Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?

by Jule McBride

  He imagined he’d need to be really gentle. But good—because he wanted Lo to forget the man who’d hurt her. “Be honest,” he muttered. “You want her to forget all men, whether they hurt her or not.”

  A half sigh, half moan escaped his lips. Maybe one of these days he’d simply walk in on her in the shower. He’d draw back the curtain, then let the thick terry robe she’d bought him last week fall from his shoulders to the floor. Naked, he’d step into the shower with her, the water spray prickling his lower body…

  She might blush, but her eyes would trail over him. And he’d let her look—those eyes alone making him ache and burn. Maybe she’d even reach out, twining her damp fingers in the gold hairs of his stilldry chest. Then her hand would inch lower, and lower still, until Max could feel the agonizing pressure of her warm, damp fingers finally curling around his hot, hard shaft…

  He could almost see the fat, warm water drops rolling down her. He’d follow them with his eyes-from her wet hair, slicked back from her face, over the tan lines on her shoulders. Sliding the soap bar from her hand, he’d slowly lather every inch of her-her breasts, her arms, her thighs—until frothy white bubbles coated her sun-touched skin.

  Later, he’d lift the water massager and train the shocking jolts over her erogenous zones, until she leaned back her head in unbridled ecstasy. His hands would glide through the lather again, over the aroused tips of her breasts, her swollen belly, and then down…down…down, slipping deep between her slippery, sudsy thighs.

  “Nah,” Max suddenly said.

  He’d like it a lot better if they were outside. Someplace far away and isolated. Just the two of them. Alone by a lake, for instance. Maybe it could happen after a picnic. They’d be lying on a red-and-whitecheckered tablecloth, feasting their eyes on each other, lazily eating strawberries drenched in heavy cream.

  “Definitely.” Max sighed blissfully, noticing a trace of cream on Lo’s trembling lower lip.

  Leaning, he playfully licked it off. She gazed up at him, laughing. Then, all at once, she rose, coyly crooked her finger and turned and fled. As she ran toward the lake, she lifted her sundress over her head. Just as she plunged into the water, the wind caught the dress. It billowed, then rose like a kite—so far into the sky that she could never get dressed again. Not minding, she dipped down, submerged to her shoulders. A second later, she lifted drenched bits of white fabric above the waterline, her bra and panties.

  “This isn’t a lake,” Max murmured. “It’s heaven.”

  He’d follow her into the water, of course. Explore her in the depths. He would learn her whole body by touch alone. Across the smooth, unbroken surface of the wide lake, the only sound would be the lap of water against her skin. Far off, in all that sweet silence, maybe a bird would take flight. But Max would only hear Lo’s nearby breathing, and the lapping of the cool, soothing water as it warmed with the heat of their desire.

  Suddenly, he heard a big splash—Timmy Rhys’s baseball plunked into the lake.

  Max chuckled.

  No, his best bet was a plain old bed. They’d be doing something ordinary, like sharing dinner at dusk. The last flicker of daylight would dance in her hair—gold in red, like fireflies on autumn hillsides. She’d simply take his hand, and she’d say, “You know how I told you I’d let you know if it was ever time for never?”

  He’d say, “Yeah.”

  And she’d say, “Well, it’s time for never.”

  “No, honey,” he’d return, “it’s time for always.”

  “Good line,” Max murmured aloud, congratulating himself. Yeah, Lo Lambert definitely brought out the writer in him. Trouble was, it wasn’t a line at all. Max really wanted her. Bad. A sharp tug of arousal shot to his groin.

  Maybe he should just go down to her room right now. It was a great plan. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Getting up, Max slipped into the terry robe, then headed down the hallway with T-shirt on his heels.

  Max would simply tell her how he felt.

  Well, maybe he’d emphasize the emotional rather than the physical aspects, since women liked that, he decided, stopping in the bathroom to swish with Listermint. He’d talk about how much fun he’d had assisting with this week’s bingo game. And about how cute she’d looked reading to the kids at the library’s children’s hour. He hadn’t even minded helping her baby-sit Colleen’s girls, or holding T-shirt while he got his booster shots, since Lo said she’d get tearyeyed. All week long, Max had felt needed. He’d felt touched. He’d felt.

