Smitten - LOVESWEPT - 392

by Janet Evanovich

  "I must look like Super Stud. The check-out lady asked me the same thing." He carried the VCR into the living room and hooked it up to Lizabeth's television, "I brought some movies I had at home. One box is blood and guts, and the other is general entertainment."

  Lizabeth noticed the general-entertainment box was much smaller than the blood-and-guts box. She hated violence, and, as a mother, felt a strong obligation to discourage its glorification. She didn't want murder and mayhem to seem like everyday events to her children. "Matt, suppose we eventu­ally got married, and Jason wanted to watch some­thing from the blood-and-guts box?"

  "I'd say no. Then he'd probably whine and cry and say Noogie Newsome got to watch blood-and-guts movies, and if blood-and-guts movies were so bad then why did I have a whole big box of them?"

  "Would that change your mind about letting him watch blood and guts?"

  "No, but I'd feel like a real crumb."

  "Suppose Jason wanted a tattoo?"

  "No tattoos. Tattoos are dumb. I don't want my son having pierced ears either." He carted the popcorn maker into the kitchen and took a bag of popcorn out of the junk-food box.

  Lizabeth smiled to herself. She'd been worried about nothing. He had answered all the questions correctly. "And motorcycles! What if your son wanted a motorcycle?"

  "Man, that would be great! We could go biking together."

  She dropped a chunk of butter into a saucepan and put the pan on the stove. There were lots worse things than motorcycles, she told herself. Drugs, rabid bats, cholera. And it wasn't as if she and Matt were getting married tomorrow. They were merely lovers, and lovers were allowed some eccentricities. She rolled her eyes. What a bunch of baloney. Her feelings for Matt were strong and deep. The thought of having a brief romance with him held absolutely no appeal. They weren't merely lovers. They were In love, and they were tiptoeing around marriage. At least she was tiptoeing, Lizabeth thought. Matt was stomping straight ahead. Matt could afford to stomp straight ahead. He didn't have two children to consider.

  A lump suddenly formed in her throat and her vision blurred. She missed Jason and Billy. They'd been the focal point of her life for ten years and she felt bereft without them. Boy, is this ever dumb, she thought. I'm really being a dope. The lump got larger.

  Matt recognized the look of utter despair and guessed at its origin. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. 'They're going to be fine," he murmured, praying she didn't burst into tears, because he'd probably cry right along with her. He didn't completely understand this business of motherhood, but he was beginning to feel the power of it. And he was relieved to discover his own capacity for love. There had been a lot of years when he wondered if he had the emotional makeup to be a father and husband. There'd been a lot of years when he'd worried about duplicating his own childhood. He now knew it had been nonsense. He was his own person. Different from his parents. His mistakes would be different, he thought ruefully. "Motherhood is hell, isn't it?"

  She sniffed and tried to smile. "I'm being silly."

  He hugged her closer. "I don't think you're silly. You love your kids. I think that's terrific."

  "It's more than that." She took the melted but­ter from the stove and set it on a hot pad. "My kids will survive two weeks with Paul. Elsie will shore up their trampled egos. They'll learn how to swim and play tennis. The problem is me. I don't know how to stop being a mother. My children are gone, and I don't know how to entertain my­self. This is a terrific opportunity for us to be alone and have some fun together, and all I can do is complain about the Newsomes' TV antenna."

  Matt poured the butter over the popcorn. "You're being too hard on yourself. You just need some time to adjust. We're going to sit down and watch a movie, and I bet by the time the movie's over we'll be having fun together."

  He was right. By the time the movie was over they'd reduced the number of items in the little drugstore bag to thirty-four.

  Lizabeth came awake slowly, at first knowing only that she was hot and uncomfortable. Her bedroom window was wide open but the curtains hung sentinel-straight in the still air. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck and perspiration pooled between her breasts. Matt was sprawled on top of her, a heavy leg thrown over hers, a posses­sive arm pinning her to the damp sheet. She tried to wriggle free, but the arm tightened. This would be wonderful at twenty degrees below zero, she thought, but tonight it was oppressive. Not only was he sweating on her, but something was poking Into her side. She quickly identified the of­fending object. "Omigod," she giggled. "Not again!"

