Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(15)
She sounds just like Steve now. ‘I don’t know him,’ I say. ‘I don’t really want to fall into bed with just anyone.’ Although as the words fall off my lips, I think of the kiss the other night and I feel my face flush.
Again, she misinterprets me. ‘Sometimes a good f*ck is what we all need,’ Jeanine says candidly.
The waitress has come back with my second glass of wine and overhears this. It is her turn to blush as she turns away.
I chuckle. Jeanine really is divorced, and we’ve been down this road before. She is dating a guy on the mainland she met through one of those Internet dating services. ‘Is that the way it is with Bob?’ I tease, knowing she’s not serious about him.
She shrugs and winks.
Our relationship has been fairly one-sided. She talks about her relationship woes, barely registering that I never talk to her about my love life, or lack thereof. Despite her concern about me, that my ‘karma is off,’ she doesn’t seem to notice that she does all the talking. I am very good at listening, agreeing with her when she wants me to.
Our meals arrive, and I am happy to immerse myself in the shrimp and even more wine. By the time we are finished, I am slightly drunk, Jeanine slightly less than me. She tells me about Bob, gives me some details I’d rather not hear. She talks about the spa, and we gossip about some of her clients, the tourists who are regulars every season. I’ve had some of them on my tours, and we compare notes. Soon we pay our bill, and we wander out into the chilly darkness. I had not expected to drink so much, had planned to ride my bike home. Jeanine helps me put it in the back of her car, but we can’t find anything to secure the trunk, so the top flaps open and bounces up and down noisily as she drives up to my house.
As we approach, I see a shadow in the back, around the side of the house, that does not belong there. I don’t think Jeanine notices.
We haul the bike out of the back of the car, slam the trunk shut and say goodnight. I tell Jeanine to drive safely home, but she doesn’t have far to go. I roll my bike up the hill to the house and lean it against the side as I unlock the door. Before I can go inside, however, I see him out of the corner of my eye. I turn to face him.
‘Why are you hovering around my house?’ I demand, my voice too loud from all the wine.
Even in the dark I can see his white teeth as he grins. ‘I didn’t realize Nicole Jones drinks that much,’ he says. ‘Four glasses?’
A sick feeling surges up through my chest. ‘Where were you?’ I hiss.
‘Oh, no need to get all upset. I need to eat, too. It’s a small island.’
‘There are a lot of restaurants,’ I point out, not even trying to keep the anger out of my voice.
‘How would I know you’d wander in there?’ he asks, cupping my chin and lifting my face to his. ‘I never stopped thinking about you,’ he whispers.
I feel my face trembling in his hand.
‘You’re cold,’ he says, taking his hand away and pushing open the door. I lead the way inside, shedding my jacket and hanging it on a hook in the mudroom. He follows me into the kitchen, where only one light over the stove illuminates the room. The rest of the house is as black as the night, and it’s here that he takes me, and I am helpless.
I think of Jeanine’s comment as I stare at the ceiling, his breaths short and loud. I remember this about him, how he snores. How I couldn’t sleep when I stayed with him. I can’t sleep now.
I can blame the wine for this, the fact that I did not say no, but I would be lying to myself.
I stare at the ceiling, but instead of the white sheetrock of my little house, I see the dark wood paneling of the houseboat. It is so real at this moment that when I close my eyes, I can almost feel the gentle rocking in rhythm with his snoring, hear the crackle of the small transistor radio we kept by the bed. I find myself humming, the words in French swirling through my head.
My eyes snap open. It has been a long time since I’ve thought in French, dreamed in French. At first, it was every day, every night, but soon it faded like an old movie. He has brought it back. He has brought everything back.
I roll over, pulling my soft pillow over my head, the sheets caressing my body. I am sore and sated; it is almost dawn. He shifts a little, his fingers brush my thigh, and it is as though I am on fire again. I am embarrassed that it takes so little for him to affect me this way, that I have been thinking about this ever since that day at the North Light. It was one thing when I was younger. My judgment was that of a woman barely out of her teens, feeling invincible, confident in her sexuality, the power she held over him. The hunger I feel now is that of an older woman who has lived without his touch for so long that to have it again is like a drug. Yet even through the haze of desire, I know what he is really here for, and the thought of it makes me shiver.
I need to get away from him. I cannot sleep, so I slide out of bed, careful not to wake him. I put on my glasses, grab my fleece robe and wrap it around me, slipping into my slippers and tiptoe out of the room. I carefully close the door, glad that I’d oiled the squeaky hinges.
The box is where I left it, in the pantry. I lug it out and set it on the table again. I open the folded leaves and take out the laptop and the power adapter. This time there is no hesitation. I don’t need a manual to know where to plug the adapter into the machine. I do that, then fit the other end neatly into the outlet next to the table. A small light is illuminated, indicating it’s powering up. I sit, staring at it.