Notorious

by Susan Andersen

  And, sure enough, she was sitting on the dock right where he thought she would be. Knees drawn up to her chest, ankles crossed, she hugged her shins as she stared out into the darkness shrouding the peripheries of the lake. The invisible chorus of frogs and crickets went abruptly silent at his approach, making the creak of the dock as he stepped onto it sharp as a gunshot.

  "Go away," she ordered without turning around.

  "No."

  "Dammit, Jon." She sighed wearily, staring out into the night. "I am in no mood for your motherless-chile-don't-know-right-from-wrong routine right now."

  "You’re in luck, then—I didn't plan on running it by you."

  "Go. Away."

  "Not gonna happen, petunia." He listened to the soft slap of water against the pilings for several seconds, then sat down behind her. Sliding his legs along either side of her hips, he crowded his chest up against her back. When she leaned forward, holding herself stiffly away from him; his upper body followed.

  He did not push his luck, however, by trying to wrap his arms around her as well; he would probably just gain himself a sharp elbow in the gut for his trouble. Forcing his fingers to relax, he rested his wrists atop his bent knees and let his hands dangle.

  "You okay?" he asked quietly when the silence had stretched on awhile. One by one, the crickets resumed their nocturnal chorus, joined occasionally by the amphibian rhythm and bass section.

  "Oh, sure." The little huff of air she exhaled said otherwise. "I am just super-dandy." But her spine relaxed a bit against his stomach and chest and her shoulders lost some of their stiffness.

  "The carrion-eaters are coming to town, huh?"

  "To pick this carcass clean." Her back settling a little more firmly against him, she shot him a puzzled glance over her shoulder. "How did you find out?"

  "Joe told me." Right after he had cornered the guy at the end of his break and demanded to know what the fuck he had said to make Hayley go whiter than Mother Voodoo's bleached bones. After hearing the explanation, he had wondered when Beal had gotten so cozy with the staff at the Royal Inn. But since that was hardly his main consideration , he hadn’t asked. Instead, he had kept a wary eye on Hayley, biding his time until closing. “Along with some Senator from New Hampshire?”

  "Wonderful. He chatted up the entire bar."

  "No, he told me. Period." Cautiously, Jon-Michael slid his arms around her, taking it as a good sign when she didn’t immediately head-butt his teeth down his throat. "But Hayley, honey," he felt compelled to caution her, "I wouldn’t go holding my breath if I were you. I doubt a motel full of vultures and a hot-shot senator will pass unnoticed. Not in this burg."

  "No, I certainly mustn’t hope for that," she agreed bitterly. It was the gravity-laden resignation in her voice, however, that had Jon-Michael tightening his hold on her.

  "The official countdown has begun," she said, staring straight ahead. "It is now less than thirty days to the execution. You know what, Johnny?"

  "Don't call me—"

  "I sort of hoped if I wasn't available the media would move on to something else—or at least find another angle to pursue. Out of sight, out of mind, or some such optimistic bullshit." She sat quietly for a moment, then emitted a sound like a balloon leaking air. "No such luck, I guess. I'm a hot commodity."

  He didn't know what to say to her, so he remained silent. What could he say? She had been living in a goldfish bowl for a couple years now and her hopes of escaping it had just been blown to hell. He rubbed her cool, bare arms with his warm hands.

  "The television journalists are the worst," she said in a low voice. "Not that they aren't all equal opportunity hounders, but at least most of the newspaper people end up writing a fairly complete, factual account." She stared out over the water. "News on TV, though, has been reduced to nothing more than thirty second sound bites. And let's face it, even those are slanted in whatever direction will draw the most ratings."

  Jon-Michael hated the resignation in her voice. Sure, she had a right to her distress. But the Hayley he knew had never simply rolled over to accept whatever bad luck came her way; she had fought back. She could be reserved at the oddest moments, but she sure as hell had a mouth on her when it counted most. That was an ironclad guarantee. The defeat he heard now made him crazy.