  Like he was in love.

  There. Maybe he’d even say that. And then he’d steal one of her grandmother’s lines, he thought as he headed into the hallway again. He’d tell Lo that if she wouldn’t have sex with him right now, she might as well just pick up the telephone and call in Dr. Kevorkian.

  “Take mercy,” he’d say. “I’m in agony. Pain…”

  “No, that won’t work,” Max muttered. “There’s nothing women hate more than needy men.” He didn’t blame them, either.

  Lo. Max almost said her real name out loud. Catching himself, he rapped on her bedroom door. “Max?”

  When there was no response, Max pushed open the door. The room was empty, the bed neatly made. And according to a clock, it was far later than Max had thought. Was she downstairs? The kitchen swam into his mind again. He saw himself kissing her, slowly backing her against the table, which was set for breakfast.

  “Make love to me,” Lo would whisper against his lips.

  “Right here?”

  She’d nod. “I’m ready.”

  Max would grab a corner of the tablecloth. As he swept it away, dishes and cutlery would crash to the floor. Then he’d climbed on top of the table, and on top of Lo and.

  Downstairs a door slammed, bringing Max back to reality. Lo was in the kitchen. Or she had been. Swiftly crossing the bedroom, he peered out a window.

  She was leaving!

  As his Corvette nosed from under the carport, Max bolted to his room, snatching the first clothes he saw. He wasn’t about to let her get away. Zach had called again—this time suggesting Sheldon Ferris could have been her accomplice and then turned on her. Not that there was any hard evidence. But maybe Lo had broken her promise to tell Max where she was going because she was contacting Sheldon. After all, she clearly suspected it was Sheldon who had questioned Gran.

  “Just don’t lose sight of her,” Max growled, hitting the stairs at a hopping run—jumping into cutoffs, shoving his wallet into a pocket, pulling on his boots.

  But he was too late! Trying to tell himself he was motivated by a desire for the truth, not jealousy, Max rushed into the street just as his car lurched around a corner. “And she’s not letting out the clutch,” he muttered.

  Well, he was going to find her. He’d find out whether she was innocent or guilty, too. Then he’d at least know what manner of woman lay beneath him if he slept with her.

  Not if, he corrected. When.

  Max glanced around, feeling desperate. Then he realized Timmy Rhys was coming toward him on a small, apple green track bike. Max waved the kid down. When Timmy braked, Max put his hands on the handlebars.

  “I need your bike,” Max said.

  The ten-year-old squinted up, his freckled nose wrinkling. “Uh…I guess it’s for rent.”

  Max groaned. “You still owe me for the kitchen window.”

  Timmy shrugged. “Price is negotiable.”

  “Fine.” Max whipped out his wallet and slapped a ten in Timmy’s palm. “I don’t have time to argue.”

  A second later, Max was wrestling with the little bike—trying to get the deeply treaded front tire to quit wobbling, angling his pumping knees so they wouldn’t hit the handlebars, wiggling to find the seat with his larger-than-kid-size rear end.

  From somewhere far behind, he heard Timmy call smugly, “I would have taken a buck fifty, Mr. Stover.”

  It was the only time in his life Max seriously considered killing a ten-year-old. The only sav
ing grace was that the bike was faster than running. And within fifteen minutes, Max found his Corvette parked in front of the local library.

  He should have known. Lo was probably planning one of her do-gooder activities—next week’s reading program for the kids or a fund-raising drive to buy new books. Maybe she was simply borrowing books on pregnancy, like those she kept around the house. He sighed, thinking he should start trusting her. At least about the little things. Shoot, maybe he ought to just go inside and ask her out for breakfast.

  Guess again, Max.

  First, she probably wanted lunch by now. And second, he looked like the great unwashed—shirtless, with tousled hair and a scruffy beard. As far as Max was concerned, it was okay that his boxers peeked from beneath the frayed bottoms of his cutoffs. But the underwear was a gift from Suzie, and they had puckered red lips printed all over them. The whole outfit wasn’t exactly helped by his cowboy boots.

  Or the fact that he was riding a ten-year-old’s bicycle.