  He mumbled in his sleep and half opened his eyes. "Hot."

  Lizabeth gasped as his large hand roamed across her breast in sensuous exploration. Was he kid­ding? It had to be a hundred and forty degrees in the bedroom. It was the middle of the night, and she wasn't even sure if he was awake.

  He pressed himself hard against her hip and groaned. "Is this a dream?" Then he answered himself. "No. Dreams don't perspire." He kissed her shoulder and moved his hand down her rib cage, across her belly, and lower.

  A minute ago she didn't think she could get any warmer, but she'd been wrong! Liquid fire roiled through her with each stroke of his thumb. She swore at him for waking her up with his over­heated body, and she swore at him for having such clever fingers.

  "Do you like it?" he asked.

  Yes, she liked it. She liked the way he took possession of her, and she liked her newfound capacity for passion. She gloried in her own sen­suality, clenching her teeth and grabbing handfuls of the sheet as desire surged so strong under his hand it became almost unbearable. He slid between her legs and kissed her. The kiss was sweet and hard. Love and passion. He continued to kiss her while he entered. He knew his way now. He knew the rhythm she liked. Knew how to drive her wild. And he knew how to satisfy her. There was a moment when time stood still, when they hovered at the brink, staring into each other's eyes. It was only a moment, and then they skittered off into the dark, pulsating void of sex­ual release.

  They clung to each other for a long time after­ward, too sated, too exhausted to care about damp sheets and record-breaking temperatures. A stone flicked at the window, but they didn't hear it over their own heartbeats. Another stone hit, and Lizabeth opened her eyes.

  Maybe it was her imagination, she thought. He couldn't possibly be back. Not after last night!

  The flashlight beam swept across her empty window, It was followed by several more stones.

  Matt growled. "Ignore him," he said. "Elsie and the boys are gone. For all I care, he can stand naked in your backyard until he drops dead from starvation."

  There was a period of silence and then another flurry of stones.

  Lizabeth sighed. "He's persistent."

  "An admirable quality, but hell have to flash himself tonight. I'm not getting out of this bed and neither are you."

  The light made a second pass over, followed by scuffling sounds, Lizabeth and Matt lay perfectly still, pretending disinterest, but listening intently. They heard the flasher give a small grunt right before a size-ten docksider came crashing through the top half of the bedroom window.

  Matt bolted out of bed. "That's it! That's the end of the line. No more Mister Nice Guy." He flew out of the room and thundered down the stairs.

  Lizabeth followed after him, realized she was naked, and ran back for her robe and slippers.

  From the upstairs hall window she caught a glimpse of a naked man streaking across her lawn. Suddenly there was a lot of shouting. Red and blue flashing lights reflected off the stand of pine trees. And lights blinked on all over the neighbor­hood. Lizabeth raced through the house and out the back door. The police had a man on the ground and neighbors were converging on her yard from all directions.

  "We've got him," Officer Schmidt said. "We didn't have anything better to do tonight, so we thought we'd stake out your yard, and it paid off!" The naked man was facedown in the dirt and Schmidt's knee was square in the middle of the man's bare back.r />
  It was pitch-black, without so much as a sliver of a moon, but Lizabeth had enough light to rec­ognize the long, muscular legs stretched out be­hind Schmidt. 'You've done it again, you num­skull!" she shouted at Schmidt. "That's not the flasher. That's Matt!"

  "Listen, lady, this guy was running through your yard in his birthday suit!"

  "Mmmm. Well, I could see where you might make a mistake, but this is Matt. He was chasing the flasher."

  Schmidt removed his knee. "Sorry." He looked around nervously. "Where's the old lady? She isn't running around in the buff too, is she?"

  Matt stood and dusted himself off, and Lucille Wainstock gasped, and Emma Newsome giggled. Marvin Miller loaned Matt his robe, and Kathy White called Marvin a spoilsport.

  "Excuse me," Bette Sliwicky said, "but I don't understand about this second naked man. Not that I'm complaining, but if he isn't a flasher, why doesn't he have any clothes on?"

  Emma Newsome lapsed into a coughing fit.

