Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?

by Jule McBride

  They’d become so relaxed with each other. At times, she almost forgot who he really was—and conned herself into thinking she was Max and he was Boots and they could innocently pursue a relationship. And yet she knew there was something more behind Max’s flirtatious expressions. Guessing at what that something was kept her on pins and needles. Still, if Max suspected her real identity, why hadn’t he turned her in?

  Lo could only hope he didn’t anytime soon. All week she’d thought the baby was coming. Of course, it was early, and she’d only been experiencing false alarms. Suddenly, Max’s gasp drew her from her reverie. He was glaring at her over his shoulder.

  “I never figured you for the leather-and-studs type,” he grumbled.

  Lo raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “I mean, you’re being downright sadistic.”

  His gaze met hers in the mirror. For a second, Lo couldn’t breathe. Like amber whiskey in a crystal glass beside a fire, those eyes warmed her, drifting over her. Lo shot him a sweet smile, then held up the tiny wet cotton ball. “Does this really look like a whip to you?”

  Max squinted into the mirror. “More like a chain.”

  Lo chuckled. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  His mouth quirked. “Just remember that’s my tender back you’re attacking.”

  “If I forget, I’m sure you’ll remind me.” Lo turned her attention to his injuries again, working her way down to where the crinkly elastic waistband of his boxers peeked from his cutoffs.

  “Now what’s so funny?” he said.

  “Your underwear.”

  Max shot another wry glance over his shoulder. “Can I help it if they’re in bad taste? My sister bought them for me last Valentine’s Day.”

  “Your sister may have bought them,” Lo said. “But you’re the one who’s wearing them.”

  Max shrugged. “Shorts are shorts.”

  But they weren’t just shorts on him. “Well, some men wear them better than others.”

  The remark was meant to be flirtatious, but Lo’s voice came out strangled. Suddenly, she was aware of the silence in the small bathroom. And that Max seemed to fill what scant space was left. She could hear his deep, even breathing. And she could smell his bare, sun-warmed skin. When she imagined the salty taste of it, her fingers trembled on his back. Her sharp intake of breath was painfully audible, betraying her emotion, and Max’s head tilted as if he was straining to hear her inner thoughts.

  Lo mustered an efficient tone. “Well, I guess that about does it.” Loudly, she recapped the alcohol bottle and set it on the sink. “Excuse me,” she added as she leaned down, reaching past Max’s legs to toss the cotton into a wastebasket.

  “So you like the way I wear my shorts?”

  As Lo straightened, one of her bare knees brushed Max’s leg—and a heady, dizzy sensation threatened to cut off her breath. Her swollen belly, suddenly full of butterflies, was still pressing against the man’s back, and he was watching her carefully in the mirror.

  “Yeah,” she managed to say. “The shorts are cute.”

  “Cute?”

  Max’s level gaze reminded her he was anything but cute. He was all man. All leather and denim and Old Spice. Although he was gentle, sweet and funny, Lo knew those powerful thighs could hold her tight, and those corded forearms might never let her go. She swallowed hard. “Maybe cute’s not exactly the word,” she conceded as Max slowly turned around to face her.

  “Then what is?” he asked huskily.

  As she shrugged, he reached up and brushed imaginary strands of hair from her forehead. When both his thumbs dropped down to caress her collarbone, everything seemed to stop. Lo was afraid to move or breathe or even look at him. Maybe it was because of all the lies between them. Or maybe it was just that she was afraid he might stop touching her if she moved.

  His thumbs had begun caressing a warm trail on her skin, but now his hands opened, his palms resting flat on her upper chest, the fingers splayed. Her breath caught. She waited for his hands to drop once more, to glide over her breasts—cupping them, feeling their weight.

  Max’s voice grew suddenly rough with desire, his eyes warm with the heat of it. “I want you,” he said in a near whisper. His gaze flickered downward, over her belly. “Can you.”

  Make love? At nothing more than that—the unspoken phrase, the mere suggestion—heat seared Lo, charging her nerves, tunneling to her core. “Make love?” she asked aloud, her own voice raspy.

  When he didn’t immediately answer, her hand rose needlessly, nervously fiddling with her sundress strap. Max made her feel so emotionally naked, exposed.

