"Sorry," he said, and grabbed for the sheet.
"I can't believe I did this," she said.
Matt shrugged. The shrug-his whole attitude-infuriated her.
He made it worse by asking, "You ever hear the expression 'These things happen'? Or, 'Sex is what makes the world go around'?"
"Goddamn you!" Susan said.
He looked at her without expression.
"What if I'm pregnant?" she heard herself blurting.
That surprised him.
"You're not on the pill?"
She felt herself blushing as she shook her head, "no."
"Why not?"
"I don't need it."
"That was an admission, in case you weren't aware of it, that there is no good ol' Whatsisname, the boyfriend your parents can't stand."
"Yes, there is-"
"Stop the bullshit, Susan," he interrupted her rather unpleasantly. "We don't have time for it. It'll only make things worse than they are. If that's possible."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she challenged.
He patted the bed beside him.
He's ordering me to shut up and get back in bed! Goddamn him!
"What makes you think we're going to do that again? Ever?"
"I told you we don't have time for bullshit. Sit down," he said, and then went on, "I said 'sit,' not 'lay.' "
Not knowing why she decided to give in, Susan went to the bed and sat on the edge. Matt took her hand in his.
For a moment, thinking he was going to put her hand on him under the sheet, she debated jerking her hand free. But she sensed, somehow, that having her fondle him was not-at least for the moment-on his mind.
"You were a little surprised about this, right?" Matt asked seriously. "What's happened to us?"
"That's the understatement of the century," she said.
"Well, me, too, fair maiden. This is the last thing I expected to happen, or wanted to happen."
"That's not the impression you gave me."
"The cops are onto you, fair maiden."
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged again, and again it infuriated her.
"Truth time," Matt said, "For example, to clear the air: When you were not in your room in the Bellvue with the nonexistent boyfriend, you were off meeting a guy named Bryan Chenowith and/or one or more of his fellow fugitives."
"Oh, my God!"
"Yeah," Matt said. "In other words, the jig is up. You are what is known in the criminal statutes, state and Federal, as an accessory after the fact. And actually, I want to be sure about the after the fact."
"You son of a bitch! You went to my house! You had dinner with my parents. And all the time-"
"You left out 'made love to me.' Guilty on all counts. And I'm going to take great pleasure in seeing your pal and his friends hauled off to the slammer without possibility of parole for the rest of their natural lives. My problem is what to do about you."
She looked at him with horror in her eyes, but didn't speak.
"I don't want you to go to the slam, fair maiden. That would distress me terribly."
"Why should that bother you, Mr. Detective?" Susan flared, and started to get off the bed. She wondered if she was going to throw up.
He held her wrist, and he was too strong for her.
"I'm not through," he said, not very pleasantly.
"What are you going to do now? Rape me before you arrest me?"
"Come on, Susan, you know better than that. Get it through your head that right now I'm the best friend you've got."
"How often have you used that line? What do they call that, putting the suspect at ease?"
"That's what they call it," Matt agreed. "The difference is, this is the first time I've used the technique on an interviewee I think I'm in love with."
Her heart jumped when he said that.
"In love?" she asked, witheringly sarcastic. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"
"Well, maybe what happened affected me more than it affected you, but that's how I'm forced to look at it."
"Oh, come on, Matt!"
"If I didn't come to realize, when you were in the bathroom all that time, that what's wrong with me is that I'm in love with you, then what would have happened was that we would have torn off another couple of pieces, had our dinner, and I would have taken you home and been not at all upset about the inevitability of you going off to the slam."
"My God, you're serious!"
"Were you listening when I said we don't have time for bullshit?"
There was a knock at the door.
"Who's that?" Susan asked, as if frightened.
"Probably the waiter. When I checked in, I told them to cool a couple of bottles." He raised his voice. "Just a moment, please, I'm in the shower."
He let go of her wrist and got out of bed.
"Is there another one of those in there?" he asked, making reference to the hotel's terry-cloth robe and gesturing toward the bathroom.
"I only saw this one," Susan said.
"Then you better give me that one," Matt said. "And wait in the bathroom. Or get under the blankets."
She looked at him doubtfully, then looked around for her discarded clothing.
"Where're my clothes?"
"I kicked them under the bed," he said matter-of-factly, then smiled and went on. "Come on, give me the robe. The cow already got out of the barn. I know what you've got hidden under there."
She turned her back on him, unfastened the robe, and, aware that she was blushing again, shrugged out of it and ran to the bathroom.
"What do you want to eat?"
"What do I want to eat?" she parroted incredulously. "Eat?"
"They do a nice standing rib," he said. "Okay?"
"I just don't give a damn," she confessed, and closed the bathroom door.
Feeling dizzy and a little faint, but no longer nauseous, Susan leaned against the closed bathroom door. This gave her a view of herself in the mirrors over the sink.
For a moment, she seriously considered that she might be having a bad dream. That was obviously not the case.
But I can't believe any of this is happening! Either what happened in the car, or that I came to the room, or what happened here. Anything that happened here, from letting him undress me through what happened after he did, to that clever little unbelievable line, "The cops are onto you, fair maiden."
She was vaguely conscious of hearing him order dinner-New England-style clam chowder, not the kind with tomatoes, medium-rare beef, baked potatoes, asparagus, and a large pot of coffee-and couldn't believe that, either.
How the hell can he even think of food at a time like this?
And then he was trying to push the bathroom door open against the weight of her body.
"Hey, you all right, Susan?" he asked, and there was concern in his voice.
"What do you want?"
"I thought you might want the robe back."
"Just a minute," she said, and pushed herself off the door and went after a towel.
Before she reached it, he had pushed the door open. Susan tried to cover herself modestly with her hands.
"Ta-ta!" Matt cried. "The Mad Flasher strikes again!"
Using both hands, he pulled the bathrobe open wide.
Under it, his private parts were now concealed by his shorts.
"You're insane," she said, but she smiled and reached for the robe as he shrugged out of it.
"Your maidenly modesty is really a waste of effort, you know. I have seen what I have seen, and it is burned indelibly for all eternity on my brain."
"You really are insane, aren't you?" Susan said.
Why am I pleased that he liked what he saw? And for that matter, why am I not really all that embarrassed about him seeing me naked?
Matt went back into the bedroom, and as she fastened the robe around her, she saw him going into the sitting room. She combed her hair as best she could, then went into the bedroom.
Where she found that he had indeed kicked her clothing under the bed. The first thing she retrieved was her brassiere.