“Jesus, Tara, you’re insane. Oh, lovely. Here he comes.” Cassandra turns slightly toward the window.
I, on the other hand, rotate in the direction of the approaching stranger, crossing my legs into the aisle to give him a better look, one he seems to appreciate.
“May I join you ladies?” The rasp in his voice is sexy as hell.
“Well, I don’t know. What do you think, Cassandra?”
She glances at her watch, stands. “I think I should go. I’ve got an early morning and, besides, three’s a crowd.”
“Aw, don’t go,” he says. “Sometimes three’s just right.”
But Cassandra tsks disgust. “Only when the third is an invited guest.”
She stalks off without saying good-bye and Mr. Uninvited watches her go.
“Too bad.” Then he turns back to me. “Well, then. Are you inviting?”
I gesture for him to take Cassandra’s vacated seat. “It’s the least I can do. Thanks for the drink—er, two drinks, I guess. Can’t let a great sidecar go to waste.”
The man sits, placing his own drink on the table. From the smell, I’d say it’s decent scotch, but on the rocks. Waste of good whiskey, pouring it over ice cubes.
“Sidecar? What’s that?” he asks, and when he brings his eyes level with mine I notice they are neither brown nor green, but somewhere in between. Gold. Reptilian.
“Cognac—good cognac, by the way, and I’m afraid your bill will reflect that—Cointreau, and in this case, blood-orange juice in place of lemon.”
“May I taste?” He points to Cassandra’s glass.
I shrug. “Help yourself. It’s your drink, really.”
He takes a sip, and I can tell he wants to hate it. But that, of course, is impossible. “Nice.” It’s a long sigh. He indulges in a deeper swallow, then says, “So, I’m Ben. And you are . . . ?”
I could lie, but why? The truth is easier to remember, and what’s to worry about my name? “Tara.” My voice is thick with cognac, and I remember I haven’t eaten. Ordering food will slow things down, however. Do I want to linger with Ben, or will inebriated sex do? I glance at my watch. Seven thirty. “Would you mind if I have something to eat?”
He looks vaguely disappointed, which only makes me more determined. “Excuse me? Waiter? Would you please bring an antipasti platter?” I offer Ben a semiapologetic smile. “Happy to share. I’m starving, and this will give us time to chat.”
Impatience shimmers, and he’s quite obviously assessing his chances. Keep on guessing, Ben. I like confidence in a man, but not when it bloats into conceit. “Of course,” he says finally. “Wouldn’t want you to pass out on me.”
Game on. “Highly doubtful, unless you’re concealing roofies somewhere?”
He displays teeth and, indeed, they are artificially perfect. “No need to coerce. I aim only to please. Are you a local, or traveling?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I come from Phoenix.”
“As opposed to Mars?”
His laugh is genuine. “As opposed to Lansing, where I was born and raised.”
“Is Lansing home to many serial killers?”
He barely twitches, and I think that must be a good sign that he isn’t one. “Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”
“Something to do with an earlier observation.”
“About me?”
“Who else?”
Bluntness can be the key to reading the stranger across the table. I watch his reaction—a slow rise of humor creasing the corners of his chameleon eyes. “The last thing I purposely killed was a fifth of Glenfiddich 21. Great going down, but I paid for it the next day, and it probably worried my ulcer just a little bigger.”
Well spoken. Drinks decent liquor. I see no wedding ring on his finger, no shadow indicating he wears one most of the time. “Anyone waiting for you back in Lansing?”
“Only my mother, and she suffers from dementia, so she’s never quite sure who I am, let alone where I am or when I might show up for a visit.”
Pretty sure he’s serious. “How about in Phoenix? Someone there who might be stressing over what you’re up to tonight?”
“Nope. You?”
“Not at all.”
The small talk is interrupted by the antipasti’s arrival. The waiter inquires about another round. Our glasses are almost empty. Ben has finished his scotch, plus most of Cassandra’s sidecar. If he truly has an ulcer, it must be screaming.