  His finger gently hooked around hers, stopping the movement. His voice was low, almost gruff. “I want to make love to you. But I know the baby’s due soon. If it’s too late in your pregnancy.”

  Lo swallowed against the dryness of her throat. As if anticipating his touch, her nipples constricted against the light yellow summer silk of her dress. Max must have noticed. He brushed a kiss across her lips, while his fingers grazed those taut, sensitive tips with such terrifying tenderness she might have only imagined it.

  “It’s fine,” she managed to say when Max leaned away. “I’m not due quite yet. Even if I was, the doctor said it was all right up until the baby’s born. As long as—” color warmed her cheeks “—as it feels all right.”

  Max angled his head downward. “Believe me,” he assured her, his lips brushing hers again. “It’ll feel all right.”

  And she knew it would.

  He embraced her then, his strong arms tightly circling her back as his lips pressed hers apart. Without warning, his warm tongue suddenly plunged deep, making the moment explode.

  His body was so hard. His chest so bare. And the kiss, such sweet, savage torment. Now, he wasn’t asking her if she wanted to make love. He was telling her they would. Each hot thrust of his calculating tongue, each flickering touch of his torturous fingers on her breasts made her burn for him.

  Then he shifted his weight against the sink, spreading his legs, drawing her between them until she felt his erection press against her belly. She gasped, never wanting anything more than she did this man at this moment. Vaguely, she realized his silken back had turned hot and slick beneath her hands. Or maybe her palms, which explored the ridges of his muscles, had begun to dampen. Either way, her own flimsy little dress suddenly seemed less like clothing and more like something she’d draped around herself to tease him.

  After a moment, he broke their kiss and reached into the cabinet behind them. And then she realized what he was looking for. “We don’t have any,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so stricken.

  There was another longer, even more stricken pause. Then Max said, “We don’t?”

  “I’m a pregnant woman without a boyfriend.” Lo shot him a wan smile. “Why would I have condoms?”

  Max began trailing kisses along her neck. “Because you have a boyfriend now.”

  “Is that what you are?” she murmured.

  Max nodded. “Is this like in that movie Frankie and Johnny? You know, where she really has a whole hope chest of Trojans, but she won’t admit it because then it would look like she was expecting to have sex?”

  Lo laughed softly. “A hope chest full of condoms?”

  Max leaned back and surveyed her. “Sure. Michelle Pfeiffer had them in all textures and sizes and—”

  “That was not in the movie.” Lo smiled, never imagining that being with a man could be so easy. “Since I’m not holding out on you, I guess you’d better get going, sailor.”

  Max groaned. “Why does the guy always have to go on the condom run?”

  “One of life’s awful little double standards?” Lo suggested. “But since I’m liberated, I’ll ride shotgun.”

  Max playfully caressed her backside. “Next thing you know, you’ll have me burning my jockstraps.” With that, he grabbed her hand and started tugging her toward the stairs. “You know, this isn’t exactly how
I imagined making love to you. I mean, not one fantasy began with me falling in a rosebush.”

  Lo raised her eyebrows. “So you’ve had fantasies?”

  Max’s twinkling eyes said there’d been many. “A few.”

  Lo mustered a Dr. Ruth-like German accent. “Like to talk about them?”

  “I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours.”

  She tried to look offended. “You really think I’ve been lollygagging around all day with nothing better to do than fantasize about a mere man?”

  “Yeah.” Max pinched her side. “And not just any man. Me.”

  “So far,” Lo admitted, “the reality’s exceeded the fantasies.”

  “Let’s see…” Max leaned closer, murmuring against her lips. “So far, you’ve drenched my back in alcohol, and now we’re going condom shopping.” Right before his lips closed over hers for another teasing kiss, he whispered, “No offense, honey, but I’m hoping the best is yet to come.”

  “WHAT’S A TROJAN?” Jeffie Rhys demanded loudly.

  Max’s eyes had been fixed on Lo—drifting appreciatively over her dress. Now she watched those luscious amber eyes widen in horror and stare down at Timmy Rhys’s five-year-old brother, Jeffie.

  “A Trojan’s sumpthin’ bad, isn’t it, Mr. Stover?” Jeffie continued.

  Max looked so flabbergasted that Lo took pity and said, “No, Jeffie, they’re not one bit bad.”

