The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [97]
“None of your business,” she decided. Charlie would kill her if she told him the truth.
Oliver’s hungry stare didn’t waver.
“Okay, I’m a student.” What the hell.
“Of human behavior.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Human needs and wants.”
“You could say that.”
They had a staring contest.
She gave in at the moment he reached for her, so technically it was a mutual kiss. But rough, an artless coming together that felt inevitable and overdue. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed. They made rash, automatic adjustments to get closer, feel more skin. She loved his open mouth on her neck, but it made her want more. She found his bare back under his clothes and pressed, stroked. Groans of pleasure and frustration, his, hers, were like music, but they couldn’t say each other’s name. Hers was fake anyway. “Let’s . . .” “Can’t we . . .” “God, you’re . . .” The longer it went on, the more unbearable it became. She felt wound up tight, unable to think of anything but one thing. “How can we . . .” came out unintelligible, mashed against the heat of his delicious mouth. Oliver pulled away to look around, look behind them, find a way. “Is there a—thing, a—lever, we could . . .” He went still.
She thought it was Pancho, sprawled out and making juicy sounds as he licked mud from his paws, that cooled Oliver’s passion. Had to happen, she thought, shaking again—with regret; this was crazy, plus the logistics were never going to work. But he wasn’t looking at the dog.
He was looking at her bowling bag, lodged in the crack between the door and the seat. His face, before her eyes, changed from intense and aroused to hard and suspicious.
“So,” he said in a winded voice, as if he’d been doing sprints. “You’re a bowler.”
She was too dazed to respond.
“That’s funny, so am I. What kind of ball do you use?”
“What? What?”
“Tenpin or duckpin?” He reached over the seat back and grabbed the bag. “Duckpin,” he guessed, hefting it in one hand. “Let’s see.”
“Give me that,” she snapped, breathless, but he pulled the bag out of her reach.
“Can’t I see your bowling ball?”
“No!”
“Come on,” and before she could react, he had the bag unzipped, the vinyl sides pulled apart.
Even in the gray aquatic light, the crystal ball sparkled. Oliver stared at it in unblinking astonishment. Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.
“Give me that,” she said, snatching the bag from his limp grip. “You know what your problem is? You’re insane.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a bowling ball! A—a joke gift, from girlfriends. You wouldn’t understand.” She had an uncharacteristic urge to burst into tears. “Would you please get out of my car?”
“I—I—”
“Out, out, out, out—”
“Listen, I’m sorry, I thought, I mean—”
But whatever he thought he meant, he couldn’t put it into words, and his inarticulateness enraged her so much she wanted to punch him. But she couldn’t put her fury into words either, so she reached across him and shoved open the door on his side. “Out!”
He got out.
“Go blow up another oil rig in the Gulf!” were her parting words.
For once the Pontiac started up on the first try. It was a small, mean pleasure to see that Oliver was completely soaked again before he could get into his stupid car. Hers sent gravel flying as she peeled out of the parking lot.
TWELVE
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Grandfather. I was expecting ‘happy birthday.’ May I come in?”
“Oh yeah. Happy birthday.” Charlie stepped back and opened the door wide. “Seriously, you don’t look so good.”
The first thing Oliver noticed was that the mustangs were still missing from their place on the shelf in the foyer. The second thing he noticed was the napkin tucked into Charlie’s shirt collar. They went into the living room, where the TV was tuned, full blast, to Entertainment Tonight. “I’m sorry—you’re still eating. I thought you said you were finished.” That’s what Charlie had told him when Oliver had phoned from the car, asking if he could come over.
“I’m finished. I never eat the cooked apples.