Susan Johnson (60 page)

The part of her brain that hadn’t been completely blunted by alcohol reminded her that no one had been cut to ribbons in Ely—ever. That momentarily calming reminder allowed her to flash forward to a less vicious but equally alarming scenario about a woman who was attacked in her kitchen by a huge flock of birds. The lucid part of her brain screamed: STUPID! BIRDS DON’T DRIVE CARS!

Nevertheless, the knock on the door sent a small shiver up her spine.

“Yes?” she said, so softly even she realized no one could hear it. Clearing her throat for a second attempt, she glanced about, hoping to catch sight of a large-bladed kitchen knife within easy grasp. But since she hadn’t cooked since her arrival, nor had she opened a drawer save to find the spoon she needed to finish the Cherry Garcia, she knew it wasn’t
likely that a useful long-bladed weapon would be readily available.

“Lily! I can hear you breathing in there. Open the door.”

Was that a choir of angels that had raised their voices on high or was she hallucinating after only five or six or at the very most seven drinks at the Birch Lake Saloon?

“Lily, dammit. Open the door or I’ll break it down.”

The angels stopped singing at Billy’s rather harsh tone of voice. “Don’t shout!” she shouted.

“Open the door,” he said in a near normal tone.

“It’s not locked.”

She could hear him swearing and a second later he was standing in her kitchen looking just as good as he had earlier—maybe better now that she was in harmony with her inner self and her spontaneous and wholly natural sexual impulses. Peace and tranquillity—that was the answer.

“Where’s that black-haired bitch you left with?” Her spitefulness surprised her, coming out without warning, but then the secrets of cosmic understanding require years of disciplined study. She’d start first thing in the morning.

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling like he knew something she didn’t; she wondered if her robe was undone. “Do you want to go and look for her?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Ceci said you wanted to strangle her.”

“Ceci’s an unspeakable traitor—like an Aaron Burr or was it Nathan Hale? Who sold his country for—”

“I’m glad she called me.”

The way he said it sent a small shiver the other way this time, downward. “You are?”

“I am.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“Not really.”

“I suppose the word
commitment
mustn’t be uttered on pain of death.”

“I suppose I’d better make you some coffee or you’re not
going to remember a thing in the morning.”

“I don’t care about commitment,” she meant to say, but it came out slurred and the word
commitment
took three tries.

He didn’t seem to notice. He walked from the kitchen door around the table in the center of the floor to the counter where she was half standing and half leaning, listening to the choir of angels. He took her in his arms, looked into her eyes, and said very, very softly, “I know. It was my fault. Now, where’s your coffee?”

Lily smelled the bacon before she opened her eyes and it took her a moment to properly register where she was to be smelling bacon in the morning. And it was obviously morning, because the very, very brilliant,
too
brilliant light from the unshaded windows was hurting her eyes. She turned her head to evade the hideously searing light and came face-to-face with the man who had occupied her dreams last night.

“It’s not a dream,” he said, his mind-reading abilities in fine form, or perhaps her shock gave him a clue. He handed her a latte in one of the Lodge’s large white cups. “Two brown sugars, I hope that’s okay.” And then he sat down on the edge of the bed and took a sip from his latte.

“You were in the kitchen last night,” she said, her gaze wary. She glanced down at her cup. “And you were at the Lodge this morning.”

“Yes and no. They brought over the lattes.”

“And?”

“What else would you like to know? And don’t ask about Tammy, because we went over that last night ad nauseam.”

“Tammy?”

“The black-haired bitch.”

It all came flooding back, or more aptly, trickling back. “You stayed here last night?”

“In this bed, actually.”

“With me?”

“Yeah. You shot me down on the ménage à trois. Just kidding,” he quickly said at the look in her eye.

“You put something in my drink,” she accused.

“I wasn’t with you, if you recall. Maybe it was Mr. Dockers.”

She groaned softly. In her snit with Billy, she’d given Charles-call-me-Chip her phone number. Now it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“Having second thoughts about preppy men?”