  Looking vaguely disappointed, Jeffie shrugged and stared behind the deli counter again. A clerk Lo didn’t recognize—a blond, fortyish man whose name tag said Gene—was busy making hot dogs for the Rhys family. Unfortunately, Gene hadn’t heard Max ask for the condoms—only Jeffie had.

  “Hey, Maxine!” Melvin Rhys yelled from the back of the store where he and Timmy were getting colas and chips. “Is Jeffie giving you and Boots a hard time?”

  Lo shook her head. “Nope.”

  Then she and Max shared a joint sigh. At Colleen’s, Melvin had introduced Max to people as “Maxine’s lover,” but no one had taken it seriously. Now, Max and Lo were hardly ready to announce what was about to go on behind closed doors. And since the whole neighborhood was in the 7-Eleven, they’d been milling around here forever.

  They’d watched Dotty Jansen scrutinize every pretzel and potato chip, unable to decide what might diminish her pregnancy cravings. Then, right before the Rhyses arrived, Slade Dickerson had taken an eternity to choose his lotto numbers. Since there were only four scant aisles in the store, Gene was starting to watch Max and Lo suspiciously, as if convinced they were stealing.

  Lo’s eyes met Max’s again, and they exchanged another desperate glance. Without apology, she took in the way his cutoffs molded his lower contours. The knit shirt he’d put on had risen, showing an inch of his taut, bronzed belly, so she gingerly tugged it down, letting her fingers trace his bare skin. Just that touch made her fingers itch—to tangle in his tousled tawny hair, to lose themselves in the folds of his shorts.

  “Not much longer,” she mouthed over Jeffie’s head.

  Max grumpily whispered, “Now Colleen’s here.”

  Lo’s eyes shot to the 7-Eleven’s double doors. Sure enough, a wood-paneled station wagon had pulled up. Just as all the doors opened like wings and girls in all sizes flew out, Jeffie reached up and tugged Max’s shirt again.

  “C’mon,” Jeffie crooned. “You gotta tell me what a Trojan is, ‘cause my big brother, Timmy, let you use his bike.”

  “He charged me a ten-dollar rental fee,” Max protested. When that didn’t appease Jeffie, Max continued, “A Trojan’s uh.uh.”

  His voice trailed off as Colleen’s daughters swarmed around him, peering into the ice-cream coolers. His eyes sought Lo’s, then moved helplessly to the deli menu. “It’s a sandwich,” Max finally said to Jeffie. “You know, a Trojan. It’s like a hoagie. Or a falafel or a club.”

  Lo clucked. “A sandwich?” she echoed under her breath as she waved at Colleen.

  Colleen waved back. “One ice-cream bar apiece, girls,” she shouted. “And no fighting.”

  “I thought it was a horse,” Jeffie said. “So, if a Trojan’s a sandwich and a horse, is that why people say they can eat a horse?”

  “Kids,” Max murmured so only Lo could hear. “You gotta love ‘em.”

  When Max’s eyes drifted downward, she could feel the heat of his gaze warming her belly as surely as a touch. Then his hand followed in a gentle caress. He was saying he wanted to be a father…but to her child? She managed to clear her throat. “Jeffie, I’m not really sure if a Trojan is a horse.”

  “Indeed!” Mrs. Wold suddenly interjected from behind them. “The Trojan horse wasn’t a real horse at all. You see, Jeffie, it all goes back to an ancient war between the Greeks and the Trojans…”

  The librarian’s voice seemed to recede as Lo gazed deep into the golden brown warmth of Max’s eyes. Like the last glowing embers of a fire, the lingering glance warmed her to her soul. Max nodded pointedly toward the countless boxes of condoms gathering dust on a faraway shelf behind the counter.

  “So close and yet so far,” he mouthed.

  “And this ancient war,” Mrs. Wold was explaining, “was fought for the love of Helen of Troy.”

  At the mention of love, Jeffie’s eyes started to glaze.

  Max shook his head. “What a man won’t do for the love of a beautiful woman,” he remarked to Mrs. Wold.

  “So true,” the librarian enthused. She glanced approvingly at Max’s shirt, her eyes twinkling. “Some might even start wearing clothes.”

