The Third Twin - Ken Follett [115]
“It was me, Mr. Oliver,” she said in a shaky voice. “This jerk attacked me in my car in Philadelphia this afternoon.”
“Attacked you?” Steve said incredulously. “I wouldn’t do that!”
“You bastard, you did it two hours ago.”
Steve was stung. He was sick of being accused of brutality. “Fuck you, I haven’t been to Philadelphia for years.”
Mr. Oliver intervened. “This young gentleman been sitting on that wall for nigh on two hours, Jeannie. He ain’t been to no Philadelphia this afternoon.”
Jeannie looked indignant and seemed ready to accuse her good-natured neighbor of lying.
Steve noticed that she was wearing no stockings; her bare legs looked odd with such a formal outfit. One side of her face was slightly swollen and reddish. His fury evaporated. Someone had attacked her. He yearned to put his arms around her and comfort her. It made her fear of him even more distressing. “He hurt you,” he said. “The bastard.”
Her face changed. The look of terror went. She spoke to the neighbor. “He got here two hours ago?”
The man shrugged. “Hour and forty, maybe fifty minutes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Jeannie, if he was in Philadelphia two hours ago he must have come here on the Concorde.”
She looked at Steve. “It must have been Dennis.”
He walked toward her. She did not step back. He reached out and touched her swollen cheek with his fingertips. “Poor Jeannie,” he said.
“I thought it was you,” she said, and tears came to her eyes.
He folded her in his arms. Slowly he felt her body lose its stiffness, and she leaned on him trustingly. He stroked her head and twined his fingers in the heavy waves of her dark hair. He closed his eyes, thinking how lean and strong her body was. I’ll bet Dennis has some bruises too, he thought. I hope so.
Mr. Oliver coughed. “Would you youngsters like a cup of coffee?”
Jeannie detached herself from Steve. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just want to get out of these clothes.”
Tension was written on her face, but she looked even more bewitching. I’m falling in love with this woman, he thought. It’s not just that I want to sleep with her—though it’s that too. I want her to be my friend. I want to watch TV with her, and go to the supermarket with her, and give her NyQuil on a spoon when she has a cold. I want to see how she brushes her teeth and pulls on her jeans and butters her toast. I want her to ask me does the orange lipstick suit her and should she buy razors and what time will I be home.
He wondered if he had the nerve to tell her that.
She crossed the row porch to her door. Steve hesitated. He wanted to follow her, but he needed an invitation.
She turned on the doorstep. “Come on,” she said.
He followed her up the stairs and entered the living room behind her. She dropped the black plastic bag on the rug. She went into the kitchen nook and kicked off her shoes, then, to his astonishment, she dropped them in the kitchen bin. “I’ll never wear these goddamn clothes again,” she said angrily. She took off her jacket and threw that away. Then, as Steve stared in disbelief, she unbuttoned her blouse and took it off and put that in the bin too.
She was wearing a plain black cotton brassiere. Surely, Steve thought, she was not going to take that off right in front of him. But she reached behind her back, unfastened it, and tossed it into the trash. She had firm, shallow breasts with prominent brown nipples. There was a faint red mark on her shoulder where the strap had been too tight. Steve’s throat went dry.
She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She wore simple black bikini panties. Steve gazed at her openmouthed. Her body was perfect: the strong shoulders, the neat breasts, the flat belly, and the long, sculptured legs. She pushed her panties down, swept them up in a bundle with the skirt, and shoved the bundle into the bin.