Notorious Read online

  Jon-Michael's fingers tightened on her ass and his voice growled in her ear. "God. Yes. That's it, darlin’, that's it. Come for me. You look so damn beautiful. Come for me."

  "Jon-Michael?" Her eyes slit open to find him watching her. "It feels so good." She dug her fingers a little harder into the muscles of his shoulders. "You feel so good in me."

  His hips lifted off the seat and his hands slammed her down on him with increasing force on each rock back. "Don't hold back on me, Hayles. I wanna watch you come. I want to see your face when I make you climax." He sucked her nipple into his mouth, his gaze trained on her face.

  Her ragged panting turned to low moans and she squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on sensations gaining force within her. "Please," she pleaded frantically, drawing her knees back to feel him reach a little deeper. "Oh, God, Johnny, please. Oh. My. Gawwwd." She began to convulse in his lap. “Jon-Michael!”

  "Look at me," he demanded. Releasing her nipple, he shoved himself deep and held her in place with hard hands. "Look at me, Hayley."

  She opened her eyes to stare into his. He growled hot, dark words.

  And her orgasm, which she already believed the finest thing she had ever experienced, ramped into overdrive.

  "Yes!" Jon-Michael went berserk, watching her, feeling the sweet weight of her, the hot slick clasp as contractions clamped firmly around him over and over again. His feet slammed to the floor, stopping the rocker in the rocked back position, and he held her hard against him while his hips thrust up off the seat in a fierce rhythm that pounded him deep inside of her. "I love you, Hayley," he panted. "Jesus, God, I love you, love you, love you." Then his teeth snapped together and he groaned deep in his throat, hips jerking spasmodically to the beat of his hot, pulsating release.

  Hayley collapsed on his chest, her face buried in the contour of his neck, her legs extended limply and her arms flopped over his shoulders. He clasped her nape beneath the wild tangle of hair even as he wrapped his other arm around her waist, thumb hooking over her hipbone, his fingers splayed down her hip. Sweat glued them together and the bedroom loft reverberated with the harsh rasp of their labored breathing.

  "Sweet Baby Jesus," he finally murmured, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head. "I know it must have been good before," he said hoarsely between gulps for breath, "because my words have come back to haunt me more times than I can count. But it could not have been like this." His fingers squeezed her neck, tightened on her hip, holding her to him possessively. Stropping his cheek against her hair, he said quietly, almost to himself, "I don't care how loaded I was, I would have remembered this."

  "It wasn’t like this," Hayley agreed. She had never felt anything like this before and she had a sinking feeling she knew what made the difference. Even as she took comfort in Jon-Michael's arms, in the soap-and-water scent of his neck where her nose was buried and the heat and strength with which he surrounded her, she assured herself weakly that this was not love. No fricking way. It was simply good sex with a sober partner. And good sex was a dime a dozen, right? Well, maybe not for her, but that was only because circumstances had seen to it she didn’t get around much. That could change, though, and when it did she probably wouldn’t even remember what doing the rocking chair boogie with Jon-Michael had been like.

  Really.

  "Hayley?"

  "Umm?"

  "Why did you sleep with me that night by the lake?"

  She stiffened all over and felt his shrinking penis slip out of her. "I have to get going," she said, struggling to sit up.

  His arms tightened. "No! Listen, never mind, it doesn't matter. You do not have to talk about it if you don't want. Just ...don't go yet, okay? Stay with me for a while."

  She subsided, but muttered uneasily, "Well, just for a little while. Then you have to take me to my car. I have stuff to do before I go to work." And she had to think.

  She really needed some time alone to think.

  Jon-Michael got Hayley to shower with him and he fed her, but although she talked to him with apparent ease, there was a reserve about her that kept her closed away from him at the most basic level. He seethed with frustration when he delivered her to her car an hour and a half later. It must have shown, too, for the two journalists who were sitting on the Pontiac's hood took one look at his face and unyielding posture and quietly removed themselves without attempting to interrogate her.

