Matchpoint (12 page)

“Dinner is almost ready,” he said. “Would you mind eating by the fire?”

“Yes. I hate warmth, soft lighting, and comfortable furniture.”

My spying had netted nothing so far except now I
knew he was clean and spent too much money on organic shampoo. Where were the photos? Not one family pic or vacation souvenir, nothing to give me much-needed information about Holden.

I stood by the fire and scanned the room. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I realized something was terribly wrong with the house.

“Holden,” I said, alarmed. “Where’s the TV?”

“No TV. I’m a reader.”

He gestured behind me. The length of one wall was covered in bookshelves. I scanned them.

“I don’t understand. Where’s the remote control?”

“Find anything you like?” he asked.

“Your collection is sadly lacking in Nora Roberts.”

“An oversight,” he said.

“No Clancy, no Grisham. Obviously, you’re not an intellectual.”

“I’m a simple man,” he said. The shelves were filled with reference materials. Atlases, encyclopedias, and history, history, history were next to books on every culture on the planet.

“Oh, thank God,” I said. “You have the complete Virgil collection. I was looking for a copy. And it’s next to Sartre in the original French. You disgust me with your simple mind.”

Holden came up behind me, fitting his body against mine. His hands slipped around my waist, coming to rest on my belly, his fingers splayed. He bent down and nuzzled my ear. I felt my triglycerides shoot up and my toenails grow.

“Holy Christ,” I said.

“You’re Jewish,” he whispered in my ear.

“Who cares? I’ll be whatever you want.”

“You are what I want.”

I wanted to get naked, and it occurred to me that a
little slip of the robe’s belt would accomplish that feat. But Virgil or no, Holden wasn’t that bright.

“Dinner is served,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, let’s eat.”

He took my hand and pulled me toward the couch. The music changed from jazz to classical. Two plates were set on the coffee table. I didn’t recognize the food, but it looked French, with some sort of sauce. He had gone to a lot of effort, not realizing I would have been his for a burrito and a box of stale Milk Duds.

We sat close on the couch, holding our plates in our laps, our legs touching, our feet propped up on the table. I watched the fire dance in the fireplace, throwing shadows over us. It was perfect, and I was scared to move for fear that something would change, the atoms would rearrange themselves, Holden would no longer want me, and this moment of pure pleasure would disappear.

“I forgot the wine,” Holden said, and moved to get up, but I put my hand on his leg to stop him. We sat in silence, eating. It was delicious, and I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to be involved with a man who could cook.

When we finished, Holden took the plates to the kitchen and returned with coffee and chocolate. “Coffee? I’ll be up all night,” I said.

“Good.” He sat back down, his body even closer to mine. “How are you doing? You seem to be holding together all right after last night.”

“I’m pretending it didn’t happen.” I flinched as my tooth pain returned. “Most of the time it works.”

“Do they have any leads on the murder?”

I thought about the suspicions against Belinda. “Not really. The police department seems to be distracted by the aliens.”

Holden shifted in his seat. “The cult.”

“Yes, the end-of-worlders. The town is up in arms about them.”

Holden took my hand and rubbed my palm with his thumb. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

I tried to speak, but I could only suck air.

The music changed again, back to jazz. “I love this song,” Holden said. “Would you dance with me?”

He gathered me to him, my head resting on his chest, and we swayed to the music. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight in my robe?”

“No.” With no moisturizer, mascara, or hair gel, I figured he was a liar.

“You are radiant,” he said.

“That might just be leftover duck sauce.”

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Yes.” I was nervous he wasn’t going to stick his tongue in my mouth. I was nervous that I was going to keep the robe on all night. I was nervous that I had forgotten to shave my legs. Holden stopped dancing. He put his finger under my chin and raised my face toward his.

“I’m nervous, too,” he said, and kissed me. He was a terrible liar, but he was a damned good kisser. His lips were warm, his mouth firm, and my lips parted for him. I felt my skin grow hot, my face must have been beet red, and my hair was curling way beyond normal.

He deepened the kiss, tugging me closer to him. When my legs gave way, he swept me up in his arms and deposited me gently on the couch. And then he was on top of me.

Finally I was well on my way to third base and then most likely a home run with Arthur Holden. It had been a long road to this place on his couch. He had blown hot and cold since he had moved to town. When he was with me, he acted like I was the woman of his dreams, but he wasn’t with me that often. I thought he was living
a secret life, but maybe he was just in a quiet corner somewhere, reading.

Holden lay half on me, one hand underneath me, cupping my buttock and pulling me closer to him. I was reasonably sure he didn’t have a pistol in his pocket. No, he was definitely happy to see me. Our tongues darted against each other, making my head swim. My fingers traveled through his hair and then cupped his face, bringing him closer. I was drowning in his kiss.

I was half aware of him undoing his belt buckle and kicking off his shoes. I squirmed against him, unwilling to let him get distracted from our kiss. Our Olympic gold medal kiss.

He groaned against my lips, which drove me on. I let my hands wander down his chest and around his back. He was hard all over, hairless and strong. I felt an insane need to cover him in oil and make him sit there naked while I just sat and stared. And while I probably ate peanut M&M’s or something. It was something to think about and do. Right after we sealed the deal. And the deal was coming pretty fast and furious now.

Holden broke off the kiss and sat up, peeling the shirt off his body at the same time. He looked down at me, and I followed his gaze to my chest. My robe had come slightly undone, baring my cleavage. I have good cleavage, if I do say so myself, and I was happy to show it off for a moment. It seemed to produce the desired effect.

