Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
She smiled, made a face. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“That's how you kiss a woman,” she said. “Pecks are for grandmothers with bad breath.”
A silent groan. Bannerman thought of Molly. He could see her grinning, applauding.
“Grandmothers,” he repeated.
She nodded. She touched a finger to a place between her breasts. “Then you reach for this button. But you do it slowly. And not from there.”
“It won't help.''She gestured, taking in their setting. “This is kind of...I don't know.”
”I think it's very romantic, what you've done here.”
”I think it's nice,” she twisted her lip. “But it's corny.”
“Corny,” he said blankly.
“Romantic would have been last night, when I came in to cover you, if you were only pretending to be asleep and you reached up and pulled me down with you. I was naked, by the way.”
Bannerman felt his color rising. Molly made three big checkmarks on her clipboard, then tilted her head smugly.
”Or”—Susan cocked her head as well—“romantic would have been me waking up this morning to the touch of your fingers lightly running up and down my back, down over my hips, me feeling your chin, not too rough, just a nice masculine little stubble against my shoulder, feeling you start to swell against my thigh. I was naked all night, too.”
Bannerman glanced, involuntarily, toward his bedroom.
“Couldn't help it,” she said. “Had to rinse out my things.”
”Um . . . Susan . . .” Suddenly he couldn't think what to do with his hands.
”I know.” She wagged a finger. “Shouldn't rush things. One day at a time.”
He couldn't think what to do with words, either.
“Vivaldi's okay,” she said, her nose wrinkling. “But I was hoping you'd have Ravel's
Bolero.
You don't happen to keep a copy stashed for your less-fragile houseguests, do you?”
He blinked.
“Never mind.” He didn't get it, she realized.
Ten?
The movie? Bo Derek? Never mind. Probably no use asking about leather and chains and stuff either.
Not that he didn't know how to be sexy. Usually, he was wonderful. So patient. And giving. He could make you believe you were the most terrific, the most exciting, the most beautiful woman in the world. And the best lover. Although the first time, she remembered, it took him forever to work up to it. Truth is, it was her idea. She'd practically raped him. Granted, she now realized why he'd been dragging his feet. He was being Mama's Boy then. Trying to see what this nosey reporter, this kid, might have learned about Westport. Well . . . this
kid
may not have been a nympho but she didn't just come out of a convent either. Or out of a
David
Niven movie. She didn't need wine, candlelight, and elevator music every time either one of them wanted a roll in the sack.
“Don't you ever want to just jump on my bones? A good, happy, rip-roaring, spontaneous screw?”
He cleared his throat. “The truth? Just about all the time.” He glanced past her shoulder. There was a wing chair, red leather, behind her. He saw Molly Farrell in it. She sat cross-legged, chin resting on two fists, enjoying herself thoroughly.
“How about now?”
“Well . . . yes. Sure,” was all he managed.
She seemed to consider it. She shook her head. “The mood's all wrong.”
Bannerman threw up his hands. He glared, murderously, in the direction of the wing chair. Susan turned.
“What do you keep looking at?” she asked.
“Nothing. Um . . . nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You're not ,by chance, recording this, are you?”
“Are you kidding?” he asked, incredulous. “Who would I let hear it?”
“Just asking.” She sipped her wine. A drop fell on her sleeve. She brushed it off. “Do you like this blouse?”
“It's very, um . . . sexy.”
”I bought some other things. Do you want to see?”
He reached for the loose fabric, fingering it lightly. “How about later?”
“No.” That look again. ”I want to show you.”
She stepped into the bedroom and returned with several packages. All showed the names of local merchants except one, a plain brown bag, folded over. Susan put this to one side. She opened a bag from Ed Mitchell's, a clothing store for men. ”I bought you a shirt,” she said. “It'll look great on you. You need more color.”
She produced a shirt with a Burberrys label, long sleeved, button-down, casual. It was a handsome forest green with yellow stripes set wide apart. Bannerman took it in his hands. For several moments he held it, examining it as if it were fragile. He did not speak.
“Do you like it?”
“Very much.” His expression grew soft. Far away.
He seemed, to Susan, genuinely touched. So much like her father when she brought him a gift for no special reason. “It's just a shirt,” she said.
“It's a beautiful shirt. Thank you.”
She reached into another bag. ”I bought myself another top. On sale.” This one was green, a lighter shade than his, a very wide neck. “Want to see it on?”
“Sure.”
