“Why?”
“I don’t want to live like that, in the crosshairs of the camera lens. I want this to be my home.” She heard the edge of desperation in her own voice but couldn’t dull it. “I wanted to bring something back from her, and for her. But I wanted it to be mine at the end of the day.”
“You don’t want to know who wrote those letters?”
“Yes, I do. I do. But I don’t want to ruin his life, Ford, or his children’s lives because he had an affair, because he broke off the affair. Even if he was cruel about it. There has to be a statute of limitations. Thirty years should cover it.”
“Agreed.”
He said nothing more, just watched her, looked into her eyes until she closed them.
“How could anyone prove it?” she demanded. “If, if, if she didn’t kill herself. If, if, if some of the conspiracy theories have been close to true and someone-this someone-made her take the pills, or slipped them to her. How could we prove it?”
“I don’t know, but the first step would be asking the right people the right questions.”
“I don’t know the people or the questions, and I can’t think about this. Not now. I need to get through today, then get through tomorrow. I need-”
She threw herself against him, locking her arms around his neck while her mouth latched on to his. He wasn’t prepared for the eruption, the bursts of desperation and appetite. Who could have been? With quick, catchy gasps, low, sexy moans, she devoured. She hooked one of those long, long legs around him, sank her teeth into his bottom lip, tugged. And he went instantly, helplessly, hard as stone.
She rubbed her body against his until he could literally feel the blood draining out of his head and heading south. “Lock the door.” Her lips moved to his ear, parted on a breathless whisper. “Lock the door.”
He quivered, felt the shock of need ram into him-head, belly, loins- like fists. “Wait.” Even as he said it his mouth collided with hers again for one more greedy gulp. But he managed to order himself to pull back, to get his hands on her shoulders to peel her away, a couple of inches.
“Wait,” he repeated, and momentarily forgot his train of thought as those brilliant blue eyes burned into his.
“No. Now.”
“Cilla. Whoa. Jeez. I can pretty much feel myself growing breasts as I say this.”
She took his hands, pulled them down, pressed. “Those are mine.”
“Yeah.” Soft, firm. “They are.”And with considerable regret, and what he considered heroic restraint, he put his hands back on her shoulders. “Where was I? I meant to say, even at the risk of sounding like a girl, this isn’t right.”
She slid her hand over his crotch. “Then what’s this?”
“The penis has a mind of its own. And boy, oh boy,” he managed as he took her wandering hand and yanked it up. “I should get an award for this. A monument. Let’s just step back.”
“Step back?” Shock and insult leaped out with the words. “Why? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“The penis is asking those exact questions. But the thing is… wait,” he ordered, taking a firm hold of her arms when she started to jerk away. “The thing is, Cilla, you don’t toss stuff out when you’re churned up. Just like when you’re churned up, you don’t… lock the barn door.”
“It’s just sex.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But when it happens? It’s going to be just you and me. Just you.” He tested his willpower by leaning down and taking her mouth in a slow, soft kiss. “Just me. No Steve or Steve’s mom, no Janet Hardy, no letters. Just us, Cilla. I want lots of alone with you.”
She let out a sigh, gave one of the boxes a halfhearted kick. “How am I supposed to feel pissed off and rejected after that?” Hooking her thumbs in her pockets, she lowered her gaze deliberately to his crotch. “Looks like that’s still doing a lot of thinking. What are you going to do about it?”
“I just need to get a picture of Maylene Gunner in my head.”
“Maylene Gunner.”
“Maylene was mean as a snake, big as a battleship and ugly as homemade sin. She beat the living snot out of me when I was eight.”
No, she couldn’t possibly stay pissed off. “Why would Maylene do that?”
“Because I had drawn a very unflattering portrait of her. I didn’t possess the talent to draw a flattering one. Da Vinci didn’t possess that much talent. I drew her as a kind of Goodyear Blimp, soaring and farting. Very colorful. Little people on the ground clutching themselves or lying sprawled and unconscious, running for cover.”
“Cruel,” Cilla said as her lips twitched.
“I was eight. In any case, she got wind-so to speak-and ambushed me and proceeded to pound me to dust. So when I need to, I just picture that Jupiter-sized face, and…” He glanced down, smiled. “There we go. Retired from the field.”
Cilla studied him a moment. “You’re a very strange man, Ford. Yet oddly appealing. Like your dog.”
“Don’t get me started again. Even Maylene Gunner has only so much power. Why don’t I give you a hand here, then we’ll go see Steve together. Between the two of us, we can take his mama.”
Yes, she thought, a very strange and appealing man. “Okay. You can start by taking what’s left of that pole lamp out there to the Dumpster.”
SHE GOT THROUGH THE DAY, got through the night. And Cilla geared herself up for her second visit of the day, and second confrontation with Steve’s mother. Pacing in front of the hospital entrance, she gave herself a pep talk.
It wasn’t about her, wasn’t about old business, grudges, one-upmanship.It wasn’t about tossing a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West.
It was about Steve.
She bounced her shoulders to loosen them like a boxer before a bout, and stepped toward the doors as someone called her name.
Relief at the temporary interruption might have been cowardly, but she’d take what she could get. Turning, she smiled at Cathy and Tom Morrow.
Cathy reached out to rub a hand along Cilla’s arm. “How’s your friend?”
“The same. Pretty much the same. I want to thank you again for your help when Steve was in surgery.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was a lot to me. Are you volunteering today?”
“Actually, we’re here to see our goddaughter. She had a baby.”
“That’s nice. Well…” Cilla looked back toward the doors.
“Would you like me to go up with you first?” Cathy offered.
“No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… Steve’s mother’s probably up there. She harbors extreme dislike for me. It makes it pretty tight in that room with both of us in there.”
“I can fix that.” Cathy held up a finger. “Why don’t I go up, lure her away for fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“How?”
“Volunteer mode. I’ll buy her a cup of coffee, lend a shoulder. It’ll give her a break and give you a few minutes alone with your friend.”
“She can do it,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “Nobody resists Cathy.”
“I’d be so grateful.”
“Nothing to it. Tom, keep Cilla company for a few minutes. Five should do it.” With a cheery wave, Cathy strode into the hospital.
“She’s great.”
“Best there is,” Tom agreed. “Let’s sit down over here, give her that head start. I was sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Thank you.” Three days, she thought. Three days in a coma.
“Do the police have any idea how it happened?”
“Not really. I guess we’re all hoping Steve can tell us if… when,” she corrected, “he wakes up.”
She caught a glimpse of a white van crossing the parking lot and, with a shudder, looked away.
“I hope that’s soon.” Tom gave her hand an encouraging pat. “How’s Brian doing on your place?”
“It’s shaping up. He does good work. You must be proud of him.”