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
to come see her. She didn't care. It was enough that he was
here.
When she handed him his cocoa, he smiled disarmingly
and asked, "Do you have any spirits in the house?"
He followed her into the living room, where several bottles
of liquor were stored in a cabinet, to be taken out only on
the most special occasions.
"This isn't your first drink of the night, is it?" she asked
as she tilted the spout of the brandy bottle against his mug
of chocolate.
"No, it isn't." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "I
smoked a joint, too."
Her lips pursed with stern disapproval. "You know how
I feel about dope, Junior."
"Marijuana isn't dope."
"It is so."
"Ah, Stacey," he whined, bending down to kiss her ear.
"An ex-wife has no right to scold."
The touch of his lips made her insides flutter. Her censure
melted as quickly as ice cream in August. "I didn't mean to
scold. I just wondered why, after all this time, you came to
me tonight."
"I wanted to." She knew that to Junior's mind, that was
reason enough. He sprawled on the sofa and pulled her down
beside him. "No, leave the lamp off," he told her when she
reached for the switch. "Let's just sit here and drink our
cocoa together."
"I heard about the trouble out at the ranch," she said after
a quiet moment.
"It's all cleaned up now. Can't tell it ever happened. It
could have been a lot worse."
She touched him hesitantly. "You could have been hurt."
He set his empty cup on the coffee table and sighed.
"You're still concerned for my safety?"
"Always."
"No one's ever been as sweet to me as you, Stacey. I've
missed you.'' He reached for her hand and pressed it between
his.
"You look worn out and troubled."
"lam."
"Over the vandalism?"
"No." He slumped deeper into the cushions of the couch
and rested his head on the back of it. "This mess we're in
about Celina's murder. It's depressing as hell." He tilted his
head until it was lying on her shoulder. "Hmm, you smell
good. It's a smell I've missed. So clean." He nuzzled her
neck.
"What bothers you so much about this investigation?"
"Nothing specific. It's Alex. She and Mother had a row
today. Mother let it slip that Celina got knocked up and had
to get married to her soldier. It wasn't a pretty scene."
His arm slid around her waist. Automatically, Stacey lifted
her hand to cradle his cheek and pressed his head against her
breasts.
"I lied to her," she confessed in a small voice. "A lie of
omission."
Junior mumbled with disinterest.
"I never told her I was in the barn the day Celina was
killed."
"How come you did that?"
"I didn't want her hounding me with questions. I hate her
for causing you trouble again, Junior."
"Alex can't help it. It's not her fault."
It was a familiar refrain, one that set Stacey's teeth on
edge. Junior had often said the same thing about Celina. No
matter how shabbily she treated him, he had never spoken a
harsh, critical word against her.
"I hate this girl of Celina's as much as I did her," Stacey
whispered.
The alcohol and strong Mexican grass had dulled Junior's
thinking. "Never mind all that now. This feels good, doesn't
it?" he murmured as his lips followed his hand inside her
robe to her breast. His damp tongue glanced her nipple. ' 'You
always liked for me to do that."
"I still do."
"Really? And this? Do you still like this?" he asked,
sucking her nipple into his mouth and pushing his hand into
the furry, damp warmth between her thighs.
She groaned his name.
"I'll understand if you don't want me to." He pulled away
slightly.
"No," she said quickly, guiding his head back down and
clenching her thighs closed around his hand. "I do want you
to. Please."
"Stacey, Stacey, your tender loving care is just what I need
tonight. I could always count on you to make me feel better."
He raised his head from her breast and gave her mouth a long,
slow, thorough kiss. "Remember what always made me feel
better than anything?'' he asked, his lips resting on hers.
"Yes." She looked up at him solemnly. He smiled as
beatifically as an angel. When he looked at her that way, she
couldn't deny him anything--not when they were teenagers,
not when they were married, not now, not ever.
Stacey Wallace Minton, the judge's proper, straitlaced
daughter, immediately dropped to her knees in front of him,
hastily opened his fly, and took him into her hungry mouth.
"Miz Gaither, ma'am? Miz Gaither? You in there?"
Alex had been dozing. Roused by the knocking on her
door, which had been repaired, she woke up to find that she
was sprawled on top of the bedspread, stiff and cold. Her
eyes were swollen from crying.
"What do you want?" Her voice amounted to little more
than a croak. "Go away."
"Is your phone off the hook, ma'am?"
"Damn." She swung her feet to the side of the bed. Her
clothes were wrinkled and bunched around her. She shook them
back into place as she walked to the window and pulled aside
the drape. The motel's night clerk was standing at the door.
"I took the phone off the hook so I wouldn't be disturbed,''
she told him through the window.