She set it down, then tugged her white silken blouse loose at the waist. She pulled it over her head.
”I didn't mean—” He stopped.
“Would you rather I did this inside?” She crossed one arm over her breasts, her free hand holding the green top.
Bannerman's head moved indecisively.
She lowered the arm, unfolded the new top, taking her time. Her movements seemed natural, unforced, thoroughly unself-conscious. Yet Bannerman began to have a feeling that they were also entirely deliberate. That she knew perfectly well the effect that her unabashed nakedness would have on him and was pretending to be oblivious to it. That and the shirt. He could not remember the last time that a woman, not of his world, had brought him a gift. But these were fleeting thoughts. Wispy. Nothing he could grasp and hold or seize control of.
Control
The word brought a rueful smile. The last thing he controlled in the past half hour was the wheel of his car.
Raising her arms, she slipped into the pale green top. She shook out her hair. The green went well with it. The neck, very loose, extended to the edge of one shoulder. A touch, the smallest tug, would have left the shoulder bare down to the top of one breast. The effect was, in its way, more erotic than her nudity.
“It's . . .” He swallowed.
“Sexy?”
“And then some.”
“Which one do you like better? Want to see the other one on again?”
“Susan”—he brought both hands to his eyes, covering them—“Why are you doing this to me?”
She looked at the fire, took a breath. ”I bought one other thing.”
He nodded. “Let's see it.”
“Don't peek, okay?”
”I promise.”
His eyes followed the sound. They found it and blinked. He was looking at a pistol, flecked with tiny pits of rust, the bluing well worn. He picked it up. Colt—Super .38 Automatic, it said on the barrel. It was at least thirty years old.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, frowning.
”I saw an ad. It was sort of an impulse.”
“It was also a crime. You can't just walk in and buy a gun in Connecticut.”
”I guess the man didn't know that. Will you teach me to shoot it?”
“Susan . . . what for?”
“Because I'm going to stay with you. Because I want to be someone you can count on.”
“To do what? Shoot people?”
“If they tried to hurt you. Yes.”
Bannerman touched his temple as if a pain had begun there.
“Or to hurt me,” she added.
“No one will hurt you,” he said earnestly. “No one will ever try that again.”
“You, then. Will you teach me?”
“Absolutely not. You'd end up shooting yourself. Or some passerby.”
Her eyes flashed. “That's patronizing, Bannerman. Knock it off.”
“It is not,” he said firmly. “Learning how to shoot takes hours. Learning when to shoot takes years. Being able to shoot . . . maybe never.”
“I'd have a pretty good teacher.”
“Wrong again. I'm average at best. The worst shot on the Westport police force is probably better than I am.”
”I don't believe you.”
He spread his hands. “Your father never taught you about handguns?”
“Just never to touch his.”
“Then ask him, if you won't believe me. He'll probably tell you that when you're close enough to use a pistol you'd usually be just as well off with an ax except that the handgun makes lots of noise while you're missing and it makes the man you're shooting at want to run and hide. You've seen too much television, Susan.”
“Watch it.”
He rose to his feet. He began pacing. “On television, shootings are neat and clean. One shot and the bad guy drops. You never see—”
“I'm a reporter, Paul,” she said evenly. “I've seen people die.”
He stopped. “What people?” he asked doubtfully.
“At crime scenes. In emergency rooms. Shooting and stabbing victims. Car crash victims. I've been there when their bowels let go. When they swallowed their tongues. I've seen rape victims. And their rapists. I've seen two of them, in a police station, laughing about what they'd done. If I had a gun that day—”
Bannerman shook his head abruptly.
”I keep trying to tell you, Paul. You didn't invent me.”
He said nothing.
“Do you love me?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“But for who I am.”
“For who you are,” he nodded. “Not for trying to be more like me. I can't stand the thought of you with a gun.”
She did not answer. Neither spoke for several moments.
“Want to see my boobs again?” she asked.
His head snapped up.
“Just trying to ease the tension.”
Bannerman's hands slapped against his cheeks.
What does
it take?
he asked himself. What does it take for one single conversation with Susan Lesko to go his way for more than a few seconds at a time?
An hour had passed.
The fire had dropped to a whisper. They lay
on pillows,
under a quilt. She had sent him to get them. Afterward.
They lay facing each other. He on one elbow, touching her, exploring her, his eyes filled with . . . she wasn't sure. Wonder, perhaps. A sense of discovery. They had made love before, many times, but it seemed that they were different people then.