  Max got off and glanced around. Only the landscaping saved the imposing old stone building from looking more like a mausoleum than a library. Sculpted boxwoods rose from lush, velvety grass, and sprawling rosebushes twined up whitewashed trellises beneath all the windows. Everything was peacefully tranquil. A haven of scholarly decorum.

  Max headed for the door anyway.

  Behind the circulation desk was a matronly stranger with an iron gray bun. Hanging from a chain, her eyeglasses rested against her crisp white blouse. Slipping them on, she gawked at Max. He smiled back. Through two large, airy rooms, he recognized one of Lo’s sweaters, draped over a chair at a reading table.

  Iron Maiden looked so scandalized that Max felt compelled to explain. “I came to see my.” What was he to Lo? A victim? A lover-to-be? The man who would send her to jail? He settled on “friend.”

  The librarian sniffed. “It’s clear you haven’t met Max Tremaine.”

  “But I am—” Max Tremaine. “Looking for Max Tremaine,” Max corrected.

  Iron Maiden stared at him as if to say the Max Tremaine the community knew and loved would never so much as cross paths with the scraggly likes of him. “Next Monday,” she said, “Ms. Tremaine is bringing the issue to vote. Thereafter, shirts and shoes will be required, young man.”

  Young man. It was the second time Max had been called that in a week. He sighed. “I know the boxers look bad, but I’ve got on shoes and I am over thirty.”

  “Over thirty?” the woman echoed in a hushed tone, her steely eyes flickering over him. “And you dressed in that getup all by yourself?”

  “It could be worse.” Max flashed her a devilish grin. “I could have left the shorts at home.”

  Iron Maiden gasped.

  And Max headed toward Lo’s chair. Just as he realized her reading table was strewn with articles about Meredith and Gersham, he glimpsed Lo. She was coming from the stacks, her nose in a book. She didn’t see him. Good, he thought, backing away. He wanted to know what she was up to, but he didn’t want her to know he was spying. Maybe he’d climb one of the trellises outside and peek in the window over her shoulder…

  Feeling like Indiana Jones at the Temple of Scholarly Tomes, Max planted Timmy’s bike against the building, shoved down the kickstand, and climbed.

  After a moment, he managed to anchor one boot on the rose-and-thorn-covered trellis, while the other balanced on the seat of the wobbling bike. Stretching for the window, Max tried not to look down at the mess of tangled roses below. He curled his whitening knuckles over the exterior window ledge.

  “What am I doing?” he muttered.

  He felt like a cartoon character hanging from a cliff. Especially when Timmy’s kickstand started rebelling against his weight—sinking in the dirt and forcing the bike to tilt. Just forget your precarious position and concentrate. Leaning even closer to the window, he saw that the letters “B.B.” were written on Lo’s legal pad. Was “B.B.” a name? Max wondered. Or was the reference to a B.B. gun? Lo had also written “Arkansas?” and two phone numbers, which Max memorized. Did Lo’s research show she was innocent and trying to clear her own name?

  Don’t get too hopeful, Max. But against his will, his attention strayed to Lo’s hair. It was just the way he always imagined it in his fantasies—the soft morning light flecking it with gold. It was the burnished red of autumn leaves and winter fires and.

  Her head suddenly turned.

  Max froze. Oh, please, don’t let her turn all the way around. He’d feel like an idiot if she caught him. Shoot. He already felt like an idiot. He strained, trying to sense signs of further movement, and he became conscious of the street sounds—a car horn, a humming motor, a distant siren.

  Lo turned back to her legal pad. She wrote and angrily underscored the name “Sheldon.” Then she wrote “Setup?” Since they’d been dating, Max was sure Sheldon was the father of Lo’s baby, but had Sheldon really let Lo take the fall for crimes they’d both committed? If so, it was a low blow. A double whammy. Max whistled softly.

  And then he lost his balance.

  A half grunt, half yell escaped from him as his boot slipped from the trellis. The other stayed on the wobbly bike seat, but his hands slid from the window ledge, then snatched at thin air. For a second, Max felt like a high-wire unicyclist in a circus act.

  And then it was over.

  He landed flat on his back in the prickly rosebushes. For a moment, Max merely shut his eyes, listening to an approaching siren. Good, he thought. Maybe it’s an ambulance. He breathed deeply, waiting for the pain. When it didn’t come, he decided his back might not be broken. Opening his eyes, he groaned. Far above him, the heavy window rolled laboriously upward, its pulleys so ancient that it sounded as if a bowling ball were rolling down an alley.