  "Don't you ever put up the top?" he asked as he opened the car door for her. It creaked in protest.

  "Occasionally. If it looks like it's going to rain."

  He handed her behind the wheel and closed the car door. Then squatting down he propped his chin on the hands he had curled around the window opening. "Come home with me after work."

  Hayley had been congratulating herself on the fact that this was Jon-Michael’s night off and she would not have to face him. And, yet—

  Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, she gazed at him through the protective shading of their lenses. "I don't know, Jon."

  "I'll come pick you up so you don't have to run the gauntlet of reporters to your car."

  "Then you would just have to drive me back to my car again tomorrow."

  "I don't mind."

  She started the Pontiac, staring straight ahead. "I have to think about it."

  He rose and leaned over the door until his lips were a centimeter from her ear.

  "Fine," he said in a gruff rasp that raised goosebumps down the entire side of her body. "You think about it. Think, too, about the fact that no way in hell was this a one-off deal. If you don't want to come to me, then I will come to you. I'll just wait until you're asleep to slip into the house, slip into your room…maybe even slip into you. 'Cause, baby, I know something about you now."

  He trailed a rough fingertip over her temple, down her cheek and, catching her hair, gently hooked it behind her ear. His breath was warm as it traveled the whorls leading to her auditory canal. "I know you are eeeeasy—" his voice went low and rough on the word, stretching it out "—when you first wake up."

  Hayley could not stop the shiver that slicked down her spine any more than she could stop her next breath.

  "And Hayley, honey," he continued in his everyday voice as he pushed to his feet and looked down at her with dark, intent eyes. "While you’re busy doing all that thinking, think about this. I will not hesitate one second to use that to my advantage."

  Sixteen

  Strongly held opinions had drawn a line in the sand between the citizens of Gravers Bend. Those who made money off the journalists overrunning their peaceful little town liked having them around. Everyone else found them a pain in the ass.

  "Christ a'mighty," muttered one of the Blue Dolphin's regulars when he walked into the cafe and discovered someone had usurped the counter stool where he had sat to eat his breakfast and shoot the bull with his friends every Monday through Friday for the past seventeen years. If that was not insult enough, even the seats considered undesirable were all filled up; there was not an available spot in the joint. "When the hell are all these yahoos goin’ home?"

  It was a question many wanted answered. The media had booked all the available rooms at the Royal Inn and was busy crowding the town's restaurants and bars. Most were well mannered. There were enough behaving with arrogant big city condescension, however, to give them all a bad name. And their very reason for being in Gravers Bend sparked arguments over weightier matters than having one's usual place commandeered by an out-of-towner.

  The Peninsula Women's Garden Club, comprised largely of genteel elderly ladies with discreet blue tints, nearly came to blows over the moral ramifications of capital punishment. Not since learning Bev Eldridge's granddaughter Molly had gone to Seattle for an abortion had the club seen such divisiveness over an issue. Acrimony was served up alongside tea, petit fours and watercress sandwiches.

  The media's entrenched trend toward allowing speculation to take the place of good old-fashioned reportage of the facts and jus
t the facts was debated over the dry-fly case at Gaard's Sportsman.

  Differing opinions over the First Amendment’s original intent nearly closed down the bar at the country club. Sides were swiftly drawn between those who believed the First Amendment offered blanket protection to all journalists, regardless of their behavior, and those who argued that a journalist's freedom to hound a body to death in search of a better rating was not what this nation's forefathers had in mind when they had penned the Bill of Rights. The membership, usually constrained by impeccable manners, grew so loud and irate that the hostess was forced to ask them to take the argument outside. When they did just that, she looked around to discover only two people left in the room.

  Overnight, the sleepy little town of Gravers Bend had turned into a hotbed of controversy.

  I am saddened by Joe's refusal to come home but not particularly worried by it. I go about my daily business, conducting my life as usual. Eventually he will be back. He is just going through a little early onset midlife crisis. He will get over it sooner or later and come home where he belongs.