“You can be very annoying.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“You’re obviously dying to tell me about last night, so tell me.” She took a large gulp of coffee as though she might need it.

“There’s nothing much to tell. While I was making you some coffee, you fell asleep with your head on the kitchen table. I carried you in here, put you to bed, and went to sleep.”

“Sure you did.”

He shrugged. “Not much point in having sex with a corpse.”

“So it wasn’t chivalry.”

He grinned. “Some of it was. I could have wakened you if I wanted. Drink your latte and quit breaking my balls. I was a Boy Scout last night.”

Her feelings were a chaotic mix of irritation at his presumption and the usual flagrantly libidinous cravings that always overtook her when he was in sight. “Don’t you have to work?”

He shook his head. “Took the day off.”

“Why?”

“I thought I’d spend it in bed with you. But you should eat first. There’s some breakfast in the kitchen.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You should anyway,” he said, as if he didn’t know what she meant. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

She looked at him squinty-eyed. “Does everyone always say yes to you?”

“No.”

But the infinitesimal pause before he responded was answer enough. “I
could
be busy today,” she said.

“Change your plans.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because we fit together
real
well, if you recall. And according to my mother, Myrtle Carlson is gone to visit her daughter in Biwabik, so she won’t hear you scream when you come.”

Lily was instantly wet, as though he had only to promise her sex and she was ready. “How does your mother know that?” she asked in a voice that registered sexual desire in every suppressed syllable.

“They’re both in the church choir.”

She groaned softly. “I forgot how everyone knows everything about everyone in a small town.”

Her orgasmic screams that night at the Lodge were a case in point, but he thought it might be counterproductive to mention it. “Look at the bright side,” he said, rising from the bed. “We’re alone out here today. Breakfast is ready in the kitchen, and afterward”—he smiled—“we can do whatever you want.”

It was difficult eating breakfast with the idea of doing whatever she wanted in the forefront of her thoughts. It was damned near impossible if she spent too much time recounting the inspired, really endearing whatever-you-want pleasures of their first night together. And it didn’t help whatever moderate and judicious emotions she might still retain to be gazing up close and personal at darling Billy, God’s gift to women. After a night of drinking, her senses were on high alert to everything sexual, and the most beautifully sexual man she’d ever met was sitting across the table from her.

He’d changed sometime between the saloon last night and now, his blue striped camp shirt pressed and neat, his chino shorts without a wrinkle. She wished she’d washed her robe,
she thought, suddenly aware of a chocolate stain she’d intended to swab with Stain Stick.

“You’re not eating,” he said. “Eat.”

She folded some of the robe skirt over the stain. “I ate a whole pint of ice cream last night and a pastry and a candy bar.”

He grinned. “You were missing me.”

“Was not. Tell me about Tammy,” she said, wanting to make him squirm instead. “If we had a conversation, I don’t remember.”

“Will you eat then? I don’t want you wasting away.”

He was either incredibly sweet or incredibly smooth, but at the moment she didn’t care because she didn’t feel like fasting
or
eating raw vegetables when she had a mushroom-and-bacon omelette on her plate, a basket of blueberry muffins was scenting the air, and the strawberries in the bowl to her left were arranged in a little mountain with whipped cream on top. She reached for a muffin.

He leaned back in his chair and offered her an easygoing smile. “I took Tammy home, said thanks but no thanks, I have to get up early in the morning, and drove around for an hour or so, telling myself I wasn’t coming here. And then I came over here and you proceeded to tell me you missed me.”

“Did not,” she said, not looking up from buttering her muffin in case he could see her embarrassment.

“Yeah, you did. But then you also said all men were scum, so I wasn’t so sure about the signals I was getting. Although you did mention your orgasms that night at the Lodge were mind-blowing, so I thought that was probably a plus in my column.”

She flushed red. “You’re making this up.”

“You wish. But just when I thought things were going my way, you passed out on the kitchen table and ruined all my plans.” His smile broadened. “But I’m still hopeful.”

“I should send you home,” she said, although the words were slightly muffled by her mouthful of muffin.

