The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [143]
“My housekeeper,” he yelled back. She could hear him opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.
“Your housekeeper . . . and you being over here with me means you’re not married, right?”
“Right. Divorced.”
“Me, too.” Then she muttered, “In case you were wondering.”
“Wanda is the sister of your friend, Gus.”
Her friend? “He fixed the gazebo up for me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He left me a chair and a table and everything.”
“He’s a good man, our Gus.”
Minutes too late it occurred to her that Gus worked for him. “So, so are you,” she said in a normal voice that wouldn’t carry to the kitchen.
Unfortunately, he was standing in the doorway again. “What?”
Jeez. “I said, ‘So are you.’ ”
“So am I what?”
“A good man.” She watched him cross the room, his arms and hands filled with a bowl of fruit salad—grapes, strawberries, pineapple chunks, slices of banana, wedges of peaches and pears—a plastic container of bread, another of cheese, a box of Pop-Tarts, a Coke, a large bottle of Gatorade, a glass of water, a bottle of Tylenol, and a rocks-glass-capped decanter. “Ah, but not a wine man.”
He shrugged. “It has its moments, but if I drink, I prefer Scotch.”
“Munchies, huh? I was thinking pretzels and gummy bears. This looks more like a feast.”
He set everything down on her end of the coffee table, then crossed his legs and lowered himself fluidly to the rug in front of her. He pointed to the Coke and the salad. “Fructose to help us metabolize the alcohol. Bread and cheese to help absorb it.” Patting the box of Pop-Tarts, he grinned and said, “Both. Every frat house in the world buys them in bulk.” He opened the bottle of analgesic and dumped out four tablets, then gave two to her with the glass of water. “ And for tomorrow’s hangover, we have these for the headache”—he took the half glass of water from her when she’d finished and downed his, draining out every drop, then reached for the sports drink to fill it again—“and this to make us feel semi-human again.”
“Wow. Should I be concerned with your obvious expertise in overimbibing, or is this just common knowledge that I’ve missed out on?”
“I’ve known a few . . . overimbibers in my time. You don’t forget the tricks.” Though his voice was still light and jovial, there was something in the tone that cautioned her.
Clearly, he had a sensitivity to alcohol abuse, and being in her present state of hammeredness was definitely a downer. She brightened her expression. “Wanna play Parcheesi? I found a board in—”
“No.” He laughed. “I’d rather ply you with more wine so you’ll tell me all your secrets.”
“Good luck with that one.” She sipped on the sports drink—a sweet-tart taste that made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth . . . not that it stopped her from talking. “I don’t have any.”
He narrowed suspicious eyes at her. “You’re not secretly afraid of your left hand or the number seventeen?”
“My left hand does make me nervous but, no, I’m not afraid of it . . . or seventeen.”
“You don’t snoop in other people’s medicine cabinets or steal decorator soaps at parties?”
She laughed and reached for the fruit. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” But . . . “I did once skip school and lie to my mother. In high school, I left after lunch, took a bus downtown to a Stephen King book signing. The line was ridiculous, but it was so worth standing there all afternoon just to see him, in person, and get my book signed.” She sighed dramatically. “He said, ‘Hi. How ya doing?’ And I said, ‘Great.’ He smiled at me.” Another sigh. “Then, of course, I was late getting home from school. My poor mother was worried sick and I told her I’d been kept in detention for forgetting my gym shorts.”
“Did anyone at school catch you for skipping?”
“I wasn’t the sort of kid people missed if I didn’t show up. I got off scot-free.”
He considered her for a long moment. “That’s it? That’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, is it?”
“Oh—oh no. The worst thing was in college. I dated two boys at the same time.”
He chewed on a strawberry. “For how long?”
“Six hours, maybe?” He looked confused. “See, I’d been dating Tommy