On the other hand, Patty hadn’t revealed any spark of curiosity about the idea. If it had never occurred to her, mightn’t she have said, “A private detective? Of course! That’s what this case needs.”
All she’d said was a noncommittal, “You think so?”
Lainie didn’t want to think at all, certainly not about death and detectives. Not with her first dinner in ages, with a man who wasn’t Roger, just hours away.
If she thought, she might think Peter was right and she ought to steer clear of Stavik. For now, not thinking was better.
Chapter Twelve
“ARE WE STILL IN Massachusetts?” Lainie asked.
They’d been driving north for nearly an hour. Stavik had picked her up, not in his dilapidated truck, but in a reasonably new Toyota sedan, which he told her he’d borrowed from a friend. “My pickup’s kind of grungy,” he’d explained. “I thought this would be more comfortable.”
More comfortable, yes—and not as easily followed, since the police might be keeping an eye on his truck rather than a Camry registered in someone else’s name. The New Hampshire police wouldn’t be tracking him at all. Was that where he was driving?
Lainie sat stiffly in the passenger seat, dressed in her new black slacks and cotton knit shell. She owned two other pairs of black slacks, but she couldn’t remember when she’d bought them, which meant it had probably been a long time ago. The shell was aqua, short-sleeved, with a demure rounded neckline, and Karen had approved of the outfit. Lainie’s hands lay folded in her lap. The farther they drove from Rockford, the tighter her fingers knotted together. They’d driven far enough that her knuckle bones were threatening to tear through the skin.
What if Peter was right? What if Stavik was a psycho killer and he was driving her to some quarry in New Hampshire, where he’d murder her with a soldering iron and then leave her body in the pit, surrounded by blocks of granite?
“There’s an inn up near Tyngsboro,” he told her, and she unwound the tiniest bit. “I’ve never been there, but it’s supposed to have good food.”
“Good food is nice,” she said stupidly.
“Better than the alternative,” he agreed.
Especially if the alternative was being slaughtered with a soldering iron in a quarry.
But he did in fact drive them to an inn. When they entered, the hostess noted the reservation in his name and led them through an elegant paneled dining room to a cozy round table covered with a white linen cloth. Nothing too fancy, nothing too romantic. No candlelight, and the flower centerpiece was silk, not fresh.
Okay, Lainie told herself. This is a dinner. Not a crime.
When a waitress approached, Stavik ordered a Sam Adams beer. If Lainie requested a ginger ale, as she had the last time they’d had a drink together, he would think she was either a wimp or a weirdo. She asked for a glass of the house cabernet sauvignon and prayed that it wouldn’t leave her feeling muddled.
“You’re nervous,” he observed once the waitress departed to get their drinks.
Lainie smiled. “A little.”
Stavik smiled back. Faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. He wore khakis and a striped shirt and looked utterly at ease. And why shouldn’t he? He was divorced. He probably dated a lot. Maybe he’d even dated a lot while he was still married. He wasn’t Saint Roger, after all.
“Relax,” he said. “I don’t bite.” His comment was enough to make her tense up even more.
The waitress returned with their drinks, asked if they were ready to order, and recommended the grilled tuna. Lainie decided that was what she’d have—the waitress seemed like a tasteful sort—and Stavik opted for the sirloin strip steak.
Stavik lifted his beer mug, tapped it gently against Lainie’s wineglass, and took a sip. “So,” he said, “you’re a little nervous because . . . ?”
Because you’re under suspicion for murder. “Because I haven’t dated much since my husband died.” Much? She winced inwardly at that overstatement.
“How long ago did he die?”
“Two and a half years.”
“I guess it takes time.” He sounded sympathetic. “How did he die? Do you mind my asking?”
“Not at all.” She drank a little wine and focused on Stavik’s eyes. They really didn’t look like a killer’s eyes. They were too blue, too warm. “He had pancreatic cancer. It’s a ghastly disease. The doctors rarely talk about cures. In his case they only talked about palliative care.”
Stavik nodded. “That sucks.”
His blunt statement sparked a smile. “Yes, it does.”
“Let me ask you this—why did you think I was married? I mean, that first day, at the Old Colonial Inn?”
“You mentioned your daughter,” she reminded him.
“Lots of men who aren’t married have daughters.”
“I guess. But . . .” She sighed, recalling that she’d met him the day after she’d seen Arthur Cavanagh with another woman, and she and Sheila and Angie had talked about the bad behavior of the male half of the species. “Lots of men who are married cheat on their wives,” she said.
“And sometimes women cheat on their husbands,” he responded, again in that blunt, no-baloney tone.
She studied him more closely, noting the grim set of his mouth, the harsh line of his jaw. “Did your wife cheat on you?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Yeah.”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
He grinned. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Me being so perfect and all.” The waitress arrived with a basket of rolls and their salads. He waited until she was gone before he continued. “Someone came along. He was rich, he was”—a shrug—“exciting. He was something different. So she had an affair. Then she decided it was a mistake. I forgave her, but I just couldn’t love her anymore. She’d broken something, and it couldn’t be fixed.” He helped himself to a roll. “We’ve done the best we could for our daughter. Shared custody, and we never fight in front of her. Matter of fact, we never fight at all. It’s just”—another shrug—“the love went away and never came back.”