I nod. “This one’s on me. Scotch or sidecar, Ben?”
“Sidecar, since you appreciate the taste. And thank you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Oh, I hope it’s not all yours.” He winks. “Maybe we could make it a contest.”
On another day, his certainty of the evening’s outcome might very well leave me—and so, him—cold. But this afternoon’s disappointment, plus three very good drinks and Ben’s overall charm, has chipped away at any resistance. Our bills come and I notice he signs his to his room.
“You’re bunking here, then?” The verb, a sliver of a past I’ve worked very hard to leave far, far behind, makes me cringe.
But Ben grins amusement. “ ‘Bunking’ is apropos. I prefer the Four Seasons, but my company booked the reservation, and since a top-floor pencil pusher approves my expense account, I didn’t think I should complain.” He gives my legs a long, lustful appraisal. “Looks like it was a fortuitous choice.”
The last sentence is more question than statement, and it inches my answer closer to the affirmative column. One-night stands can be fun, but rarely are they fulfilling. So if they’re not fun enough, what’s the point? “How early do you have to be up in the morning?”
He shrugs. “My meeting’s at eleven. That much I planned on my own.”
I decide to be direct. “My orgasm ratio requirement is three to one, in my favor. Can you accommodate that?”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have pegged you for an underachiever.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Is that a yes?”
“Better than that. It’s a promise.”
Three
Ben’s company, at least, booked one of the nicest rooms this particular Marriott has to offer—a smallish suite with a very nice view. Outside the big window, the night-engulfed city has blossomed with lights. An anonymous couple of them belong to my house. My home. One I’d never invite a stranger into.
As unfamiliar men go, Ben seems decent enough. I watch him hang his jacket in the closet, appreciating the care he takes, both with his clothing and with what I can see of his body beneath the loose cling of his shirt. Broad shoulders taper to a trim waist and solid hips. He works out, but not obsessively.
He goes over to the minibar. “Nightcap?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want to get sloppy on you.”
He laughs warmly. “I thought that was the whole point. Mind if I have one?”
“Be my guest. Just don’t forget about my requisite ratio.” I slip out of my own silk jacket and lay it gently over the too-prominent office chair. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
I take my purse into the bathroom with me, not because I’m worried about Ben inspecting its contents, but because it contains an emergency hygiene kit. Most of it I don’t need tonight, but I prefer my breath not carry a hint of salami, so I spend a couple of quality minutes with a toothbrush and mouthwash. Then I free my hair from the confines of the chignon I was wearing, releasing gardenia perfume to fight the masculine scent of Ben’s own cologne, hanging heavily in the too-small lavatory.
Lavatory. Good word. Comes right after “laboratory” in the dictionary, and let’s face it, most lavatories would make interesting laboratories, at least if you could stomach such experiments.
By the time I’ve finished, Ben has made himself quite comfortable on the sofa, shoeless and shirtless but for a tight sleeveless undershirt that showcases his beefcakeyness quite nicely. He stands as I come into the room. “Good Lord, look at you. Y
our hair is amazing.”
Unbelievably, my cheeks flush heat. Such a small compliment, and yet it completely erases any small sense of hesitation. I move straight into his arms, tilt my chin up toward his face. “My father always said flattery deserves a just reward.” That’s a lie. I never met my father and have no idea where the saying came from. But all that matters now is the reward.
I open my mouth, inviting his whiskey-soaked kiss, and when it comes, it’s light-years from gentle. It’s tongue and teeth, on my lips, at my neck, and dipping inside the V of my blouse, which opens suddenly, as if by spell. And just as mysteriously, my bra unclasps, spilling the tips of my breasts into the depth of his moan.
Ben lifts me out of my heels, discovers I’m wearing stockings—the classic kind requiring a garter belt, a fact he uncovers when his hand explores the length of my leg, all the way to where thigh meets torso. He draws back, studies me for a second. “Real seamed silk? You are one of a kind, do you know that?”
“Actually, I do.”