  Iron Maiden’s head popped out the window. The siren came closer, sounding every bit as loud as Iron Maiden’s shriek. “One look at that man and I knew he was up to no good!”

  Lo’s head appeared next to Iron Maiden’s. Her eyes lingered on his lip-print boxers, then her lips twitched. “He looks like a—a—”

  “Hooligan,” Iron Maiden finished. “It’s a darn good thing I called the police.”

  Max winced. He was still lying on his back in the rosebushes. Couldn’t they just take some pity on him? Besides, if the police questioned him, they’d discover there wasn’t really a bodyguard named Boots Stover. “Max,” Max called out. “Please tell that woman who I am.” As he shimmied gingerly to his elbow, he felt thorny pinpricks on his backside. He guessed it could have been worse. He could have sat on cacti. He glanced up again.

  Lo and Iron Maiden squinted down. Lo said, “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

  Max struggled to sit “But—”

  “Don’t move!” a woman shouted.

  Max ignored the command, moving enough to catch a glimpse of Dotty Jansen. Every bit as pregnant as Lo, the police officer was waddling forth in full uniform—badge out, weapon drawn.

  “Move one more time and I swear I’ll shoot!” Dotty yelled.

  Great. Dotty didn’t recognize him. “We would have met at Colleen’s on July fourth,” Max called out reasonably, “but you had to work. I swear I’m a good guy. I’m a friend of Max Tremaine’s. I’m—”

  “Under arrest.”

  9

  How Two Wrongs Finally Make a Right

  “OUCH,” MAX SAID.

  He was leaning forward, gripping the sides of the sink in the upstairs bathroom while Lo dabbed at his multiple injuries with an alcohol-drenched cotton ball. As she bit back a smile, her eyes drifted over his broad, bare back. Except for the red dots left by the rose thorns, his skin was creamily smooth and evenly bronzed. The wide expanse of his silky, rounded shoulders tapered downward in an enticing V.

  “Now, quit complaining,” Lo teased.

  Max groaned. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping on a bed of nails. Or used for a pincushion.”

  “Good. That’s what you get for sp
ying on me.”

  “I wasn’t spying.”

  “Were too.” Lo shot him a pointed glance. “Anyway, it could be a lot worse.”

  “I doubt it, honey,” Max returned grumpily.

  “Timmy could have found a scratch on his bike. Or Dotty really could have arrested you.”

  “Oh, please,” Max returned drolly. “I was handcuffed and caged in the back seat of her cruiser like an animal before you found it in your heart to tell her who I was.”

  Lo laughed. Then she growled like a tiger and pinched Max’s back. “You are an animal.”

  Max chuckled. “Watch it, honey, or I’ll turn around and make you better acquainted with my more animal side.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Ask me one more time and you’ll find out”

  Lo’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “C’mon,” she chided, “I did tell Dotty not to haul you in for questioning.”

  “Yeah, at the eleventh hour.” Max shook his head. “I just can’t believe that lady called the cops—”

  “Her name’s Mrs. Wold,” Lo reminded.

  “Hey, she’ll always be the Iron Maiden to me.”

  Lo tilted the alcohol again, wet the cotton and continued dabbing it on Max’s back. “Is that why you promised her you’d vote for the library’s new shirtand-shoes policy?”

  “No—” The breath Max drew through his clenched teeth made a hissing sound. “I promised her my vote because I hate to think of another poor, shirtless guy living in this kind of pain.”

  Lo leaned back. “Just hold still.”

  “I don’t want to hold still.”

  She sighed—either because—Max was being difficult or because touching his bare back was making her feel so wistful. She just wished she knew if Max had seen the notes on the legal pad that was now safely secured in her oversize handbag. Was it possible he had guessed her identity?

  Until today, she’d forgotten about the shoe box in the desk drawer downstairs. Of course, even if Max had found her newspaper photo, the picture was as bad as the one Sergeant Mack had and he might not have recognized her. She frowned. Max had maintained a silence about her deception for some time now, and she hadn’t a clue as to what he was thinking.