In a way, that seemed as sad as her own loss. Maybe even sadder. She and Roger had loved each other every bit as much in the last minute of his life as they had the day they’d exchanged vows. Actually, she and Roger had loved each other even more at the end, because their love had grown and ripened over the years.
To love someone and then see that love vanish . . . As Stavik would say, that sucked.
He didn’t seem to be looking for sympathy, though. “Try one of the rolls,” he suggested, nudging the basket closer to her. “They’re really good. I think they’ve got cheese in them.”
She ate a roll and agreed that it was really good. The salad was delicious, too. And their steaks—his beef, hers fish—were generously sized and succulent. While they ate, they talked about soccer, softball, property taxes, teacher salaries—too high, according to him, too low according to her—and Saturday Night Live casts throughout the years the show had been on the air. By some tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned the Cavanaghs, Emerson Village Estates, or Detective Knapp of the Rockford Police Department.
Avoiding those toxic subjects contributed to the evening’s pleasure. So, Lainie acknowledged, did Stavik’s company. He was a man comfortable with himself. His ego seemed well proportioned, his pride in his daughter obvious, his knowledge of property assessments and their impact on town budgets—a subject dear to her since she was a town employee—extensive.
Finally, over coffee and dessert, she tiptoed toward one of the taboo subjects. “Have you been looking for work?”
“Not looking,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “It’s there if I want it. I know plenty of people in the business.”
“You’re going to wait and see what happen
s with Cavanagh Homes?”
“Patty’s lawyer called me a couple of times. According to him, whether she sells the business or tries to run it herself, it’s more valuable with me attached.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“There are a few companies sniffing around, thinking they can buy Cavanagh Homes at a fire-sale price. Ain’t gonna happen. When it comes to money, Patty’s no fool.”
Lainie grinned. She’d assumed Patty was no fool when it came to spending her husband’s money. But now that money was hers. Lainie would like to think Patty was shrewd enough to protect it, for Sean’s sake as well as her own.
“Maybe you could buy the business,” she suggested.
“Right. First I’d have to rob a few banks.”
“Couldn’t you get a business loan?”
He traced the looped handle of his coffee cup with his thumb as he considered his answer. “The truth is, I don’t know that I want to run a business. I like the physical work, not the paper pushing. I like measuring, sawing, hammering nails. Actually building stuff.”
She imagined him measuring. Sawing. Hammering nails. She could picture him with an old-fashioned hammer, not a nail gun.
Don’t think about it. Tonight had been delightful, once she’d gotten past her misgivings. Tonight had been about nothing but two unattached adults spending time together. It hadn’t been about criminal investigations or the smell of old blood.
While Stavik paid the bill, Lainie peeked at her watch. Ten thirty. What was supposed to happen now? She could invite him back to her place for coffee, but how might he interpret that? If she didn’t invite him back, he’d consider her rude and ungrateful. If she did, would he assume she wanted to get naked with him?
Outside the restaurant, he touched his hand to the small of her back and ushered her across the parking lot to his borrowed car. He leaned down to unlock her door for her, then straightened and surprised her by kissing her lips. She must have looked startled, because he grinned. “I didn’t do that to make you nervous,” he assured her.
She almost retorted, “Well, why the hell did you do it?” She kept her mouth shut, though. She knew why he’d done it. And all in all, she wasn’t sorry he had. For a quick kiss it had been rather effective.
“It’s just,” he continued, still smiling, “you seem a little rusty at this whole thing. The basic idea is, we kiss each other, and if you want me to stop, you say, ‘stop.’ Pretty simple, really.”
No, it wasn’t simple. But since he’d established the rules and the rules included stop, she saw no reason not to give “this whole thing” a try. She tilted her head back slightly, and he tilted his down, and they kissed.
And kissed.
And she didn’t say “stop.”
STAVIK DROVE TO her house, but Big Brad’s car was parked in the driveway so she told him to keep going. No way was she ready to march into her house accompanied by a man she intended to have sex with while her daughter and her boyfriend were hanging out in the den, watching TV and systematically working their way through Lainie’s food supply.
Stavik headed east to Lexington. His home was a shingled gray townhouse in a condominium development. The townhouses were staggered slightly and some effort had been made on the landscaping. “Divorce central,” he told her. “This is where all the divorced parents who want to live near their kids wind up.”
“It’s attractively laid out,” she said, noting the curving drives and expanses of lawn.
Stavik scowled. “Not enough trees,” he said. “But it’s convenient for my daughter, so . . .”
He steered onto a short driveway, pulled the garage door remote from the door pocket and pressed the button to open the door. The garage was empty except for the usual array of tools and trash cans. He must have parked his pickup at the home of whoever had lent him the Toyota.