  "We interrupt your local programming to bring you this special bulletin," he burst out and tightened his hold when she jerked in his arms. "A recess has been called in the latest Lawrence Wilson appeal after both lawyers were called to the bench. We take you live to the county courthouse for an in-depth interview with Hamm Blowdry, our trial-watch specialist. Hamm?" Jon-Michael stuck his fist out, a mock microphone. "Can you tell us why the recess has been called?" He felt Hayley go very still within the cradle of his body.

  "The lawyers consulted with the judge in a manner that can only be described as highly secretive," he replied in a deeper, smoother voice. “So all I can say is the recess could have been called for any number of reasons." He paused one beat and then two. "Hayley Prescott may well have broken down under cross examination and admitted to something nefarious. I was in the john at the time, but I always did think there was something just a lit-tle too goody-two-shoes about that woman. Or it is always possible there was evidence of jury-tampering. Odds are decent an ancestor of Wilson's changed his name at Ellis Island. He's probably connected clear back to Sicily.”

  He brought the fist-mike back to his lips. “Well! Whatever it turns out to be, you can rest easy knowing this Nose for News will stay on the job until the last rock has been overturned and its seamy underbelly thoroughly examined."

  Hayley wanted to be insulted he was mocking her misery. She wanted to hang onto her sense of being misused.

  But she couldn't help it; she laughed.

  "It is not funny, you know," she said sternly…then ruined the effect by snickering. "You may think your little improvisation is a joke, Jon-Michael, but you are actually not that far off the mark."

  "Yeah, I know. But you can't let the assholes get you down."

  She twisted around to stare up at him. "Oh, easy for you to say. You haven’t had them dogging your every footstep for the past too many years."

  He did not reply, but rather stared down at her with those inscrutable chocolate brown eyes. Hayley felt his hard chest shift against her shoulder as he shrugged. She twisted back to face front. A few minutes later, his chin lowered to rest atop her head and they sat in silence, staring out at the dark, impenetrable lake, each thinking their separate thoughts.

  Eventually, she made a subtle movement that caused Jon-Michael's legs to go lax on either side of her, his arms to drop away. She flipped over until she was on all fours, her knees between his thighs, her hands braced against the dock next to his hips. She craned her head back to stare up at him.

  "Thanks," she said softly. And stretched to peck a soft kiss on his lips.

  For an act intended to be merely friendly, the effect was dizzyingly electric. Her head froze in the act of pulling back. Her gaze snapped up to meet his.

  Jon-Michael sucked in a sharp breath.

  Then he wrapped his fingers around a fistful of her thick, warm hair and tugged to tilt her head back further yet, exposing the vulnerable arch of her throat. He lowered his head to kiss her.

  He fully expected to control it, thought he could just kiss her socks off for a few red-hot minutes, then stroll away, unaffected.

  Funny how it didn't work that way.

  Not when her lips were incredibly soft and the inside of her mouth hotter than a crucible. The instant her lips parted and he slid his tongue into a humid cavern that felt like home, he realized he was in deep, deep trouble.

  Too damn late to do him a bit of good.

  With an involuntary rumble deep in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl, he lay back, pulling Hayley atop his chest. Immediately he rolled them until her backside kissed the dock's worn planks and he was propped on his side half beside and half ove
r her. His kiss grew fiercely urgent against soft, receptive lips.

  With forearms flat against the deck and his hands in her hair, he hemmed her in, not trusting her to stay with him all the way. Sure, she clung to him now, twisting to rub her breasts against him as she kissed him back with that furnace-hot mouth and supple tongue. But who was to say she wouldn’t come to her senses any second now and kick his sorry butt right off the dock? Before that happened he intended to experience as much of her as possible.

  He unbuttoned her vest one handedly and smoothed it open. He started to pull his mouth away but she made a sound of protest and thrust her hands in his hair to bring him back.

  So he went back to kissing her. Hard, deep, wet kisses. Then he determinedly raised his head and looked down at her.

  "Jesus." For all intents and purposes she was bare to the waist. Her vest, lying open against the wooden planks, and the once-perky little turquoise bow tie did not constitute much in the way of cover.

