I went to bed two hours after my shower, but sleep has proved impossible to find. Tonight’s events, both in New Orleans and in my bedroom, have left me a twitching bundle of tension and hyper-arousal. I told Serenity the truth when I said I hadn’t been with a woman since Caitlin died. If I’m honest with myself, I haven’t felt pulled toward anyone with enough intensity to take that step.
But I am no ascetic.
Serenity was right about one thing. During the past weeks, I’ve sometimes lain in bed so tight with sexual tension that my mind runs through every past experience and every possible one as well. And living in close proximity with Mia Burke has pushed me there more than once, at least in my mind. I’d like to deny it, but even two years ago, when we worked together to save Drew Elliott, Mia let me know in no uncertain terms that she was a sexual being and was open to a relationship with me. I was sane enough then not to test her, and I still am—even with her sleeping down the hall every night. But in the sanctuary of my mind I have been with her many times, and nothing has made me more conscious of this fact than the arrival of Serenity, who has utterly changed the sexual dynamic in this house.
Tee was right about the Jungian thing, too.
She and I have been walking in the footsteps of our parents, and every bit as blindly as other human beings repeating the mistakes of their pasts. When I think of how self-righteously I’ve condemned my father, and of how quickly I reached for Serenity . . . when I’m not under a fraction of the stress he must have been in 1968. Of course, my father was married at the time, and I’m not. But despite Caitlin’s death, I have felt married right up until tonight. And yet . . .
Did I think of Caitlin even once as I pulled Serenity against me? No.
Lying in the cool darkness with only the hum of the air conditioner for company, I try in vain to erase the faces and figures materializing behind my eyes. Maybe the only answer is to embrace the visions and relieve myself. As I slip my hand beneath the covers, I wonder if Serenity is lying awake in similar torment in the guest room down the hall. She was shaking with desire when she stood over my dresser. Did she find sleep more easily than I? Or is she too touching herself at this moment?
As I follow that thread in my mind, a shaft of light cuts through the dark and falls across my bed. Turning, I see a shadow pass quickly across the light—then my door closes. I tense for a couple of seconds, but something tells me I need not be afraid.
The floorboards creak once, then again. A soft curse floats through the dark. Then a dark hand splays itself against my white sheets, and two dark knees depress the mattress. I can’t see a face, but the unfamiliar scent tells me it must be Serenity.
Rising up on one elbow, I try in vain to make out her features in the darkness. I reach for the lamp on the bedside table, but she says, “No.”
Then she pulls my hand to one breast and flattens my palm over it.
“Tee,” I whisper. “What about—”
“Don’t talk,” she says in a low, insistent voice. “I mean it.”
After a few seconds without breathing, I begin kneading her breast. A purring sound escapes her throat. Then she presses me onto my back and hikes one knee over my hips, reaching between us, searching.
“Jesus,” I gasp.
“I warned you,” she says, settling her weight upon me. “If you say one more word, I’ll stop.”
Tuesday
Chapter 22
At 6:14 Tuesday morning, my mother checked herself out of St. Catherine’s Hospital against her physician’s advice. The fact that her physician was her husband’s partner gave Drew Elliott no special power to hold her; all Drew could do was call to give me a heads-up. Forty minutes after one of Mom’s friends drove her to my house, she was being helped to bathe and dress by Annie and Jenny. Nothing on God’s earth, she said, was going to stop her from sitting in the first row in the courtroom during her husband’s trial. If the Lord wants me that badly, she said, he’ll have to take me from the courthouse, not the hospital.
Once Mom was ready, we ate a light breakfast, then Tim Weathers talked us through the departure procedure he expects us to follow every morning of the trial. The armored Yukon is too wide to fit the narrow driveway beside my house, so we are to gather at the front door, then at Tim’s command move swiftly down the steps and into the safety of the big SUV, shielded by the bodies and weapons of the operators from Vulcan Asset Management.
I stand at the door with Annie and Mia, who are highly irritated about being forbidden to attend the trial proceedings, while Tim and his guys do a recon outside. Jenny has accompanied Mom to the upstairs restroom for a final pretrial stop. Serenity is upstairs, too, doing what she can to make Dolores feel at home. When Mom appears at the top of the stairs, Jenny is not beside her, so Annie races up the steps to help her down.
Left alone with Mia, I suddenly register that she’s wearing sunglasses inside, which is unusual for her. Before I can ask if she thinks Annie is doing all right, she says softly, “So, are you a southern gentleman now?”
“What?”
“I noticed a new vibe at the breakfast table this morning.”
“What kind of vibe?”
Mia lowers her chin and looks at me over the sunglasses. “Between you and our houseguest?”
The blood rushes to my cheeks as I finally grasp her meaning.
“Do you think Annie noticed?” I whisper, looking quickly at the staircase. Annie and Mom are halfway down already.
“I don’t think sex is on her radar quite yet. But if you keep it up, she’ll sense the connection.”
Mia pushes the glasses back up on the bridge of her pert little nose, covering her eyes once more. As Mom’s feet reach the ground floor, I find I’m still looking at Mia. “What did you mean by southern—”
“Tim’s coming back up,” Mia says, and sure enough, the front door opens behind her as if at her command. “Time to go, everybody!”
I’m inside the Yukon and halfway to the courthouse before I understand what she meant by her “southern gentleman” comment. I first heard that saying back in high school. They probably started saying it in these parts about 1805, and apparently they’re still saying it two hundred years later.
You ain’t a southern gentleman till you’ve dipped your pen in ink.
For a twenty-year-old, Mia Burke sure knows how to stick the knife in. I guess she has learned some things up at Harvard.