“I think we’d better work on that three-to-one deal right now.”
He drapes me across the couch, facedown, lifts my skirt, exposing satin, lace, and peeks of skin. One hand tangles into my hair, pulls it to one side, and he snarls against my nape. The other hand spreads my legs just enough to reach the narrow satin strip, which he moves to one side. “Look at you, all slick and ready.”
Ben plays a masterful game. His thumb slides up inside me and tilts to find the hidden spot just behind my pubic bone, while his forefinger wedges against my clitoris. They move in rough unison, on the border of pain, the pressure exquisite. It doesn’t take long to initiate my orgasm, punctuated by a whispered “Yes!”
“Oh, no. That won’t do at all.” Ben flips me over, brings his face very close to mine. “I don’t want you to whisper. I want you to scream.”
I issue the challenge. “Make me.”
He unzips my skirt, lets it fall to the floor. Then he leads me into the other room, props me against the foot of the bed, reaches behind me, and cups my butt. Lifts. “Lie back and don’t move.” One by one, Ben unsnaps the garters, gentles the stockings from my legs, licking the sensitive place behind my knees. It’s a challenge to stay still, and when I fail to meet it, he reaches up and pinches my nipples. Hard. “You ask my permission before you so much as twitch. Understand?”
Eyes watering, I manage to stutter, “I uh-uh-understand.” For the two seconds it takes him to tug my panties down over my hips, a trill of fear makes me wonder if I might have miscalculated the man. But then I remember the pepper spray, stashed in my purse, which isn’t far away. Besides, that shimmer of trepidation is rather an aphrodisiac.
And now the persistent tide of his tongue laps the most intimate parts of me, a low sea of pleasure. He has asked not one selfish thing of me yet, and that thought brings renewed confidence. I do my best to lie perfectly still, but that becomes impossible as I build toward a second climax. “Please. May I twitch? I don’t think I can come without moving.”
“You’d better scream.”
I do. And I don’t have to fake it at all.
Ben straightens, unzips his trousers. It’s time for the big reveal, always an interesting turn in a tale of sex with a stranger. Jockey shorts do nothing to hide what’s behind them, alert and at the ready. I am mildly disappointed. I was hoping for at least an eight on the one-to-ten scale. Ben is a six. No less, but definitely no more.
He is, however, skilled, and compensates with enthusiasm what he might lack in size. He manages to bring me off twice before finally succumbing to my well-rehearsed cock play with an extended shudder. “Jesus, woman, you’ve drained me dry.”
Three cheers for condoms.
Ben is peeling his off when his cell phone rings a definitive tone—Rhapsody in Blue. Unbelievably, he answers. “Hello? No, no. It’s not too late. I was up anyway. Working.” He winks at me, then mouths silently, My wife.
His wife! No. He told me . . .
“My flight gets in around eight tomorrow night,” he continues.
I bolt out of bed, locate my panties, and tug them on, wrestling with a low creep of temper. Oh, why bother to fight it? The bastard deserves it. “Hey, baby, come back to bed,” I say, loud enough for his wife to hear. “I need you to make love to me.”
Ben starts to stutter. “I-I-I . . . No, it was the TV. Adult programming. Sorry. It’s just, I’m so . . .”
He can’t get away with this that easily. This time I yell, “Ben! Please! I’m wet and waiting.”
I grab my clothes and run into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. He’s going to be pissed. Still, I take a quick minute to wash before getting dressed. I don’t want to smell him. When I emerge, he’s standing, quite naked, between the way out and me. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
“You told me you weren’t married.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you said—”
“I said no one would be wondering what I was up to tonight, and she wouldn’t have.”
“Well, I hope she’s doing more than wondering now, you no-good prick.”
Rage ignites in his eyes. “What the hell did I do?”
“It’s called adultery.” Just in case, I reach into my purse. “I enjoy a one-night stand from time to time, but not with a married man. Maggots like you don’t deserve someone special, waiting for them to come home. Marriage is more than a promise. It’s a contract. It isn’t sleeping around on business trips. You’re disgusting.”
