“Would you like a glass?” he asked politely.
She shook her head. “This is fine.” She took a sip and murmured, “Thank you.”
Riley leaned against the counter and indulged himself in a long swallow of his beer, then said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, “I didn’t ask my secretary to do the shopping, because it seemed best that the fewer people who know you’re here, the better.” He paused for another swallow and to give that sentence a moment to sink in, then grinned. “And frankly, I couldn’t think of a plausible explanation to give her for why I was needing women’s and children’s clothing all of a sudden. After all-” he frowned in mock seriousness “-I do have a certain image to protect.”
He was mystified by how pleased he felt when she smiled.
She took a hefty swig of beer that left her lips glazed, then frowned and tilted the neck of the bottle toward him to indicate a return to serious discussion. “Listen-I know you have an…active social life.” He heard what was unmistakably a small burp. “You mustn’t let us interfere with it.”
She looked startled when he chuckled. “You know that, do you? How come you know so much about me, Mrs. Robey?”
She shifted slightly, leaning one hip against the counter, and Riley felt his gaze being drawn slowly and inexorably downward by the movement and the subtly relaxing lines of her body. He couldn’t help himself.
She gave her head a toss, and he jerked his eyes back to her face almost guiltily to find that her lips were pursed and shiny with moisture, her eyes the fierce, burning blue of glaciers. “You don’t think I’d come to you without checking on you first, do you? With my children’s lives at stake?”
“Well…” For the first time in his memory his tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of his mouth. He drank some more beer to loosen it. When, he wondered, had it gotten so warm in his kitchen? So heavy and humid? He hoped the air-conditioning wasn’t going out again. Oxygen-deprived, he suppressed a yawn and mumbled, “Well, the only excitement I have planned for this evening is an early bedtime. Your kids aren’t the only ones needin’ to catch up on sleep.”
He couldn’t keep his breathing even as he watched her walk toward him…until it occurred to him that her only purpose in doing that was to dispose of her beer bottle. Feeling vaguely foolish, he moved to one side to give her access to the sink, then watched her rinse out her bottle and extend a hand to ask silently for his.
He surrendered it, and again availed himself of the unforeseen pleasure of watching her hands as she held the bottles under the faucet’s stream…the seconds seeming to slow and elongate so that the flowing water became oil and each movement of her hands a slow and sensual caress. What was it about her hands, he wondered-her hands, the water, the freshsoap smell of her. He couldn’t for the life of him think why those things suddenly seemed so erotic to him. This simple domesticity, the casual intimacy of it, wasn’t at all his style. He’d always preferred the more stylized courtship rituals-flowers and candlelight, elegant dinners, weekends in the Bahamas…
“Do you recycle?”
He straightened and jerked his head toward the kitchen’s outer door. “I think Mrs. Abemathy has a bin…”
While she was disposing of the bottles, to give himself at least the illusion of useful occupation, he picked up the first thing at hand-a plastic-wrapped package of meat-and scowled at it. Returning, she reached around him to take it from him and in doing so brushed against his arm. He felt a charge go through his chest, a vibrating rhythm like the subsonic boom of bass speakers that he realized with a small sense of shock must be his heartbeat.
“Filet mignon.” She shook her head as she pulled open the freezer door. “I hope you didn’t buy this for us. The children and I are just as happy with mac ’n’ cheese.” She paused then, and he saw her shoulders slump. She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes dark with contrition. “I didn’t even think-of course you must be hungry. Can I make you something?”
Riley was not often at a loss for words-another of his gifts, and one reason he was such a success at his chosen profession. But at that moment his mind was a blank, his speech processing centers totally nonfunctional. And he knew why. Because, yes, he definitely was feeling pangs of hunger, but they weren’t located in his stomach. And because, yes, he’d have liked very much for her to make him something, but it wasn’t filet mignon. And because he knew very well that what he was feeling was absolutely unpardonable-the woman was a client, a recent crime victim, a protected government witness and an unwilling guest in his home. And because in spite of all that he knew, if she came one inch closer to him, he was probably going to kiss her.