  Max laughed. “Wearing shirts seems safer than starting a war.”

  Jeffie stomped his foot. “But I still don’t know what a Tro—”

  “Jeffie,” Lo interjected, “I bet Mrs. Wold would love to explain more about Trojans while Mr. Stover and I shop.”

  “You two go right ahead,” said Mrs. Wold pleasantly.

  As Lo and Max headed down an aisle, Mrs. Wold’s voice rose. “The Trojan horse was really a large, hollow wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers that was driven inside the walls of Troy during the war…”

  Max smiled at Lo and draped his arm around her shoulder. “Why didn’t we think of that? If only we’d stormed the 7-Eleven in a Trojan horse, I could have leapt out, gotten the con—”

  “Gladdy and I do hope we’ll be seeing you at mass this week, Maxine!” Helen Milihouse interrupted brightly. She swept toward them down an aisle, adjusting the bright blue, wide-brimmed summer hat that covered her hair.

  Gladys followed Helen, fanning herself with a lace handkerchief. “It certainly is hot today,” she remarked as she passed.

  Fixing Gladys with a solemn expression, Max caressed Lo’s side. “It seemed much hotter a little earlier in the day.”

  “It did, Mr. Stover,” Gladys said agreeably. “It most certainly did.”

  Max suddenly chuckled. “Any particular reason we’ve stopped by the spices again?”

  Lo thought of the warm, peppery heat of his embraces and the tangy spiciness of his kisses. She shook her head. “No. Anything we really need?”

  “Yeah.” His hot gaze flickered over her. “I need you.”

  “I mean food.”

  A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “If you’re good, I’ll fix you one of my famous Trojan sandwiches.”

  Lo’s laughter was tempered to a smile as Max’s hand slid down her back and resettled on her waist. They started walking again, their strides evenly matched. Then he leaned close and kissed her ear. “I do intend to eat you up, you know.”

  Lo murmured, “Sounds dangerous.”

  Max’s eyes turned somber. “Honey, this is dangerous.”

  Time suddenly seemed to stand still. The air seemed heavier, thrumming with the low-voiced conversations all around them. They really were in dangerous territory. And in this crazy landscape, it was hard to tell which road led to the land of happily ever after—and which to heartbreak.

  Lo tried to clear her throat and could
n’t. “I’ve never felt this way before.” She was so thirsty for him, and it wasn’t the kind of thirst that just one drink could quench.

  Max stared at her. “Not even with your…your ex?”

  Sudden, flinty anger rushed in on Lo—anger at herself for all the lies she’d told him. But just as her lips parted to spill her secrets, an image of Father Burnes from St. Mary’s swam into her mind. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, she imagined herself saying. Then Lo glanced around the aisle at the stacked jars of mustard and mayonnaise and relish.

  Somehow, the 7-Eleven didn’t seem like the right place for her heartfelt confessions.

  Besides, she’d committed so many sins that if she confessed now, she’d be saying Hail Marys right up until kingdom come.

  And she’d lose Max.

  Maybe the greatest sin of all was that she didn’t even want to be good and confess. All she wanted was Max. He must have been thinking the exact same thing, because he said, “Look, maybe we should just go to another store where we don’t know anybody.”

  Lo nodded. “Well, we can’t hide in the relish all day.”

  Max laughed. “I relish you.”

  Groaning at the bad pun, Lo glanced toward the front of the store. Gene was ringing up Melvin’s purchases. Colleen and her brood were behind Melvin. And Helen and Gladys, each carrying a box of highfiber cereal, brought up the rear.

  “Good,” Lo murmured, “we’re almost home free.”

  “Yeah,” Max said. “Except Gene’s staring at us like we’re Bonnie and Clyde.”

  Lo laughed and pointed at a bin of plastic water pistols beside the door. “Should we stick him up?”

  Max smiled. “You hold the gun on him and I’ll slide a piece of paper over the counter. Instead of saying, ‘Hand over the money,’ it’ll just say, ‘Condoms. Your largest box.’“

  “Hey, you, couple in the back—” Gene yelled. He pointed to a No Loitering sign as he finished ringing up Melvin Rhys’s purchases. “I’ve been watching you, and you’ve been in here for a long time. Were you going to buy anything?”