Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [42]
I had removed my tie and jacket, but not the regulation .38 I carry in a shoulder holster under my left arm. She nestled against my chest. Most women, encountering the pistol for the first time, express something-surprise mostly, dismay sometimes, sometimes repulsion. Anne showed none of these. Her fingers strayed easily across the metal handle, then settled on the small of my back. This time her lips sought mine, sought them, found them, made them her own.
I put my hand on her chin and pushed her away from me. “I thought you said your intentions were honorable.”
“I thought you said not to play games,” she replied matter-of-factly.
I wasn’t prepared to argue the point. I kissed her again, letting my tongue explore at will, learning each corner of her, each curve and crevice. I could probably get away with saying I took her there in the living room on the floor, but it wouldn’t be the truth. She took me every bit as much as I took her, maybe more. Her body arched to meet mine, her fingers in my back spurred me, goaded me. My need and her need melded into one, and when the climax came, I heard an aching sob escape her lips. I kissed her cheek. It was wet with tears.
I moved away from her and lay on my side, watching her, “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I said.
She snuggled against me, nestling her back into the curve of my body, placing my hand so it rested on the sloping fullness of her breast. “I didn’t expect it to be that good. It hasn’t been that good in a long time.”
We lay like that together, letting the aftermath of our lovemaking slowly dissolve around us. She lay so still, I thought she had dozed off. My arm went to sleep. When I tried to move her to one side, she rolled away from me and stood up. “Do you have a robe I could wear?” she asked.
I dragged two of them out of the closet, one for her and one for me. Considering we had just made love, it was silly to be self-conscious, but we both were. The one I gave her was huge when she tied it around her slender frame. She rolled the sleeves up a turn or two so her hands showed. “I offered you a drink,” I said. “You want one now?”
All trace of tears was gone. She smiled mischievously. “No thanks, I already have what I came for.”
I grabbed her arm and swung her toward me. “Why, you little vixen,” I said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I’m not,” she said. She gave me a glancing kiss, slipping away from me at the same time. I poured a drink for myself and turned on the lights. I watched with some amusement as she padded barefoot around the room, examining my decorator-dictated knickknacks as well as the pictures of Kelly and Scott on the wall in the entryway.
“Your kids?” she asked.
I nodded. “They’re both in high school now. They live in California with their mother.”
“How long have you been divorced?” she asked.
“Long time. Five years.”
“Girlfriends?”
“I’d like to think I’ve got one now,” I said. “What about you?”
She settled cross-legged on the couch, pulling the robe demurely around her. “I’m a widow. My husband died ten years ago.” She regarded me seriously. “I’ve had too much money to be able to tell who my friends are, to say nothing of lovers.”
“You’re a little young to be a widow.”
“I was a lot younger ten years ago.” She didn’t offer to divulge her age and I didn’t ask, although she couldn’t have been more than thirty, thirty-two at the outside. She sat there looking off into space. She had a way of mentally going off by herself that I found disconcerting. When she came back to the present she was looking directly into my eyes. “Are you going to ask me to spend the night, or do I have to get dressed and go home?”
I almost choked on a very small sip of MacNaughton’s. “Would you like to spend the night?