She caught only a glimpse of his rec room—oak paneling, large-screen TV, oversized couch and chairs, framed prints of landscape photographs on the walls—as they passed through it to reach the stairs. Up one flight, and she was afforded a similarly brief glimpse of his living room—small but tidy—with a beautiful teak unit filling one wall with shelves and cabinets. Had he built that? she wondered, then stopped wondering when he kissed her again. Damn, but he knew how to kiss.
Up another flight of stairs and into his bedroom. More kissing. Touching. Undressing. Tasting. God, she’d forgotten how good a man’s body could feel—so big and firm and warm and thick . . . no curves, nothing soft. Even the hair on Stavik’s chest was wiry.
She’d forgotten, but she was remembering now. Remembering the sweet weight of a man on top of her—inside her—remembering that soccer wasn’t the only way to work up a sweat or lose your breath—that in fact, soccer wasn’t the best way. If sex with Stavik was wrong, she didn’t care. If it was risky, she was willing to accept the risk. If she wound up in jail for it . . . at the moment, she believed a few years behind bars would be worth making love with him.
He was good. Slow, not quite gentle but certainly not rough. Patient. He watched her, accepted her lead, refused to let go until she’d come. Afterward he held himself above her so he wouldn’t crush her, and gazed down at her and made her laugh by saying, “I guess you’re not so rusty.”
“I feel rusty,” she admitted.
“No you don’t. You feel fantastic.” He eased back and scrutinized her as she sank into the pillows and felt her body unwind. “You look fantastic, too. I never realized soccer could make a woman so sexy.”
Nobody had called her sexy in quite some time. At least two and a half years, she realized. She wondered if Stavik realized how old she was—old enough that the adjective sexy generally wasn’t used in reference to women her age. “I thought divorced men specialized in babes fifteen years their junior,” she said.
Stavik grinned. “I thought you were a babe. Aren’t you fifteen years younger than me?”
“Only if you’re a very old man.”
“My daughter thinks I am.”
All right, Lainie ordered herself. Get it over with. “I’m forty seven,” she told him.
Stavik feigned a horrified look. “We’re in trouble. I’m forty-three.”
“Does that make you my boy toy? Or me a cougar?”
He chuckled and rolled off her. “As long as I don’t have to sulk and wear spandex, I’m cool with that,” he said as he strolled toward the bathroom.
She stretched, savoring the texture of his soft cotton sheets against her back. He’d left a lamp on his dresser turned low, and she surveyed the room. A formal school photo of a pretty blond girl was wedged into the mirror attached to the dresser—his daughter, no doubt. A painting of leafless trees silhouetted against a sunset sky occupied one wall. Either he was naturally neat or he’d knocked himself out cleaning the place for tonight, hoping she’d wind up in his bed.
She had, and she had no regrets. Allowing Bill Stavik to remove her rust had worked out rather magnificently.
She glanced at the clock radio on his night table. Midnight. Much as she liked lying in his bed, she couldn’t spend the night there. Sex was one thing, but sleeping together was quite another, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. More rust would have to be removed first, more adjustment to the idea that she was a sexy woman.
She was leaning over the edge of the mattress, searching the floor for her underwear on the carpeted floor, when Stavik returned to the bedroom. “What’s up?”
“I think I should go home,” she said.
“Why?” He sprawled out beside her on the bed. “I want you to stay.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“If we’d gone to your place,” he said, “we would have had only the one condom I had in my pocket. Here”—he gestured toward the night table—“we’ve got a whole box. How can we pass up an opportunit
y like that?”
She laughed but shook her head. “You promised no pressure. Let me do this at my own pace, okay?”
“Okay.” He pushed himself to sit and gave her a long, tender, bone-melting kiss. “If you want to go home, I’ll take you home.”
After that kiss, she didn’t want to go home. But she knew she should. She needed time to assimilate what had just happened. She needed to make sure she was okay with it. She needed to wash up.
The master bathroom had a roomy glass-enclosed shower stall, and Lainie looked longingly at it when she entered the bathroom with her underwear clutched in her hand. Somehow, showering in his house struck her as even more intimate than sex—more of a commitment. She’d wait until she got home.
She donned her panties and bra—not the most alluring lingerie, but fortunately not too prim, either, although Stavik hadn’t seemed to pay much attention to it as he’d stripped her naked—and then washed at the sink. After borrowing a thick towel from the rack to dry herself, she inspected her reflection in the mirror above the vanity. For a middle-aged schoolteacher with visible silver strands threading through her hair, she looked pretty damned good. Good enough to be a cougar, screwing around with a boy toy. The notion made her grin.
She returned to the bedroom to find Stavik standing by the dresser, clad in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and nothing else. He looked damned good, too. Extremely damned good for a middle-aged construction foreman, with his powerful shoulders and flat abs and all those sleek muscles honed by physical labor. He snagged her en route to where her new slacks lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her again.
Kissing him was simply too lovely. His bare chest was too warm, his arms too strong. She wanted to be undressed again, in his bed again, burning through that box of condoms in his night table drawer.
Dead Ball Page 15