  Another aspect of my life has begun to bother me a great deal, however, because nothing about it has gone at all the way I expected. I have invited Hayley to meet me for lunch, for coffee and once for a glass of wine at the country club. Not once has she been able to make it.

  Dammit, for years now I have yearned for her return. I envisioned long talks in which my dear friend confided all her troubles, prepared myself for the day I could lend a sympathetic ear and a bracing shoulder. After all, that is what friends with special bonds do. They extend comfort and keep their counsel when secrets are divulged.

  Yet Hayley shows not the slightest inclination to talk about hers.

  I cannot help but feel a teensy bit resentful. I know Hayley has always been extremely private, but for God’s sake. Such reticence is unnecessary between good friends. And, truly, in the greater scheme of things it is just plain rude. I bet Hayley talks to her oh-so-precious Kurstin about her problems. The bitch.

  No. I must not allow myself slip into ire. Anger is wrong and granting oneself permission to give in to it inexcusable. Once parameters of social behavior are breached, civilization is left with nothing but chaos, pure and simple. The proper thing to do, of course, is go talk to Hayley yet once again.

  And this time I will leave my friend in no doubt that I am at her disposal, a willing receptacle for all the garbage that has accrued in my darling Hayley’s life.

  It is several hours later when I finally approach Hayley in Bluey’s bar. "Hello, dear."

  "Patsy!" She shuts off the water where she has been washing something off her hand and gives me a smile that warms my heart. "Well, hello, stranger,” she says. “I was wondering when you would finally accompany your husband to our fair lounge." She wipes her hands and sets aside the towel. "We see Joe in here all the time, but we never see you. And after all the times I asked where you were, wouldn't you think the bum would have mentioned you are here with him tonight?” She shrugs. “Men. I will never understand them."

  I swing around to search the depths of the bar. Joe is here? I locate him talking to some men at a table in the lee of the stage and shake my head. Not only here, but a frequent patron from the sounds of it. I am beginning to think I never knew Joe Beal at all.

  "What can I get you, Patsy?"

  “Hmm?" I swing my stool back around and blink at the woman across the bar. "Oh! I will have a Riesling." A heartbeat goes by before I recall my manners. "Please." Then I cannot help but glance over my shoulder again. On the bright side, he obviously has not told anyone he moved out of our house. That can only mean he plans to come back home. Probably any day now.

  "We have a nice Hoodsport Johannesburg Riesling. Made right here in Washington. How does that sound?"

  "Fine."

  "One Riesling, coming up."

  I watch Hayley stoop to open the refrigerator beneath the counter. My old friend pulls out a bottle, rises and draws the cork. She pours a glass of wine and reseats the bung. Passing me the goblet, she asks me if I want to run a tab.

  I decline and pay, then just sit there a moment, staring into the pale depths of my wine. I had a definite strategy when I walked through the door. I had known precisely what I intended to say and how I wanted to proceed. But finding Joe in the bar and learning he comes here all the time pisses me off—no!—throws me off my game. Straightening my spine, I force myself to concentrate. "Um, I have been wanting to get together with you, Hayley, to have lunch together or something. Just the two of us."

  "I know. I’m sorry about canceling our coffee date last week. Things have been so hectic, but that’s no excuse. I should have set aside the time." Hayley smiles apologetically. "The problem is more about scheduling than anything. My hours are different than practically everyone else’s."

  I nod. "As a realtor, I know all about erratic hours. I do not work as late into the evening as you, of course. But my hours are not exactly nine to five, either." I pull my cell phone out of my purse and bring up my calendar. "Let's schedule something right now while it is fresh in our minds. We need a chance to sit down and have a real heart to heart."

  Hayley took a large mental step back, then felt guilty. It was so typically Patsy to want to organize everything right down to the nth degree. But the fact that her lack of spontaneity drove Hayley a little crazy was her problem, not Patsy's. Besides, she felt bad about putting her old schoolmate off for as long as she had. They used to be good friends. If Pats was a little too intense these days in her desire to hear Hayley’s every secret and be let in on her every confidence, well, she should be able to circumvent the neediness while still making her old friend feel included.