The silence had already lasted too long. Long enough to become vibrant with unspoken suggestions and innuendo, long enough for the heat to gather in Summer’s cheeks and the questions in her eyes, long enough for the sweat to bead on Riley’s forehead and upper lip. Way too long for graceful exits, plausible explanations or any chance of redemption.
Still, what could he do but try? He gave his head a slight shake, cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry-” all of which he knew only made it worse “-what did you say?”
She touched her lips with the back of her hand, cleared
“Mom?”
Never had a child’s voice sounded sweeter to Riley. He turned to see the boy David standing in the doorway, blinking in the harsh kitchen light. He was wearing briefs and a dark T-shirt with the words The Truth Is Out There pointed on it. For some reason, he thought, the child’s knees seemed knobbier than they had in the oversize swim trunks, his legs spindlier, his shoulders narrower and more vulnerable.
He felt Summer brush past him, so closely he felt the tickle of her hair on his face, saying breathlessly, “Oh, honey-what’s the matter, can’t sleep?”
David nodded, at the same time throwing Riley a look that held a strange kind of appeal, but more, he thought, of mute embarrassment. The boy’s mother put an arm around his shoulders, forming a barrier of privacy with her body, but Riley could hear her voice murmuring words of comfort, David’s voice answering. He heard the words “bad dream.”
“Would you like Beatle to sleep with you?”
Again David threw Riley that unfathomable look, half wistful, half ashamed, then nodded. His mother walked him into the hallway, still talking to him in her low, soothing voice, her strong hands gentle on his shoulders and the back of his neck, ruffling and then smoothing his hair.
“Git up outta that bed, you little piece a…! What’d you do with it this time, huh? You got it hid, you better tell me where. Better not a’poured it out, or I swear I’m gonna beat the tar outta you. Don’t you dare run from me! Hey, boy-you come on, now, you git back here! Go on, then-sleep with the snakes, ya little weasel! Hey-yer gonna hafta come back some time-y’hear? I’ll be waitin’ fer ya. I’ll be waitin’…”
“He had a nightmare,” Summer said, coming back into the kitchen. She was wearing her worry lines again, and a flushed, defensive look that made Riley realize he must be frowning. He nodded and muttered something, he didn’t know what. He felt chilled, and there was a heaviness in his chest he couldn’t dislodge.
She brushed past him and began to take groceries out of plastic bags and arrange them on the countertop with rapid, almost angry movements. “Look-he probably wouldn’t want me to tell you this-it embarrasses him, okay? He had a…a bunny blanket. It was destroyed in the fire. He’s trying to be grown-up about it. He’s trying so hard to be grown-up…about a lot of things. And I wish-” She ducked her head and he saw her make a surreptitious swipe at her cheek with one hand. Then she lifted her chin and threw him a defensive look. “I know you must think he’s way too old to sleep with a security blanket. He probably is. But dammit-” she stopped to take a deep breath, and when he said nothing, continued in a deliberately calmer tone “-he’s a very sensitive little boy who’s had a lot to deal with, and if a lousy blanket could make him feel safer and more secure, I was
“Mrs. Robey,” Riley said stiffly, “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me.” Unbelievably shaken, he turned and stalked out of the kitchen.
Riley looked forward to spending his weekends quietly at home catching up on his reading, Saturdays and Sundays being the only days he had time to do justice to a newspaper. He saw no reason why this weekend should be any different just because he happened to have three extra people sharing his living quarters. His plan was to walk down the drive to the gate while it was still relatively cool, then barricade himself in his den with the papers and a large cup of coffee while Summer and the children were occupying the kitchen. Once the diminishing decibel levels informed him that they had adjourned to the pool, he would emerge from his lair just long enough to fix
