Divine Liaisons (5 page)

Chapter 7

With me still wearing his sweater, he kisses me goodbye at my door.

“
You sure you don't wanna come in?”

“
If I come in, I won't want to leave. I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning.”

His smile is like syrup coating hotcakes. Steamy and sweet. Standing on tiptoes, I kiss him again, lingering in his presence. This man is 'dang' hot.

He gives my tush an affectionate tap, “Get inside so I know you're safe. And lock the door.”

Laughing, I unlock the door, not wanting him to leave. He waits for me to get inside before shooting me a wink, turning, and leaping off the steps to the bottom.

The throaty roar of the ZR1 skips through the gap when I close the door. Dashing to the window, I wave goodbye. Laughing to myself, I think his car now reminds me of him. Every time it roars, it's proclaiming, 'Oh yeah baby, I'm getting myself some sweet sticky sugar.'

“
You forgot, didn't you? Where the hell have you been?”

Diving away from the window, I whip round to stare at Erik.

“Jesus!”

“
Not quite, honey. You left your door unlocked.”

My depraved mind immediately skims to how many of my drawers he's snooped through. I'd better wash my underwear before I wear it. Oh
god
! I want to shove him in the shoulder and tell him to empty his pockets.

“
And you just let yourself in?” I accuse.

“
I thought maybe you overslept. You didn't answer your phone.”

Shit, I did forget my phone. Pervert! He probably crept in here hoping to catch me in bed.

Shuddering, glaring, no longer giving a hoot about manners.

“
Why are you here? In my home?”

“
Sarah, it's my mother's memorial today. We were meant to be there an hour ago. I've made them stall, hoping you'd show up, because you're delivering the eulogy. We were supposed to be there at twelve. We're already an hour late.”

Shit! How could I forget?

Rushing past him, I snap, “I'll be ready in sixty seconds.” Calling over my shoulder before the bedroom door slams, “Sorry!”

I wish I could go in Dustin's fleece top, but I can't. I don't want to let him go. I want to linger in the afterglow. I hate Erik for ruining everything, again!

Hauling it off, I tuck it safely under my pillow, putting his scent where I sleep. Tugging my jeans off, I rush to my wardrobe and select a sleeveless black dress. It's easier than a suit when you're in a hurry.

It's a slim fitting, above the knee, classic cut dress. Forgoing stockings, I shove my feet into inch high heels. Snapping a matching jacket off a hanger, I run to the dreaded underwear drawer. Surveying it suspiciously, I choose black lace shorts, yanking them on. Darting to the vanity, I snatch up the pearls and gloss, spritzing Poison.

It makes me smile when I open the bedroom door, thinking of Dustin calling me poison.

“
I'm glad you're so happy. Mind toning it down a bit? This is a day of mourning.”

Narrowing my eyes, I stomp to my phone, slipping it into my pocket.

“Let's go,” I order, shoving past him to the door.

Securing the pearls around my neck while walking to his car; I was mad to agree to go with him. This day is going to be longer than the Civil War.

He opens the door for me, and I get into his silver Buick Regal. Catching his greedy gaze tracing up my thigh when I move my legs, a repulsive shiver screeches down my spine.

I've never been a fan of sedans, and this just serves to highlight the enormous differences between snobby creep, and Mister Wildchild.

The leather seats invade my senses, but there's no thrill this time.

He gets in, buckling up, shooting me a hard stare of dark gray eyes. Starting the car, he shoves it into gear, pressing play on the sound system before we're even at the end of my road.

Looking for traffic, he speeds into the next lane, while I'm shocked silent when the interior of the car is shunted into growling riffs. Art of Dying's, Die Trying, pins me to my seat.

He glances across, catching my eye.

“Appearances are deceiving. Don't look so surprised.”

He's referring to the music. But mercy, the lyrics to this song? Seriously? Is he trying to tell me something, or am I just reading into things that aren't there?

“What are you doing, Sarah?”

“
What do you mean?”

Turning onto Mopac, he puts his foot down, torpedoing us to Forest Oaks Funeral Home and Memorial Park.

Now that he's out of suburban driving, he can pay more attention to me. Flicking his eyes down me, and back up, he holds my gaze with arrogance.

“
Why are you socializing with meatheads?”

“
That's none of your business, Erik.”

He looks back at the road, snapping impatient focus to the rearview mirror, then back to me.

“You're an intelligent woman. Don't sell yourself short.”

Annoyed, I change the subject.

“Why did you wait so long to hold the service?”

“
I was in Leningrad. You know that.”

“
Are you going back to St Petersburg?”

“
No.”

No?

“Why not?”

“
Home is where the heart is. I belong here.”

The inflection of meaning in his tone isn't lost on me. Oh God. Good thing we're going to church, I need to get on my knees and pray real hard this nightmare will end.

“What did you teach?” I ask.

“
Applied mathematics.”

Nerd. All nerd. I don't care if you like Art of Dying. You need to tattoo a big L on your forehead so women know to run the other way when they see you approaching.

I stare out the window, sucking my lip in to stop myself from asking him if any of my underwear is in his pockets.

Turning into William Cannon Drive, he slows down to double back to the funeral home.

Halting the car behind a crowd of others, he shuts off the engine, staring strangely at me.