He starts toward me, fists clenching, and I display the pepper spray in my hand. “Go for it. Please, please, give me the excuse to blister your face. How would you explain that to your wife?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t bet on it. Now get out of my way.” I start toward the door, but he doesn’t move, so I lift the small canister, flip back the lid, and aim the nozzle toward his face. “Did you know you can’t wash this stuff off? You just have to wait for it to quit burning.” I walk purposely forward. “You have exactly two seconds to move. One . . .”
He reads the commitment in my voice correctly and steps to one side. “You are a crazy fucking bitch.”
“No, Ben. As Emilie Autumn says, ‘I’m stark, raving sane.’ ”
Four
My Russian Hill home is, indeed, stunning. Its five bedrooms and three baths are much more than I need, but then they were more than Finn and I required, living together. Except for the baby his fiancée is currently expecting, his children are all grown and on the East Coast. Their visits were rare and didn’t last long. One of them, his daughter Claire, never appeared at all. Apparently, she didn’t approve of his marrying me. And as for other visitors, only my sister ever stayed overnight.
I could downsize, of course, but this property is unique, both in its location and in the way I’ve made it my own. Finn allowed my interior decorator carte blanche, and together we created something truly beautiful—modern, but a million miles removed from sterile. The walls are neutral, the artwork hanging on them anything but. And the three-story views are breathtaking.
Best of all, though, I could afford the outrageous mortgage on my own if I had to; I don’t have to. Finn agreed to cover it until such time as I decide to sell the place, and then the equity is mine. I don’t plan to put it on the market anytime soon.
The garage is street level, my bedroom on the uppermost floor, which means taking a lot of stairs as I load the Escalade with ski equipment and suitcases. When I fly, I travel light. But if I’m driving, I tend to take more than I need. And when winter driving in the Sierra, I purposely pack extra clothing, blankets, and windshield-washer fluid. Plus a small shovel, just in case, all-wheel drive or no, the Escalade slips into a snowbank or something.
I’m up early to do it and on the road by nine thirty. It’s two hours, traffic willing, to my sister’s home near Sacramento. She swears she’ll be ready to go when I arrive, but that’s rarely the case. Still, eve
n with a layover, we should make it to South Lake Tahoe by late afternoon. Melody prefers the lake’s quieter west shore, but I like the nightlife offered on the Nevada side of the border. I also like skiing Heavenly Valley. Lots of great memories there.
I get mired a bit in the tail end of the morning commute, but once I’m over the Bay Bridge, onto I-80 east, it’s clear sailing. With the satellite radio tuned to Lithium, I set the cruise control on seventy-five and get lost in nineties grunge. Lots of memories there, too, not all of them so good. But the music was. Gin Blossoms. Goo Goo Dolls. Counting Crows. Everclear. I still love this stuff.
I pull up in front of Melody’s house a little before noon. On the front lawn is an almost-life-size Santa’s sleigh, pulled by only six reindeer. Christmas lights drip from the roof and encircle the trees. The houses on either side boast similar displays. This neighborhood must be ridiculous at night.
Mel is not standing curbside, suitcase in hand, so I go ring the bell. Her oldest daughter answers the door, scowling. “Oh, hey, Aunt Tara.”
“May I come in? What’s wrong? Not happy to see me?”
Kayla steps to one side to let me by. “No, it’s not you. Sorry. I just had a fight with my boyfriend. Squeaky little a-hole.”
“Just one of many, hon. Just one of many.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She’s a willowy brunette, pretty without working too hard to be that way. She won’t have a problem finding another boyfriend if she wants one.
“So why are you home? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
She shrugs. “I had a half day. Mom’s in the kitchen, by the way.”
I believe I’ve been dismissed. I follow the scent of coffee and yeast past tinseled railings and holiday villages to the big, airy, oven-warmed kitchen. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me you baked bread this morning.” Three loaves cool on the counter. “That’s why they invented bakeries, you know.”
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