  Somehow.

  Lucy came up to the bar. "I need a pitcher of the Brewhouse Blonde, Hayley," she said, slapping down her tray and scooping her hair behind her ear with impatient fingers. She had gone natural this week, which for her meant basic black and blonde. No theme colors. Her nose ring was a discrete onyx stud, her pushup bra was utilitarian black to match her Doc Martens and long skirt. “The stuff’s starting to move! You should have heard these yahoos when Bluey first introduced it. Then they tasted it and they can’t get enough.” She shrugged at the vagaries of the small town man, then snapped her fingers. "Oh, and one Sex on the Beach." She included Patsy with a wry grin. "Don'tcha just love that name?"

  "Sex on the Beach?" Patsy echoed faintly.

  "You would probably like it," Hayley said, smiling at her friend as she swiftly assembled the order. "It's vodka and peach schnapps with OJ and cranberry juice. Pretty yummy stuff." She set the drink she assembled almost in the same breath she had recited its ingredients on the barmaid’s tray, then drew a fresh pitcher of beer and added it to the tray as well. "Here you go, Luce."

  "Thanks." Lucy swept the tray off the bar and walked away.

  Hayley wiped down her work space, then turned her attention back to her old school chum. "You know what I'd like, Patsy?" It had come to her while she was putting together Lucy’s order. "I would really like you to show me how to use a compound bow."

  I stare at her in surprise. "You would?"

  "Yeah. I think it would be fun to take your bow and arrows out to the woods and set up a target. Not only could you show me how it works, but it would give us a chance to be alone and talk. I am so impressed you know how to use something like that, and I would love the opportunity to see how it’s done."

  I find myself blinking rapidly. It was not what I had planned. My intention was to take Hayley someplace elegant for lunch and lend a sympathetic ear while Hayley poured out all her troubles. I do not like it when my plans get changed. I do not—

  Do you hear what I'm saying, Patsy? Joe's voice grouses in my mind. I can't live in dread of upsetting your carefully structured life. I can't constantly fear that this will be the change I suggest that upsets all your rules and routines.

  I look at Hayley across the bar and recall what she said about
being alone to talk. "Well...okay. I suppose we could do that."

  "Excellent. When is a good day for you?"

  Patsy flipped through her calendar. "How about Tuesday?"

  "Tuesday it is. Two o'clock okay?"

  "Yes. I will pick you up."

  "It’ll be fun. I’m looking forward to it."

  Yes. I straighten my shoulders. Yes. It will be fun.

  Jon-Michael showed up while the Friday night guest band was playing their last set. Sitting down at the end of the bar, he ordered a club soda, accepted it with a level look, then swiveled around with his back to the bar to watch the band.

  Hayley cast surreptitious glances his way as she filled orders. She had been considering what she should do about him ever since she left him standing in the parking lot this afternoon. Face it, what he had said to her was tantamount to a threat: come to me or I will show up in your room, with or without your consent.

  She didn't like being threatened.

  She did like the idea of making love with him again. Liked it a lot. Of course, it sounded as if she would get that whether she went home with him or not, so perhaps he had not been threatening so much as promising.

  No! Her spine stiffened. What kind of bullshit rationalization was that? She didn't care how good the sex was, he could not just blackmail her into doing what he wanted. And frankly, if she put her faith in Jon-Michael Olivet and his questionable protestations of love she was a fool looking to get exactly what she deserved. She had believed him when he had said those words years before.

  Look where that had gotten her.

  By the end of her shift, as she cashed out the till while Lucy and Marsha went through the close-down procedures, then got ready to go home, she was leaning toward taking a stand on the firm ground of her righteous indignation. The lights clicked off one by one around the room until the bar was the only island of illumination in a dark sea of tables and tipped up chairs.