­hip."

  "What abo­ut it?"

  "We ha­ve a con­f­lict of in­te­rest go­ing he­re."

  "Be­ca­use of the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning in­qu­iry?"

  "Be­ca­use the APP in­qu­iry may le­ad back to yo­ur mis­sing em­p­lo­yee."

  The play­boy di­sap­pe­ared. The exe­cu­ti­ve sent her a sharp lo­ok. "Ha­ve you es­tab­lis­hed a link?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then I don't see the prob­lem. I hi­red you to find Trish. I still want you to find her."

  Gi­ving in to im­pul­se, Cleo twan­ged one of the harp's strings. Damn. You'd ha­ve to ha­ve Bril­lo pads for fin­ger­tips to play one of the­se suc­kers.

  "This isn't the best ti­me to bring this up," she com­men­ted as the gol­den no­te re­so­na­ted thro­ugh the high-ce­ilin­ged ro­om, "but ha­ve you con­si­de­red the pos­si­bi­lity Di­ane may not want Trish fo­und?"

  Slo­an ope­ned his mo­uth. Snap­ped it shut.

  "Yes, I've con­si­de­red the pos­si­bi­lity. Di­ane and I dis­cus­sed it this af­ter­no­on, af­ter she all but ac­cu­sed me of se­du­cing the girl."

  Ha! Cleo sus­pec­ted they hadn't got­ten aro­und to dis­cus­sing an­y­t­hing un­til they we­re both too limp to do an­y­t­hing el­se.

  "Di­ane Wal­ker didn't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with Trish's di­sap­pe­aran­ce," Slo­an sta­ted.

  "Are you thin­king now with yo­ur he­ad or with yo­ur…"

  "My dick?"

  "I was go­ing to say he­art, but dick works."

  "I'm thin­king with all parts. And just for the re­cord, I didn't en­gi­ne­er Trish's di­sap­pe­aran­ce as a way to avo­id pa­ying child sup­port, eit­her. I wo­uld hardly ha­ve bro­ught you in to find her if I had."