  Just great, Lizabeth thought. Here she was re­cently divorced with two young children, and she had a naked man spending the night with her. This would do wonderful things for her reputa­tion. At least she wouldn't have to worry about being asked to run for president of the PTA.

  "I don't have any clothes on because that's the way I sleep . . . without clothes," Matt said.

  "He ran out without thinking," Lizabeth added. "The real flasher threw a shoe and broke my bed­room window, and so Matt jumped out of bed and um . . ." Did she Just say that? Did she actually just tell these people Matt was sleeping naked in her bed? She heard the sound of several eyebrows being raised and gave herself a mental kick. Billy and Jason would pay for this. Word was going to get back to them that their mother was a loose woman. She tilted her nose up a fraction of an inch and pasted a smile on her face. "It just oc­curred to me that, with the possible exception of Officer Schmidt and Officer Dooley, none of you have been introduced to Matt. I'd like you all to meet Matt Hallahan, my husband."

  There was a collective moment of silence. "Is this a new husband?" Emma Newsome finally asked.

  Matt put his arm around Lizabeth and hauled her to his side. "Yup," he said, "I'm brand-new. We just got married yesterday."

  "Is that the reason for the barbecue Saturday?" Emma Newsome asked. "It's sort of a wedding reception. How nice!" She hugged Lizabeth. "I'm so happy for you."

  Lucille Wainstock hugged Lizabeth, and so did Bette Sliwicky. Marvin Miller slapped Matt on the back. "You need an extra grill Saturday? I can drag mine over."

  "Congratulations," Officer Schmidt said to Matt. "You aren't gonna have to live with Lead Foot, are you?"

  "She's just here for the summer."

  "If you'll all excuse us," Lizabeth said. "There are things I have to discuss with my husband."

  Matt followed her into the house. He closed and locked the kitchen door and tried not to look too pleased over the fact that he was suddenly mar­ried. He knew Lizabeth well enough by now to recognize the slight tremor of fury in her voice. Her back was ramrod straight and her eyes snapped at him in the dark kitchen. He had placed her in an awkward situation. He should probably apolo­gize. "Sorry."

  "Sorry? Sorry? That's all you have to say? Sorry? Of all the stupid, moronic, thoughtless—"

  "Yeah, those cops are really dumb, aren't they?"

  "Not the cops. You! You went charging out of the house with no clothes on. And then, as if that isn't bad enough, you just stood there In front of the whole neighborhood, dusting yourself off."

  "Well, what did you expect me to do? Go jump­ing around like an embarrassed teenager? I didn't see that I had a whole lot of options. And anyway, how come I'm not getting any sympathy for being tackled by the Keystone Kops? Don't you want to know if I skinned my . . . knee?"

  The borrowed robe was open, exposing a good six inches of his most vita! parts from neck to knees. It was apparent he hadn't skinned any­thing important, and she was finding it increas­ingly difficult to remember exactly why she was so angry. "You wouldn't have gotten tackled if you hadn't gone berserk. What about 'ignore him and hell go away'?"

  "The man is a lunatic. He threw a shoe through your window." Damned if women weren't confus­ing. He'd risked life and limb to protect her from some yuppie pervert, and she was mad at him! He yanked the refrigerator door open and angrily peered inside. He found a small container of left­over potato salad and went in search of a fork.

  Lizabeth clenched her fists. "Stop clattering in the silverware when we're having a discussion!"

  "I'm hungry. Let me tell you something: Being married to you leaves a lot to be desired."

  Lizabeth stepped back as if she'd been slapped. He wasn't the first man to tell her that. Paul had made her constantly aware of her inadequacies as a wife, and years of hurt and insecurity suddenly welled to the surface. She blinked back tears, thankful for the darkness. This time there was a measure of truth in his accusation. Matt hadn't had such a great night either, and she should have been more concerned with his feelings. Some­how that made it all the worse. A feeling of failure came rolling in like fog. It was silent and isolat­ing. And, like fog it swam away from her as she moved forward, but it was always there, obscuring life. Anger, on the other hand, was something she could sink her teeth into. "We're not married!"

  "Lizzy, I have a news flash for you. In the eyes of this community, we're about as married as any­one can get."

  She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. "How could I have been so dumb? Why did I tell all those people you were my husband?"