“
This is hard for me, Sarah. It's my mother's funeral. Have a little heart.”

He's right of course. Ruth was wonderful, and she'd disapprove of my tone. It's just, she never mentioned him. Not once. Not once in ten whole years.

Bracing myself, I open my door, squaring my shoulders and walking to the red and white interior, barn inspired, pew filled room. Melissa must have organized it all. She has Ruth's favorite flowers spilling out of tall vases at the front and back.

Heads turn, even though our footfalls are hushed by thick carpet. Erik puts his hand on my back, guiding me to the front. Suppressing the jeeblies rippling through me, I take a deep breath, suddenly tearful now we're here.

The sun goes down before six at this time of year, and twilight is closing in when we finally leave. Sitting in his car, now crooned by Theory of a Deadman, I feel numb, staring out the window at a blurring landscape.

I'm jumpy. Whenever I look at him in my periphery, he looks different. Bulkier, sharper features, taller even. But when I look directly at him, he's still loser Erik.

Then it hits me, we're not going back to Bushy Creek.

“
Where are we going?”

“
Cedar Park.”

Scowling at him in the dim light, I try and hide my panic, “Why?”

“My mom's place is on Remington.”

“
Why are we going to your mom's place?”

He shoots his attention to me, “For the people coming for drinks.”

“Oh.”

I can't think of anything else to say. I still feel guilty. I should have been putting those books away. You don't let old ladies climb ladders.

He pulls up in front of an imposing two-story. I guess Ruth wasn't hard up for money.

“
Where's your dad?”

Driving into the garage and closing the door with his remote, he kills the engine and the lights, “Long gone.”

“Did he leave this house to your mom?”

“
No, I bought it for her.”

He ends the discussion by opening his door, coming around and opening mine. This time he doesn't touch me, letting me follow him into the house.

Going through the laundry, past a dining room, we get to the living room. He strides away, opening the front door, before switching on the lamps in the living room, and igniting the gas fireplace. It's warm in here, so it must have thermostat control.

Opening doors to a large bar, he gestures to the velvet sofas, “Make yourself at home.”

Only one car's lights flash in through the front door, an engine dies, and high heels click toward us.

I've been duped.

Melissa walks in, giving Erik a big hug when he meets her in the foyer.

“
Oh, honey. Are you okay? Do you have dinner? I'm just down the road, it'll be no trouble bringing a casserole over.”

Shutting the front door, he seems paler than he was two minutes ago, like an actor, portraying grief. That's just it, I don't get the impression he's really grieving.

Which just opens my floodgates again. Spying a bathroom off the living room, I rush to get tissues.

His baritone carries through, while I dab my eyes and blow my nose.

“I'm taken care of, thank you Mel. The housekeeper is good to me.”

“
Your mother was such a wonderful woman. I'm going to miss her.”

And she's wailing, hugging onto him, crying into his shoulder when I walk back to my chair. Catching his expression when I sit, he looks choked up. Maybe he's just too proud to show people what he's feeling?

Pulling out of his arms, she steps back, “I'm sorry I can't stay. But call me if you need anything. I mean it, Erik. Don't be stubborn and proud. It's no trouble.”

He nods, compressing his lips, opening the front door for her again.

“Thank you for coming. Your words at the memorial mean more than you know.”

She sniffs, patting his arm, hugging him again before clicking back out, in a hurry.

This is just peachy. I'm alone in Erik's place, and he's my ride home. Shoot me now.

Waiting for her to drive away, he closes the front door, walking to the bar.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

I note he's pouring himself bourbon.

“Whatever you're having's fine.”

He comes back, handing me a glass, sitting in the chair next to mine and staring moodily into the flames in the hearth.

The silence is uncomfortable. I'm getting nervous.

“
I want to know everything.”

Snapping my attention back to him, I numbly hold my glass, “Excuse me?”

“Every detail. How did my mother end up dead? With you as the only witness?”

It sounds like he's accusing me of murdering his mother.

“We were packing books away at the end of our shift. I was on the other side of the reference library when I heard her scream. I swear, I dropped the books I was holding, and ran. She had the ladder out. It can't come away from the wall, it runs along the shelves. She must have been packing books away up at the top, and lost her footing. I called the hospital, next door. They sent two medics over immediately. It couldn't have been longer than two minutes. But she'd snapped her neck, she was already dead.”

Telling him, reliving it in my head, I can't stop the tears. Looking down, I dab at my eyes with the scrunched up tissue.

He reaches his hand over, running it up my skirt, lifting it higher on my thigh.

“
It's okay. I'm not accusing you. I need to know the details to wrap up the legal side.”

I stare at the hand, willing it to move.

“Sarah?”

Lifting my focus, I look at him again. Flinching when he looks different, a long slender tongue lashing out, like a depiction of a medieval gargoyle.

“What is it?”

Blinking, my heart pounding, he looks meek and normal again.

I think I'm overtired. Pressing my sore eyes with cold fingertips, I release a sigh.

“
Sarah?”

Swallowing, I stare at him, “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“
Not particularly. I'd like to go home.”

He nods, setting his glass down and standing. Wandering to the fireplace, he turns and faces me, hands in his pockets.

“You can see it, can't you?”

My stomach twists with instant anxiety.

“See what?”