The Reconstruction of Carla Millhouse (6 page)

Heather gave out a throaty chuckle as she sashayed down the stairs. “You look so surprised to see me. I do live here, you know.”

“Sometimes I’m not too certain.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she gave him a look that stopped any other negative thoughts cold and purred sexily as she went to set the dining room table. “Change quickly into something more comfortable before the food gets cold.”

Dinner turned out to be pleasantly reminiscent of the kind they’d shared together during the early years of their marriage. She sat so close to him that he felt her heat on his thigh. Every so often, she’d stroke his thigh, never quite touching his thickening shaft, sending exciting vibrations zinging through his body.

Afterward, they retired to the den and sat cuddled together sipping wine as romantic music played softly in the background. Orson felt so hot and excited that the chilled wine warmed as it slid down his throat. Just as he didn’t think he could take much more of this seduction, she unzipped his pants and took him in her hand. Ringing the tip of his engorged penis with the pads of her fingers caused him to gasp. Heather smiled and began to stroke him expertly. With a growl he pulled her down on the rug, his big body covering hers. The love they made was so exciting that he could hardly remember why he’d hired a private investigator in the first place.

* * *

Heather’s thoughts were quite different in nature as she clasped his body to hers with her legs. She thought of being compensated for all this tiresome sex with a man she could no longer stand. The only thing that kept her there was the money. With a little luck, Orson will have a stroke or heart attack. She consoled herself with that thought as he grunted like a rutting pig. She wanted to scream.

God, how she wished he were anything like Salvatore—or Martin.

* * *

The following day, Haywood followed Heather to the Fountain Hills Branch Library on N. Montana Drive. Haywood, living in Gilbert, hadn’t been to this library before. Assuming this library was similar to his and had only one way in and out, he parked where he could safely watch the door without being obvious.

Her long blonde hair was loose and caught the sun’s rays making it shimmer. For one quick moment, he wondered how it would feel to run his fingers through it. Then he remembered how he’d had the same desire years back. His eyes filled with tears of pain as he recalled how hurt and embarrassed she’d made him feel. That day had resulted in an emotional scar that covered a deep wound that had taken a very long time to heal. He shook his head as he tried to rid his mind of the thought, reminding himself why he was there and how much he’d like to even the score.

As Haywood sat in his Camaro cleaning his nails and keeping his eyes on Heather’s car, he thought about the pretty African-American real estate agent he’d met the other day. Although petite she was shapely and had a nicely rounded ass. Her clothes were real fancy and everything about her shouted class. She wasn’t like any of the girls he’d ever dated. He knew she was trying to get him to rent an apartment, but he sensed she liked him a little, too. She seemed to be a real nice person underneath her aggressive real estate persona and not just a phony bitch trying to use him. No, she appeared to be the polar opposite of Heather.

He’d consoled himself with this sobering thought years ago: if you stripped away Heather’s beauty, all you’d find was an empty cookie jar, devoid of all sweets. That woman was just icing over a rotten cake. Sure he’d hoped to find something bad on her to report back to Hemmings to even up the score. He was human and she had once mortified him, but hey, he wasn’t low enough to make something up. She’d eventually get what was coming to her. Mama always told him what went around came right back at you.

People came and left from the rustic-looking facility. Mothers with small children in strollers and men with briefcases paraded past. Others left carrying books and DVDs. But, no Heather. He couldn’t fathom her doing anything as strenuous as research, so he pictured her comfortably curled up on a sofa reading a book. Did people still come to read books in the library? He had no idea that Heather had been the woman with red hair wearing a black leather coat, who’d walked out the front door ten minutes ago to hook up with Martin who’d been parked out of sight.

* * *

“How many more times is he going to fall for the same act?” Martin said as Heather slipped into his car.

“With that putz, there’s no telling,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.

Time was of the essence and Heather wanted to wring all the sexual pleasure she could from their tryst. Having sex with Orson and his Viagra-reinforced, limp noodle was so unexciting. Even with the drug, she had to work hard at times to get him going. There was no denying how much she enjoyed having sex with Martin. Just the thought of his hands on her body got her pooling in her panties. With him, she didn’t have to fake her orgasm as she did with Orson. Therefore, the minute the door of their hotel room was closed behind them, she was pulling off his suit jacket and unloosening his tie.

“Want it that bad, baby? Come ’ere,” Martin said, pulling her closer. He crushed her mouth with his as he pushed her against the wall. Slipping a hand under her skirt, he ripped off her flimsy panties, turning up her heat level two notches.

