Love Lies Beneath (3 page)

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.' ”

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, even 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.”

Melody stops loading the dishwasher long enough to smile a hello. “If I lived in San Francisco, I'd have that option. Do you know how far I'd have to drive to find a decent bakery here?”

“Seriously, Mel. Who bakes anymore, especially on the day they're taking off on a ski trip?”

“A ski trip the rest of her family won't be enjoying. The least I could do was leave them decent bread.”

She can take her cheerful-housewife routine and shove it. “How close are you?”

“I'll be ready as soon as I finish cleaning up.”

“Can't Kayla do it? She's pissed, not disabled.”

“I could ask her, of course. But it's faster if I just do it than argue with her for twenty minutes. Anyway, I'm done.” She starts the wash cycle, rinses her hands.

“Anyone ever tell you your parenting skills are lacking?”

The slender rebuke draws no anger. “Only my husband. And his aren't any better. Just call us Mr. and Mrs. Walkalloverme.”

Irritation prickles. I wish she'd rise up to defend herself once in a while. It's bothered me ever since we were kids and Mom would go off on one of her rants. Loudmouthed me always took the brunt of her punishments while soft-spoken Melody receded into the background, barely there.

“Quick potty stop, and we're on our way.”

Twenty minutes later we are, turning south to meet Highway 50 east. It's a gorgeous drive, but I'm very happy the weather is good. The curvy two-lane makes for ugly going in a blizzard. Today, it's clear and crisp outside. Korn comes on the radio. Their music is a mile outside my comfort zone, and a deviation for this channel. Still, when Melody reaches over to turn down the volume, I'm even more uncomfortable because it means she's moving into sister-chat mode.

Melody: Blah-blah-blah, your divorce.

Me: Blah-blah-blah, rehearsed answer.

Mel: Blah-blah-blah, plans for the future.

Moi: Blah-blah-blah, one day at a time.

The only way to disengage from small talk about me is to engage in small talk about her. “So, how's Graham?”

Melody's husband is a pediatrician, and quite popular among greater Sacramento soccer moms, due to his all-American good looks and highly cultivated bedside manner. As far as I know, that hasn't negatively affected their marriage. They'll celebrate their twentieth anniversary in a few months.

“He's great. I don't know if I told you this, but he and a couple of his friends have put together a band. Just for fun, you know. Graham plays the drums, and . . .”

I tune out for a short, sweet span. I love my sister, but she does know how to stretch a story. She should have been a novelist instead of a technical writer. Or maybe an epic poet. We are passing Placerville before I notice she's stopped talking, as if waiting for an answer. “I'm sorry. What did you just say?”

“Hmph. I asked if you'd thought any more about Christmas.”

They invite me every year, and I usually have a good excuse to say no. This year, there's no husband, no conflicts, no real reason not to agree. I could lie, but untruths become so tiresome. “You know I hate to intrude. Christmas is a family day.”

“Um . . . hello? You're family.”

“Not Graham's, though.”

“Believe it or not, he takes ownership. What's mine is his, et cetera.”

Truthfully, I'd rather spend the holidays alone on the moon than pretending good cheer with the Schumacher clan, but I keep that to myself and change the subject. “So what do the girls want for Christmas?”

“Jessica's hot for the latest iPhone. She's barely twelve, but apparently all her friends have one. Suzette wants a new snowboard. She progressed really far last year and is ready for something a little more extreme. By the way, she's royally pissed that she couldn't come on this trip. Maybe next time we could bring her along?”

“I don't see why not. And what about Kayla?”