Best Kept Secrets(44)

"Look, all I know is that he called me and said that what

you wanted to do was impossible, even if he had handed

down a court order, which he would have been reluctant to

do."

"If he knew mother's body had been cremated, why didn't

he tell me himself this afternoon?"

"My guess would be that he didn't want a scene on his

hands."

"Yes," she murmured distractedly, "he doesn't like

messes. He told me so." She looked at him without expression.

"He sent you to do his dirty work. Messes don't bother

you."

Reede, declining to comment, pulled on his gloves and

replaced his hat. "You've had a jolt. Are you going to be

okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

Her blue eyes were filled with tears and her mouth trembled

slightly. She clasped her hands at her waist, as though forcibly

holding herself together. That's when he had wanted to put

his arms around her and hold her close, wet hair, damp towel,

bathrobe, bare toes, and all.

That's when he had moved forward and, before he even

realized what he was doing, forcibly pulled her arms out to

her sides. She had resisted, as though wanting to cover a

bleeding wound.

Before she reconstructed that barrier, he slid his arms

around her and pulled her against him. She was dewy and

warm and fragrant, fragile in her grief. She seemed to wilt

against him. Her arms dangled listlessly at her sides.



"Oh, God, please don't make me go through this," she

had whispered, and he had felt her breasts tremble. She rolled

her head toward him, until her face was making an impression

on his chest and he could feel her tears through his clothes.

He had angled his head to secure hers against him. The

towel wrapping her hair unwound and fell to the floor. Her

hair was damp and fragrant against his face.

He told himself now that he hadn't kissed it, but he knew

his lips had brushed her hair and then her temple, and rested

there.

At that point, a severe case of lust had seized him, and it

had been so powerful it was a wonder to him now that he

hadn't acted on it.

Instead he had left, feeling like crap for having to tell her

something like that and then slinking out like a snake. Staying

with her had been out of the question. His desire to hold her

hadn't been nobly inspired, and he didn't try to kid himself

into believing it was. He'd wanted gratification. He had

wanted to cover that hurting, courageous smile with hot, hard

kisses.

He swore to his dashboard now as he drove the Blazer

down the highway, heading in the opposite direction from

home. Sleet froze on the windshield before the wipers could

whisk it off. He was driving too fast for the weather

conditions--the pavement was like an ice rink--but he kept

going.

He was too old for this. What the hell was he doing entertaining

sexual fantasies? He hadn't consciously done that

since he and Junior had jerked off while drooling over centerfolds. Yet, at no time in recent memory had his fantasies

been so vivid.

Completely forgetting who Alex was, he had envisioned

his hands parting that white bathrobe and finding underneath

it smooth, ivory flesh; hard, pink nipples; soft, auburn hair.

Her thighs would be soft, and between them she would be

creamy.

Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She

wasn't just any woman who happened to be eighteen years



younger than himself. She was Celina's daughter, and he was

old enough to be her daddy, for crissake. He wasn't, but he

could have been. He very well could have been. Knowing

that made his stomach feel a little queasy, but it did nothing

to decrease the thick hard-on now testing the durability of

his fly.

He wheeled the truck into the deserted parking lot, cut the

engine, and bounded up the steps to the door. He tried it,

and when he discovered it was locked, pounded on it with

his gloved fists.

Eventually, the door was opened by a woman as broad-breasted

as a pigeon. She was wearing a long, white satin

peignoir that might have looked bridal had there not been a

black cigarette anchored in the corner of her lips. In her arms

she was holding an apricot-colored cat. She was stroking his

luxurious fur with an idle hand. Woman and cat glared at

Reede.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Why do most men come here, Nora Gail?" Rudely, he

brushed past her and went inside. If he'd been anybody else,

he would have been shot right between the eyes with the

pistol she kept hidden in the gaiter belt she always wore.

"Obviously, you haven't noticed. Business was so slow

tonight, we closed early."

"Since when has that mattered to you and me?"