  Matt speared a chunk of potato. "You were a desperate woman, Lizzy. You panicked."

  There was a hint of laughter behind his eyes. Damn him, he was in the driver's seat. And he knew it. He held her reputation in the palm of his hand. She tightened the sash on her robe. "I sup­pose I have a few options."

  "You can sell the house and move to Montana."

  Lizabeth rolled her eyes.

  He set the plastic container on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. His voice was soft. A whisper in the darkness. "We could actu­ally get married."

  Her heart jumped in her chest. Marry him. The possibility shimmered in front of her. It was a great big soap bubble of an idea, and it dredged a giggle up from somewhere deep inside. A lifetime of Matt Hallahan grinning at her over the morn­ing paper. A lifetime of warm sheets, and double-dares, and fresh doughnuts from the bakery. He'd protect her from dragons and flashers and hold her close while he slept. And he'd love her long into the night, whispering outrageous suggestions and words of endearment.

  Unfortunately, soap bubbles are fragile and short­lived, and Lizabeth needed something that would endure. Her husband would also be father to her children. She couldn't risk another failed marriage, and what it would do to her sons. And then there was still the motorcycle. She put her fingers to her temples, where a dull throb was taking hold.

  "Got a headache?"

  She nodded. "It's been a long day."

  Lizabeth opened her eyes to a sun-drenched room. Matt had crawled in next to her last night, hugging her to him as if his big body could ward away all earthly problems. And to some extent it could. When she was wrapped in his arms, well-being seeped through the layers of self-doubt. This morning the bed was empty next to her, and she felt a stab of panic. He was gone. Could she blame him? She closed her eyes and groaned. Her life was a mess. "Lizabeth," she said, "you screwed up." She looked at the clock and gasped. It was after ten! And someone was knocking on her front door.

  Lizabeth wrapped her robe tight around herself and answered the door. "Yes?"

  "Blue Star Glass. I'm supposed to fix a window."

  He was short and chunky, and he was wearing a blue shirt with Mike written over the pocket in red script. She stared at him blank-faced, still half asleep. "You must have the wrong house."

  "I don't think so. I got a work order for this address. Very weird, too. Some guy came in first thing this mornin
g, all dressed up in a suit and tie, wearing a paper bag over his head. He said he accidentally broke your bedroom window last night, and he paid me to fix it. Lady, you have some strange friends."

  It was close to twelve when Lizabeth got to work. She scanned the street, but she didn't see Matt's truck or bike. Landscapers were laying sod and planting azaleas in the front yard of the colonial. Backhoes were working across the street, excavat­ing basements. The cul-de-sac would be completed by spring. The carpenters would be replaced by mothers and children. The whine of power tools would give way to the drone of televisions and vacuum cleaners. People would be complaining that they couldn't grow grass because Matt had left too many trees. He'd done It purposely so the cul-de-sac would fit in with the older, more estab­lished community.

  It was quiet and cool in the colonial. Lizabeth stepped into the foyer and listened for the sound of men working. She heard nothing. The house was pretty much done. Next week they would move the office into the house next door, and that's where it would stay until spring. Matt had de­cided to use the second house as a model rather than sell it immediately. She hesitated at the top of the basement stairs, feeling odd in the empty house, wondering if she was still the office man­ager. A lot had happened in twenty-four hours, and she wasn't sure how Matt felt about any of it.

  A phone rang, and the recorder clicked on. "Matt? Are you there? I know you're there!" Thirty seconds of colorful swearing in a deep, masculine voice. "I hate these damn recorders. I hate talking to a machine. And I hate having people listen to me talk to a machine. I don't know why I bother anyway, because nobody ever calls me the hell back. My number is ..." The time ran out and the recorder cut off and rewound.

  Lizabeth hurried down the stairs and played back the rest of the messages. It was after five when she finally stood and stretched. She hadn't seen Matt all day, but she'd found a terse note taped to the desk saying he'd be at the lawyer's most of the afternoon. Probably trying to see if he could get an annulment from a nonexistent mar­riage, she thought. She heard the front door open and close. Footsteps overhead going into the kitchen. Her heart skipped a beat. The workmen were all long gone. It was either Matt or a serial murderer. She contemplated sneaking out the pa­tio door.