He only smiled, picked up his latte cup and lounged back
in his chair, looking immaculate—all fresh shirted and shorted—and apparently immune to hunger, while she was eating everything in sight. “Aren’t you eating?”

“We don’t all sleep until ten.” He waved toward some dirty dishes on the counter. “I ate hours ago and then raked your beach and took your canoe down from the boathouse wall. That’s a nice old Grumman.”

“It was my dad’s,” she said, taking note of the Lodge logo on the dishes on her counter. “You had the cook come here twice?”

“Gracie doesn’t mind.”

“How old is this Gracie?”

He looked entertained. “Thirty-one. Same age as you.”

“It’s none of my business, I’m sure,” she said.

“True.”

“You’re very annoying speaking in that courteous, polite, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth voice.”

“You’re just touchy because you’re hungover,” he said pleasantly.

She put down her fork. “What if I said we weren’t going to have sex. Would that unruffle your calm?”

“I don’t think you’re going to say that.”

“I could.”

He worked hard at suppressing his grin. “Well, then I’d just have to suffer, I guess.”

“Bloody right, you would.”

“Or you would.”

“You think I can’t go without sex?”

He shrugged. “You’re hungover. You need food, sex, a couple of Cokes with lots of ice, not necessarily in that order.”

“And you’re available.”

“Unless you’d prefer Mr. Dockers. The Cokes are in the fridge, by the way.”

“How do you know I don’t like Pepsi?”

“Because you always drank Coke at the beach. And I’ve an excellent memory of you.”

Her memories of him were more recent, but equally good—crystal clear, in fact, which was why her libido was craving sex, not in general, but very specifically with him. “Damn,” she said under her breath, thinking every woman he knew probably responded to him the same way.

“Try the strawberries. They’re locally grown.”

“So you can wait all day, Mr. Casual-try-the-strawberries?”

“Not really,” he said, coming to his feet, his erection lifting the pleated front of his chino shorts.

She flushed, took a small breath, put down her fork, and rose from her chair. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“I’ll bring the Cokes.”

She nodded.

Apparently there was a limit to sexual restraint and she’d reached it. And whether she was one of hundreds in his female entourage didn’t matter right now. Right now she wanted to have sex.

He stepped over her robe as he followed her down the hall, and when he entered her bedroom, she was lying naked on her bed, looking like every man’s dream with her legs spread wide and her arms open in welcome. “What took you so long?” she said, wiggling her fingers like a fidgety child.

He set down the Cokes and stripped off his clothes while she watched him, restless and impatient, no longer caring about anything but consummation. His skin was bronzed, not from the sun, but everywhere, his lithe muscled body blatantly aphrodisiac, the heated look in his eyes sending a thrill through her senses. He’d discarded his shirt, his shorts, and when he slid his boxers down his legs and his erection sprang free, she felt out of control. Whimpering, she slid her feet upward, let her thighs fall open. “Please, please, please,” she whispered.

As impatient as she, perhaps more so after waiting all night, he quickly lowered himself between her legs and then swore softly. He’d forgotten a condom.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, lifting her hips to draw him in.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Yeah, it does.” Rolling back on his heels, he stretched over the side of the bed, picked up his shorts, pulled out a foil packet from his pocket, ripped it open, put on a condom, and swung back between her legs. “I hope that didn’t break your stride.” His smile was warm on her mouth.

“Right now I could damn near come without you,” she whispered, running her palms down his spine.

“Hold on,” he murmured, gliding in slowly, feeling her sleek flesh give way. “I’m comin’ on in …”

She sighed, bliss beginning to color her world.

Ignoring preliminaries and foreplay in the interests of her neediness, he buried himself in her soft, welcoming warmth. Although his impatience matched hers after his long, frustrating night of waiting, he drove in deeper, swallowing her soft breathy cry, propelling her upward on the bed with the sheer force of his invasion. Heedless to all but carnal satisfaction, she melted around him, rose into his downward thrust, tempestuously met the sensational rhythm of his lower body, her impassioned senses peaking fast and furiously …