Another pause. “Maybe it’s a compliment.”
His face remained neutral after this exploratory venture too.
They walked outside. The air was so crisp it would signal impending autumn in any other region.
Dance’s fingers were quivering from the chill but she liked the sensation. It felt, she decided, like ice numbing an injury.
The mist coalesced into rain. “I’ll drive you to yours,” she said. Kellogg’s car was parked behind the building.
They both got in and she drove to his rental.
Neither of them moved for a minute. She put the transmission in park. She closed her eyes, stretched and pressed her head back against the rest. It felt good.
She opened her eyes and saw him turning toward her and, leaving one hand on the dash, touched the shoulder closest to him—both firmly yet somehow tentatively. He was waiting for some signal. She gave him none, but looked into his eyes and remained silent. Both of which, of course, were signals in themselves.
In any case, he didn’t hesitate any longer but leaned forward and kissed her, aiming straight for her lips.
She tasted mint; he’d subtly dropped a Tic Tac or Altoid when she wasn’t looking. Slick, she thought, laughing to herself. She’d done the same with Brian that day on the beach, in front of the sea otter and seal audience. Kellogg now backed off slightly, regrouping and waiting for intelligence about the first skirmish.
This gave Dance a moment to figure how she was going to handle it.
She made a decision and, when he eased in again, met him halfway; her mouth opened. She kissed back fervently. She slipped her arms up to his shoulders, which were as muscular as she’d thought they’d be.
His beard stubble troubled her cheek.
His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her harder into him. She felt that uncurling within her, heart stepping up its pace. Mindful of the bandaged wound, she pressed her nose and lips against the flesh beneath his ear, the place where, with her husband, she’d rested her face when they’d made love. She liked the smooth plane of skin there, the smell of shave cream and soap, the pulse of blood.
Then Kellogg’s hand detached itself from her neck and found her chin, easing her face to him again.
Their whole mouths participated now, and their breathing came fast. She felt his fingers moving tentatively to her shoulder, locating the satin strap and, using it as a road map, beginning to move down, outside her blouse. Slowly, ready to divert at the least sign of reluctance.
Her response was to kiss him harder. Her arm was near his lap, and she could feel his erection flirting with her elbow. He shifted away, perhaps so he wouldn’t seem too eager, too forward, too much of a teenager.
But Kathryn Dance pulled him closer as she reclined—kinesically, an agreeable, submissive position.
Images of her husband came to mind once or twice, but she observed them from a distance. She was completely with Winston Kellogg at this moment.
Then his hand reached the tiny metal hoop where the strap transitioned to the white Victoria’s Secret cup.
And he stopped.
The hand retreated, though the evidence near her elbow was undiminished. The kisses became less frequent, like a merry-go-round slowing after the power’s shut off.
But this seemed to her exactly right. They’d arrived at the highest pinnacle they could under the circumstances—which included the manhunt for a killer, the short time they’d known each other and the terrible deaths that had recently occurred.
“I think—” he whispered.
“No, it’s okay.”
“I—”
She smiled and lightly kissed away any more words.
He sat back and squeezed her hand. She curled against him, feeling her heart rate slow as she found within herself a curious balance: the perfect stasis of reluctance and relief. Rain pelted the windshield.
Dance reflected that she always preferred to make love on rainy days.
“But one thing?” he said.
She glanced at him.
Kellogg continued, “The case won’t go on forever.”
From his mouth to God’s ear…
“If you’d be interested in going out afterward. How does that sound?”
“‘Afterward’ has a nice ring to it. Real nice.”
A half-hour later Dance was parking in front of her house.
She went through the standard routine: a check of security, a glass of Pinot Grigio, two pieces of cold flank steak left over from last night and a handful of mixed nuts enjoyed to the sound track of phone messages. Then came canine feeding and their backyard tasks and stowing her Glock—without the kids home she kept the lockbox open, though she still stashed the gun inside, since imprinted memory would guide her hand there automatically no matter how deep a sleep she awoke from. Alarms on.
She opened the window to the guards—about six inches—to let in the cool, fragrant night air. Shower, a clean T-shirt and shorts. She dropped into bed, protecting herself from the mad world by an inch-thick
down comforter.
Thinking: Golly damn, girl, making out in a car—with a bench front seat, no buckets, just made for reclining with the man of the hour. She recalled mint, recalled his hands, the flop of hair, the absence of aftershave.
She also heard her son’s voice and saw his eyes earlier that day. Wary, jealous. Dance thought of Linda’s comments earlier.
There’s something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family….
Which was ultimately Wes’s fear. The concern was unreasonable, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was real to him. She’d be more careful this time. Keep Wes and Kellogg separate, not mention the word “date,” sell the idea that, like him, she had friends who were both male and female. Your children are like suspects in an interrogation: It’s not smart to lie but you don’t need to tell them everything.
A lot of work, a lot of juggling.