  She was all light golden skin, creamy triangles of white flesh and pale pointed nipples. The boathouse light was on tonight and its softly diffused illumination coming through willow branches painted watercolor delicacy over what he had missed the last time they were here.

  He slid down to angle his mouth beneath her jaw, pressing kisses into the sleek skin there and scraping his teeth along the warm column of her throat as he worked his way down its satiny length. His right hand, impatient with the pace, raced ahead to stroke the delicate curve of her left breast. It was warm. Soft. Silky. Plucking its tiny jutting nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he gently squeezed.

  "Oh!” she breathed. Her back arched up off the dock. “Oh, my gawd!"

  He watched her. "You are so pretty, Hayley. Just...so... damn...pretty."

  Hayley looked up into Jon-Michael’s Hershey-dark eyes, so heavy-lidded and absorbed as they studied his fingers working her breast, at his mouth, unsmiling within the framework of his omnipresent dark stubble. Then his gently compressing fingers pulled at her nipple again, and her eyes slid shut as she focused on the sensations telegraphing straight to the coil of tight, aching want pulsing deep between her thighs. "Jon-Michael, please."

  "What, do you want, Hayley? This?" And he moved lower, his gaze intent on her face as his mouth closed around her unattended nipple and sucked hard. His hand slid from her breast to work the fastenings to her jeans.

  Lightning struck, a white-hot blistering bolt shooting from her breast to that needy, aching spot deep between her thighs. Hips arching, she shuddered, her hands coming up to clutch fistfuls of his hair, holding his head to her breast. "Oh, God, oh, please."

  Her sweet responsiveness brought Jon-Michael up onto his knees, his back hunched to keep his lips anchored to her breast. But he had to release it to pull off his shirt and fling it aside. Then he tore at her jeans, pushing them down to her calves. Hayley bicycled her feet, kicking free of the restriction. Dropping back over her, he positioned himself between her legs.

  Gently recapturing her nipple, he gave it a single suck, drinking in her sharp gasp of arousal. Releasing it with a final pull of his lips, he moved up to kiss her again, his hands scooping beneath her head to cradle her skull. Reveling in the soft fullness of her wild hair twisting between and around his fingers, he looked down at her.

  "Touch me," he demanded and closed his eyes in unmitigated pleasure when her hands rose to stroke the hair-roughened muscles of his chest. When they trailed to his diaphragm and slowly caressed his abs on a downward trajectory, he shuddered all over and eased down until he was lying on his stomach between her thighs.

  Running his hands along her smooth shins to her ankles, he strung kisses from her diaphragm to her navel. Her knees were bent on either side of him, the soles of her feel flat against the dock, and he circled her narrow ankles with his fingers, raising her legs and pushing them back until she was spread open beneath him, her knees brushing her breasts. The feel of her lace covered mound, damp and warm beneath his chest, had him gritting his teeth and pressing his erection against the old weathered boards. He dipped his head to tongue her navel.

  "Oh, God, Johnny. Please."

  His fingers slid down her calves to the backs of her knees, then to her thighs, and he raised himself to look down at her. Inexpensive synthetic lace covered her, but it clung damply, revealing more than it hid, as it outlined plump, feminine lips. "I will please you," he assured her hoarsely and lowered his open mouth to that beckoning lace.

  He exhaled a long, hot breath over her cleft and felt her writhe, heard her breath catch. Using his tongue on her, he felt the soft lips part, the lace tucking into her silky little furrow. He scraped his teeth over the round pearl of her clitoris, then grew impatient with the cloth separating his mouth from her naked flesh.

  Sliding his hands into the panties, he rent them in two with one fierce yank.

  Hayley shot up onto her elbows. "Jon-Michael!" It was clear she was shocked by his action, perhaps even outraged.

  "I'll buy you new ones, Hayley," he promised and lowered his head to lick at her, fascinated by the smoothness of the plump lips beneath his tongue. He tore his gaze away from the pretty, pretty sight and raised his head to meet her eyes. "I swear, I will buy you new ones, but, please, first let me…“

  Her elbows melted out from under her and he lowered his head once again.

