Best Kept Secrets(96)

explicit than he suspected.

She winced slightly when he entered her. He pretended not

to see her grimace. He tried not to sweat or make a sound

or do anything that she would consider nasty and unpleasant.

He saved all his raunchiness for the widow lady he supported

in the neighboring county. She didn't mind his crude

language. In fact, she hooted with laughter over some of his

more colorful expressions.

She was as lusty a lover as he. She had large, dark, milky-tasting

nipples that she would let him diddle with for hours



if he wanted to. She even went down on him and let him go

down on her. Each time he mounted her, her round thighs

gripped his ass like a vise. She was a noisy comer, and the

only woman he'd ever met who could laugh in downright joy

while she was screwing.

They'd been together for over twenty years. She never

asked for more of a commitment; she didn't expect one. They

had a damn good time together, and he didn't know what he

would do without her in his life, but he didn't love her.

He loved Sarah Jo. Or, at least, he loved what she was:

dainty and pure and refined and beautiful. He loved her as

an art collector would love a sculpture of priceless alabaster

that was to be touched only on special occasions, and then

with the utmost care.

Because she demanded it, he always wore a condom, and

when he was done, he removed it carefully so her silk sheets

wouldn't get soiled. While he was doing so tonight, he

watched Sarah Jo fold down the hem of her nightgown, re-button

the buttons, and straighten the covers.

Angus got back in bed, kissed her cheek, and put his arms

around her. He loved holding her tiny body against his, loved

touching her smooth, fragrant skin. He wanted to cherish her.

To his disappointment, she removed his arm and said, "Go

on to sleep now, Angus. I want to finish this chapter."

She reopened her novel, which was no doubt as dry and

lifeless as her lovemaking. Angus was ashamed of the disloyal

thought as he rolled to his other side, away from the light of

her reading lamp.

It never occurred to him to be ashamed of making the

thirty-mile trip to his mistress's house, which he planned to

do tomorrow night.



Stacey dropped the ceramic mug. It crashed and broke on

the tile kitchen floor. "Good Lord," she breathed, clutching

together the lapels of her velour robe.

"Stacey, it's me."

The first knock on the back door had startled her so badly

the mug had slipped from her hand. The voice speaking her



name did nothing to restore her heart to its proper beat. For

several moments she stood staring at the door, then rushed

across the kitchen and pushed back the stiff, starched curtain.

"Junior?!"

She didn't have sufficient air to say his name aloud. Her

lips formed it soundlessly. Fumbling with the lock, she hastily

unlatched the door and pulled it open, as though afraid he

would vanish before she could do it.

"Hi." His smile was uncomplicated and open, as if he

knocked on her back door every night about this time. "Did

I hear something break?"

She reached up to touch his face and reassure herself he

was really there, then shyly dropped her hand. "What are

you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

She glanced past him, searching her backyard for a plausible

reason for her ex-husband to be standing on the steps.

He laughed. "I've come alone. I just didn't want to ring

the bell, in case the judge had already gone to bed."

"He has. He ... uh, come in." Remembering her manners,

she moved aside. Junior stepped in. They stood facing

each other in the harsh kitchen light, which wasn't very flattering

to Stacy, who had already cleaned her face and prepared

for bed.

She had fantasized about him coming to her one night, but

now that it had happened, she was immobilized and rendered

mute by disbelief. Myriad professions of love and devotion

rushed through her mind, but she knew he wouldn't welcome

hearing them. She resorted to safe subjects.

"Dad went to bed early. His stomach was upset. I made

him some warm milk. I decided to make cocoa out of what

I had left over.'' Unable to take her eyes off him, she gestured

nervously toward the stove, where the milk was about to

scorch in the pan.

Junior went to the range and turned off the burner.' 'Cocoa,

huh? Your cocoa? There's none better. Got enough for two

cups?"

"Of ... of course. You mean you're staying?"



"For a while. If you'll have me."

"Yes," she said with a rash of air. "Yes."

Usually adept in the kitchen, Stacey clumsily prepared two

cups of cocoa. She couldn't imagine why he'd chosen tonight