Witt spluttered, stuttered three unintelligible words, stared bug-eyed at his mother, then slumped in his chair as if he’d suffered a heart attack.
Max stared opened-mouthed. Her lips twitched at the corner, almost involuntarily. Then she started to laugh. She laughed so hard she cried.
*
“Could have been dead for all you seemed to notice,” Witt groused an hour later outside his mother’s house.
“It was an hysterical reaction. I couldn’t help myself.”
The street was empty of people now, though the crime scene tape still hung in drooping swirls like crepe paper around the perimeter of the lawn. Yellow sticky tape sealed the front door. The tan department car identical to Witt’s still faced the wrong way, and the two detectives had begun canvassing the neighborhood, starting with Witt’s mother who had rushed to apply fresh lipstick before her interview, then quickly shooed Witt and Max out the front door.
Witt stood with Max next to her car in a blue-white pool of lamp light. No, not quite right; they weren’t just standing. Witt had her backed up against the driver’s door of the Miata, his big, warm hands buried in her hair, the scent of his aftershave teasing her nose like champagne bubbles.
“You know, you’re crowding me here.”
“Nervous?” He bent his head to nuzzle her neck.
“Ooh.” She could have sworn he’d nipped her with his teeth. Goose bumps danced across her flesh. She wanted to throw back her head to give him better access. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Tasting you,” he mumbled against her throat.
The October night had turned chilly, but she was far from cold. “Are you some kind of frigging vampire now?”
He sighed heavily, his lips resting against her skin. “I’m attempting seduction here.”
“Your mother could be watching out the window.” She could be, but she wasn’t. She was talking to Detectives McKaverty and Schulz and loving every minute of the “interrogation.” Max played the game anyway.
“She expects me to kiss you. Even told me to do it when I gave her a hug.”
Since she couldn’t back up, Max insinuated her arms between them and pushed. The movement gained her a scant four inches, but enough room to breathe. Except then she got another draft of his subtle aftershave. The scent went to her head, and she almost pulled him back. “So.”
He stared down at her, eyes narrowed and his face in streetlight shadow. He knew something was coming. “So ... what?”
“So ... this time you picked a gal like dear old mom.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Or maybe that was a shape-shifting illusion played out by the light over his shoulder. The smile was in his voice, too, when he murmured, “Yeah, a fruitcake.”
“You’d call your own mother a fruitcake?” She didn’t touch on the fact that he was calling her one, too.
He stroked a finger down her cheek, leaving a swath of tingles in its wake. “Happen to be real partial to fruitcake.” He ruffled her hair. “Especially dark fruitcake that’s a little tart.”
“Is that supposed to be sweet talk or something?” The comparison did give her a certain weird thrill.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
Oh God. Wasn’t there a song? Shut up and kiss me. The words were so primal, so direct, so demanding. She wanted to do exactly that. Badly.
“Take a chance, Max.”
A car drove by, teenager laughter, a double come-on toot on the horn. Max didn’t care. Witt’s words were like a siren call. Do it, do it, do it. She swayed toward him, and this time she did arch her neck, inviting his touch. She’d never been wanted like this before. Never felt a man’s eyes on her throat like it was luscious fruit to be plucked. Never had a man look at her as if she were ... beautiful, desirable, special. Slender. This man wanted her body, not only her voice.
A door slammed across the street. A rush of icy logic jerked Max back to reality. Bethany was taking over again. Bethany, who wanted Witt simply because he wanted Max.
She poked a finger in the center of his chest, putting a stop to his cute, toe-tingling banter and Bethany’s run-away-with-me thoughts. She put a stop to some of her own, too. “I think you’re trying to change the subject, Sweetie-boy.”
Witt grimaced, but otherwise ignored the term. “What subject?”
“Your mother.”
“Oh yeah, wasn’t I saying she adored you and wanted to know when you were going to give her a grandchild?”
Whoosh. He couldn’t have done worse if he’d dumped a bucket of ice over her head. Babies. Children. She’d long since accepted she was barren, maternally-impaired, or whatever politically correct term they used these days, but his words took her by surprise. Hell, they gave her a big dose of reality. This guy was thinking marriage and babies, and she hadn’t even fully admitted to herself that she was a widow. Things were moving too fast, way too fast. It was time to put the brakes on Witt’s renegade train.