  Lust rode him hard, but there was something even stronger at play, something expanding like a helium balloon in his chest as he brought her nearer and nearer to orgasm. The emotion built as she clutched at his hair and pleaded for release. It exploded like a bomb when she cried out and clamped her thighs over his ears. When she gradually went limp beneath him he raised his head to press a gentle kiss against the inside curve of her sprawled thigh. "Jesus," he said wonderingly, "I love you."

  He could hardly credit it, but that was exactly what he had felt growing inside him. Not pride in his prowess, not male satisfaction that he could make her come. Love. Holy shit. "I love you, Hayley," he repeated. Raising up on his knees, he reached for his zipper.

  The next thing he knew, the bottom of her feet hit him squarely in the chest and she gave a mighty thrust, sending him flying.

  He landed on his ass on the end of the dock. Feeling himself going over, he threw out an arm to catch himself, but he was too damn close to the edge and, stomach plunging like a Tilt a Whirl, he toppled over.

  The cold water felt shockingly cold as it closed over his head before he could regain control of his reflexes. Then he gave a strong kick and surfaced with a roar, flinging his hair from his eyes. Hayley was scrambling into her pants on the dock above him, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  "What the hell, Hayley! Why did you do that?" Furious, he reached for the dock to hoist himself up.

  She stomped on his fingers with her bare feet. "You bastard," she sobbed. "You dirty rotten bastard!"

  "Ouch! Sweet Baby Jesus on the B train!" Snatching his hands back, he treaded water at the end of the dock. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

  She dashed the backs of her wrists against her cheeks and quit fumbling with the buttons on her vest to pin him in place with her glare. "Do not talk to me about love, you stinking two-bit Casanova," she said fiercely. "Don't you ever talk to me about that! The last time I heard those words from your lying lips, I found myself the reigning slut of Lincoln High!"

  Shock ran through Jon-Michael. Oh, God, he had told her he loved her that night, too? Was there no stone he had left unturned before he had gone straight from her to inform the entire—

  But sexual frustration, for the moment stronger than guilt, cut short his journey into self recrimination. Jon-Michael refused to show so much as a hint of his astonishment . He flashed her a nasty smile. "You liked my lips just fine a minute ago, sweetheart," he said coolly, eyeing her up and down as she bent to snatch her tattered panties off the dock and stuff them in her pants pocket. "And your principles were not nearly so high and mighty. Note they didn't rea
r their sanctimonious little heads until after I got you off."

  Her hands stilled and slowly she straightened. There was not a tear in sight when she approached the edge of the dock to look down at him.

  Causing atavistic short hairs on the back of Jon-Michael's neck to stand on end.

  "That is true," she acknowledged and uttered a low, throaty laugh that drew his attention from the look in her eyes. "And for that I really must thank you, Jon-Michael. It has been an age for me." Squeezing her thighs together as if in remembrance, she peeled her vest open to once again display her naked breasts. Licking a finger, she rubbed it over her nipple, and his cock, which had shriveled like a leaky balloon when he hit the cold water, reared to full attention once again.

  "Take a good look, Johnny," she invited, still rubbing that finger back and forth, back and forth, across her erect little nipple.

  He lunged for the dock.

  But she was ready for him and, planting her toes on his shoulder, she shoved him back in the water. Her voice was flat when it reached his ears.

  "Take a good, long look," she reiterated, closing and buttoning her vest. "Then think of me when you die of hairy palms. Because you will never see these babies again."

  Twelve

  Where on earth is Joe? I stop pacing at the living room window every few minutes to look out. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.

  Three times now we have made plans to get together to discuss our marriage, and three times he has called at the last minute to say he can't make it. But he promised he would be here today, no excuses.

  I do not understand why he doesn't just move back home where he belongs. So I saved a few newspaper clippings and a handful of television sound bites about an old schoolmate. Big deal. What is so problematic about that? Hayley is an old friend—it is only natural I am interested in the extraordinary events surrounding my chum the past few years.