Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [35]
“Good. Then at least that’s settled.” She smiled and held out her glass. “Do the honors again?”
“Sure.”
He got up from the couch and went over to the wine. She watched him.
“I’m glad you haven’t let yourself go, Tom. You work out?”
“Twice a week. How about you?”
“You always had a nice tush. Nice hard tush.”
He turned. “Meredith . . .”
She giggled. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. We’re old friends.” She looked concerned. “I didn’t offend you, did I?”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine you ever getting prudish, Tom.”
“No, no.”
“Not you.” She laughed. “Remember the night we broke the bed?”
He poured the wine. “We didn’t exactly break it.”
“Sure we did. You had me bent over the bottom of the footboard and—”
“I remember—”
“And first we broke the footboard, and then the bottom of the bed crashed down—but you didn’t want to stop so we moved up and then when I was grabbing the headboard it all came—
“I remember,” he said, wanting to interrupt her, to stop this. “Those days were great. Listen, Meredith—”
“And then the woman from downstairs called up? Remember her? The old Lithuanian lady? She vanted ta know if somebody had died or vhat?”
“Yeah. Listen. Going back to the drive . . .”
She took the wineglass. “I am making you uncomfortable. What—did you think I was coming on to you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Good, because I really wasn’t. I promise.” She gave him an amused glance, then tilted her head back, exposing her long neck, and sipped the wine. “In fact, I—ah! Ah!” She winced suddenly.
“What is it?” he said, leaning forward, concerned.
“My neck, it goes into spasm, it’s right there . . .” With her eyes still squeezed shut in pain, she pointed to her shoulder, near the neck.
“What should I—”
“Just rub it, squeeze—there—”
He put down his wineglass and rubbed her shoulder. “There?”
“Yes, ah, harder—squeeze—”
He felt the muscles of her shoulder relax, and she sighed. Meredith turned her head back and forth slowly, then opened her eyes. “Oh . . . Much better . . . Don’t stop rubbing.”
He continued rubbing.
“Oh, thanks. That feels good. I get this nerve thing. Pinched something, but when it hits, it’s really . . .” She turned her head back and forth. Testing. “You did that very well. But you were always good with your hands, Tom.”
He kept rubbing. He wanted to stop. He felt everything was wrong, that he was sitting too close, that he didn’t want to be touching her. But it also felt good to touch her. He was curious about it.
“Good hands,” she said. “God, when I was married, I thought about you all the time.”
“You did?”
“Sure,” she said. “I told you, he was terrible in bed. I hate a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.” She closed her eyes. “That was never your problem, was it.”
She sighed, relaxing more, and then she seemed to lean into him, melting toward his body, toward his hands. It was an unmistakable sensation. Immediately, he gave her shoulder a final friendly squeeze, and took his hands away.
She opened her eyes. She smiled knowingly. “Listen,” she said, “don’t worry.”
He turned and sipped his wine. “I’m not worried.”
“I mean, about the drive. If it turns out we really have problems and need agreement from higher management, we’ll get it. But let’s not jump the gun now.”
“Okay, fine. I think that makes sense.” He felt secretly relieved to be talking once again about the drive. Back on safe ground. “Who would you take it to? Directly to Garvin?”
“I think so. I prefer to deal informally.” She looked at him. “You’ve changed, haven’t you.”
“No . . . I’m still the same.”
“I think you’ve changed.” She smiled. “You never would have stopped rubbing me before.”
“Meredith,” he said, “it’s different. You run the division now. I work for you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.”
“It’s true.”
“We’re colleagues.” She pouted. “Nobody around here really believes I’m superior to you. They just gave me the administrative work, that’s all. We’re colleagues, Tom. And