He peered in at her, obviously glad to see that she was still
alive. "Sorry to bother you then, ma'am, but there's this guy
trying to get in touch with you. He's been arguin' with me,
saying you couldn't be talking on your phone for this long.''
"What guy?"
"Happer or Harris or something,'' he mumbled, consulting
the slip of paper he'd brought with him. He held it closer to
the light over her door. "Can't quite make out my writin'
here . . . spellin' ain't so good."
"Harper? Greg Harper?"
"I reckon that's it, yes, ma'am."
Alex dropped the drape back into place, slid the chain
lock free, and opened the door. "Did he say what he
wanted?"
"Sure did. Said for me to tell you that you was to be in
Austin tomorrow morning for a ten o'clock meeting."
Alex stared at the clerk, stupefied. "You must have gotten
the message wrong. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning?"
"That's what he said, and I didn't git it wrong, 'cause I
wrote it down right here." He showed her the slip of paper
with the message scrawled in pencil. "The man's been callin'
you all afternoon and was p.o.'d 'cause he couldn't git you.
Finally, he said he was goin' out for the evenin' and for me
to come to your room and hand-deliver the message, which
I done. So, good night."
"Wait!"
"Look, I'm s'posed to be tending the switchboard."
"Did he say what kind of meeting this was, why it was
so urgent?"
"Naw, only that you're s'posed to be there."
He stood mere expectantly. With mumbled thanks, she
pressed a dollar bill into his hand, and he loped off in the
direction of the lobby.
Thoughtfully, Alex closed her door and reread the message.
It made no sense. It wasn't like Greg to be so cryptic. It
wasn't like him to call meetings that were virtually impossible
to make, either.
When the bafflement began to wear off, the enormity of
her dilemma set in. She had to be in Austin by ten o'clock
in the morning. It was already dark. If she left now, she
would have to drive most of the night, and would arrive in
Austin in the wee hours.
If she waited until morning, she would have to leave dreadfully
early and then be on a deadline to get there in time.
Either choice was wretched, and she wasn't mentally or emotionally
fit to make a decision.
Then, an idea occurred to her. Before she could talk herself
out of it, she placed a telephone call.
"Sheriffs department."
"Sheriff Lambert, please."
"He's not here. Can anybody else help?"
"No, thank you. I need to speak with him personally."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but is this Ms. Gaither?"
"Yes, it is."
"Where are you?"
"In my motel room. Why?"
"That's where Reede's headed. He should be there by
now." Then he paused and asked, "Say, are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. I think I hear the sheriff pulling
up now. Thank you." Alex hung up and moved to the window
in time to see Reede get out of his truck and rush toward her
door.
She flung it open. He drew up abruptly, almost losing his
balance. "Please don't kick it in again."
"Don't be cute with me," he said, glowering darkly.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing."
"Like hell." He gestured toward the bedside telephone.
Its innocence seemed to provoke him further. He pointed
toward it accusingly. "I've been calling for hours, and all I
got is a busy signal."
"I took it off the hook. What was so important?"
"I heard what happened this afternoon between you and
Sarah Jo."
Her shoulders dropped dejectedly and she released a long breath. She had almost forgotten about that in her perplexity
over Greg's summons.
She had never checked the date on her parents' marriage
license. It wouldn't necessarily be conclusive, anyway. As
an attorney, she knew that dates, even on so-called legal
documents, could be falsified. The way everyone had reacted
to Sarah Jo's revelation, she knew it was true. She had been
conceived illegitimately.
"You should have been there, Sheriff. I made a spectacle
of myself. You would have been thoroughly entertained."
Her flippancy didn't improve his mood. "Why'd you take
your phone off the hook?"
"To get some rest. What did you think, that I took an
overdose of sleeping pills or gave my wrists a close shave?"
He gave the sarcastic question credence. "Maybe."
"Then, you don't know me very well," she told him angrily.
"I don't give in that easily. And I'm not ashamed that
my parents had to get married."
"I didn't say you were or that you should be."
"That was their mistake. It has nothing to do with me as
a person, okay?"
"Okay."
"So stop thinking . . . Oh, hell, I don't care what you're
thinking," she said, rubbing her temples. She was more annoyed
with herself than with him. Lashing out was only an indication
of how upset she really was.' 'I need your help, Reede.''
"What kind of help?"
"Can you fly me to Austin?"
The request took him by surprise. He pulled himself upright
from where he had complacently slouched against the framework
of the recently repaired doorway.
"Fly you to Austin? Why?"
"Business with Greg Harper. I need to be there at ten
o'clock in the morning for a meeting."