Still Lake - Anne Stuart [63]
“Like him?” Sophie protested. “I can’t stand him! He’s a sneaky, treacherous human being who lies about everything, including who he is.”
“And who is he?” Doc asked, curious.
“Some kind of reporter or writer, I think. Something to do with the old murders. I don’t know what his name is, but it sure the hell isn’t John Smith.”
“Fascinating,” Doc murmured.
“So trust me, I’m not going anywhere near him if I can help it.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Because Marty said you came from his place just after dawn this morning, and you looked like you had a rough night.”
“Marty must have been dreaming,” Sophie said flatly. Funny, she never lied. But she was lying now, and quite easily.
Doc smiled down at her, but there was no disguising the worry in his eyes. “I hope so,” he said. “But call me, any time of the day or night, if you need me.”
What did he expect, Sophie wondered irritably after he left. That Grace would climb onto the rooftop like Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife in Jane Eyre? She could take care of Grace, she could take care of Marty, and she could take care of herself.
It was the element of surprise, she decided. If she’d had any inkling that John Smith was interested in sleeping with her she would have kept her distance. Of course, there was no denying he’d kissed her yesterday afternoon, which should have given her a hint, one that she had studiously ignored. And she’d had no choice but to go there last night, when she thought Grace was missing. She couldn’t let her mother wander around in the night.
So instead Sophie had ended up on the floor beneath a stranger, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him. How could her life have changed so much in one night?
It was silly to think she was somehow different. People made too much of a fuss over sex—it was a perfectly natural bodily function, and just because she’d avoided it for longer than most didn’t mean it was any big deal. And it wasn’t as if she were frigid. God, no. Maybe even the opposite. She shouldn’t have enjoyed herself. Women weren’t supposed to have orgasms the first time, were they? Especially women with underdeveloped sex drives who didn’t know or trust their partner.
Well, maybe she didn’t have an underdeveloped sex drive, maybe she’d just been too busy to notice. Or too picky. Or maybe, just maybe, John Smith was really good at sex.
She didn’t want to think that. It would be a major problem to have started out with an expert and then have to settle for someone less competent. It would be just her luck to have him spoil her for any worthwhile man who might come her way.
There was always the remote possibility that she’d inherited the curse of the Wilsons, Grace’s family. According to Grace, Wilson women loved only once, and then it lasted forever. It was no good trying to find someone else, someone more acceptable. Once they fell in love they were doomed.
Which was hogwash. Sophie was a practical woman. She simply needed to find someone more suitable. Someone who was equally talented at sex.
If she was going to keep having sex, and eventually get married and have children, then she was going to have to find someone from the area. Doc would know of any eligible bachelors around. She couldn’t very well ask him if they were any good in bed, of course, but maybe she’d be able to pick up on that before she tried them out. After all, there was no denying John Smith was a very sexy man. The way he moved, the way he touched things, the way he looked at you out of his dark eyes, the shape of his mouth…
“Shit.” Oh, God, now she was going to be using his favorite curse word all the time. She was always getting after Marty for her language—there was no way she could get away with it herself. And every time she said the word she could see him, feel him, buried deep inside her tightly clenching body, his heart pounding against hers, his breath rasping, his hips moving, her body damp, wet, clinging, shaking…
She practically tumbled off the glider