Holden slipped a finger under my belt and slowly lifted up, undoing the belt as he did. Then, with a slow hand, he opened the top of my robe. He looked down at my torso with real desire, so much desire that my breath hitched, and I was aware of a growing need that had to be sated soon or I would explode. I touched his shoulders and tried to pull him back down on me, but he resisted. Instead, he tentatively touched my abdomen, allowing his hand to travel up until he cupped my
breast, kneading it gently. My insides melted, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the throbbing in my tooth moved down lower. Much lower.

Holden was a good kisser, but he was even better at the whole boob thing. I wondered what else he was good at, and then his mouth was on my breast, and my eyes rolled back in my head.

We stayed like that for a while, him tasting my breast, and me writhing under him. I might have begged him to move on, but Holden was a man who took his time. And what’s more, he was possessive. For the moment, at least, I was his, and he made that fact perfectly clear. He had a plan where my body was concerned, and he seemed to be goal-oriented and not at all a quitter.

There on that couch, being made love to by the sexiest man on the planet, I had to forgive him for his secret life, for not telling me about his past, for hiding the daily details of his existence. Maybe he was shy. After all, he finally allowed me into his house, let me shower in his bathroom, for goodness’ sake. Perhaps he just took things slow.

And who was I to point a finger? Wasn’t I hiding Spencer in my bed? Wasn’t I keeping that secret from Holden? And wasn’t I the one keeping Belinda’s request secret from him? Why hadn’t I told Holden about Belinda when he asked who the police suspected? What kind of girlfriend was I?

“I didn’t tell you everything about the murder,” I said.

Holden stopped and looked up. His face was flushed, and his normally light blue eyes were dark and enormous. He looked feral, on the prowl. I bit my lip.

“Did you want to say something?” he asked, out of breath. His chest was slightly heaving as he took deep breaths, trying to steady himself, I imagined.

“My client, Belinda Womble, the receptionist. She might be a suspect.”

Holden looked like he might not care about Belinda Womble or the dentist’s murder at that moment, but he rubbed his eyes and changed his position, adjusting his pants and sitting next to me.

“She is?” he asked.

“Maybe not officially, yet. But she asked me to help prove her innocence. They think she stole money from the business and maybe Dr. Dulur found out, and she killed him. There, now I’ve told you everything. Let’s get back to it.”
Told you everything except for the fact that Spencer is sleeping in my bed
.

“And she took his face? That sounds like a stretch.”

Holden stared out into space, as if he was visualizing Belinda murdering Dr. Dulur. I had gotten Holden thinking now. What was wrong with me? My boobs had had his undivided attention, and then I threw Belinda Womble into his brain. Maybe I needed therapy.

“Yeah, it’s far-fetched,” I agreed. “So, she wants me to help her prove her innocence. It won’t take much to prove that, probably less work than to find her a match. And once I do that, I can get on with my life.”
And pay my Visa. And have Holden’s children
.

“Are you sure she’s innocent?” he asked, concern growing on his face. “If she is capable of that kind of murder once, she can do it a second time.”

“I’m sure she’s innocent,” I said. “She likes flowers and big sweaters. Does that sound like a grisly murderer to you?”

“I think that people are good at keeping secrets.” It was the perfect moment to ask him about his secrets, but I was a chicken. Chicken McChickster from Chickenland. Besides, there was that pesky secret I had, who was at that moment eating chips on my Martha Stewart sheets.

I touched Holden’s chest. I was ready for round two, and I was pleased to see that so was he. He moved fast now, probably to make up for lost time. He bent down and kissed me hard. My breasts flattened against the weight of his chest on mine. I lifted my knees and wrapped my legs around him.

Happiness isn’t complicated, if you are truly honest with yourself. All it really took for me was a perfectly gorgeous, rich man grinding his pelvis into me with his tongue down my throat. Easy peasy.

Then the phone rang. I thought it was my cellphone until I remembered mine had been cut off. Holden let the phone ring until it stopped, and meanwhile his hand traveled down my body, fully opening my robe. He fumbled with his pants with one hand, and then the phone started ringing again. He stopped what he was doing and exhaled, loudly.

“I probably need to get that,” he said. “Don’t move. Don’t move an inch. I will be right back.”

He jumped up off the couch and grabbed the phone. I lay there for a moment, my legs separated and my body bare to the world, before I became self-conscious and closed my robe again. I caught snippets of his conversation, mostly “yeah”s and “are you sure”s. I was a little piqued. I grabbed some chocolate off the coffee table and took a big bite, sending shock waves of pain through my mouth.

After about five minutes, Holden returned to the couch. “Where were we?” he asked.

“Who was that?”

“Business.” He started to undo my belt again. I put my hand on his, stopping him.

“What business is that?” I asked.

“Just business. Nothing exciting.”

I tried to be understanding and not the whiny, demanding
girlfriend that I truly wanted to be, but it was stronger than my will.

I took a deep breath to prepare myself to finally give him the ultimatum: either he would tell me about his life, really share it with me, or there would be no more hanky-panky.

Luckily, the phone rang again. “One more second,” he said, holding his finger up in the air. “I promise. It’s the last time.”

He answered the phone, and his face got serious. “I understand,” he said into the phone. “Yes, I’ll let her know. Is it serious? Yes, I’ll tell her.”

He clicked off the phone and held my hand. “You need to get back home,” he said. “It’s about your grandmother. It’s urgent. You need to go back there before it’s too late.”