Heather had already unzipped his slacks and freed his penis. Martin lifted her up against the wall and entered her. Pumping into her, he slid his lips down her slender neck. She threaded her fingers through his hair as he pounded into her causing the painting on the wall to jump and bang back and forth.

Grunting, beads of sweat gathering along his forehead, Martin thrust deeply into Heather. Feeling his cock pulsating inside of her as his balls smacked against her thighs and clit, she moaned and thrashed her head from side to side, swept away on an arc of electricity. As ecstasy flooded her entire being, she simply gave in to the pleasure.

An hour-and-a-half later, Haywood sat up in his seat as Heather emerged from the library carrying two books along with her tote bag. He waited for her to get into her car before starting his own engine. Then he followed her home at a discreet distance. While he’d been waiting for her, he’d written up his latest report to give to Hemmings. He had no idea why the man had hired him in the first place. After all, Heather seemed to be on the up and up. If she was meeting someone, he had no idea when. It certainly wasn’t on his watch. Hell, he’d hardly had a chance to use his new camera.

* * *

Hemmings found himself looking forward to going home, lately. Heather had been there to greet him every night. He could get used to having her around. The fact that she was ordering in food for dinner and cooking as little as possible made it even more appealing. She’d never rival Rachel Ray with her cooking skills.

On the other hand, the only explanation for her new attentiveness had to be that she’d found out about the private investigator. At least that’s what Hemmings thought until she began to make comments about how her wristwatch didn’t keep good time, anymore. Then she dropped hints about the kind she’d like and where she’d seen one that she really loved. She continued talking about watches until he found himself wondering if that was the catalyst for her remaining at home. Either way, he decided to enjoy it while it lasted. However, to be on the safe side, he’d retain the PI just a little longer.

Chapter Eight

While Heather was trying to get back into the good graces of her husband, she was putting a crimp in Martin’s nighttime activities forcing him to find other distractions or go home. That night he thought about going to a bar to pick up a woman for a few hours, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Besides, he’d had enough adventure that day with Mata Hari.

It had also been an unusually busy day at the dealership. Mercedes Benz was running a nationwide promotion and they were short one salesperson due to illness. His throat felt raw from all the talking he had to do. And his feet hurt, as well. Going home didn’t seem so bad. Maybe he’d take Carla out to dinner. They hadn’t been out together for ages, not that he’d cared to be seen with her looking like the spawn of Moby Dick. However, lately she’d been looking more appealing. Had she been dieting?

He drove his Mercedes into the garage. Carla’s Honda wasn’t in the garage. He hated that silver Honda. It was bad for his image. No matter how hard he’d tried, there was no way he could convince her to drive a Mercedes like him. “Too snooty,” she’d said on more than one occasion.

Blondie greeted him at the door happily barking and jumping up and down. He let her out into the backyard to relieve herself. He waited for her to return and relocked the door. Since Carla hadn’t expected him home, she hadn’t left a note. He could call her cell, but knew she was either with Lynne or shopping. Where else would she be? Opening the junk drawer near the phone, he shuffled through the fast food menus and ordered a large pizza with the works—except anchovies. He hated that slimy stuff. Orson and Heather couldn’t get enough of it or caviar, which he somehow linked together under the “yuck” column in his mind.

Okay, he thought looking at his watch, let’s see if they live up to their own hype and deliver it within a half-hour. He hoped they did since he was ravenous, not having had the time to have a decent lunch. He grabbed a cold bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and began to chug it down, not bothering to pour it into a glass.

He took the bottle into the den and turned on the TV with the remote as he sank down into the overstuffed couch. Surfing through the channels, he wondered how there could be so little to watch with so many different choices. He finally settled on some black and white war movie that was probably made before he was born.

The doorbell chimed and he looked at his watch again. They’d made it in twenty-three minutes. He opened the door and took a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the delivery guy who looked like he’d rather be getting a root canal than be there.

“Thanks,” Martin said as he grabbed the pizza and closed the door a little too quickly to hear the guy reply, “Thanks, yourself.”

He set the pizza down on the cocktail table in front of the sofa. Forgetting that the pizza was piping hot, he took a healthy bite.

“Yow!” he howled spitting out the piece. However, the damage to his upper palate was already done and it felt raw and stringy. He took a healthy swig of the beer and finished the bottle. There was no way he’d be able to eat the pizza without more beer, so he went back into the kitchen for another bottle and more napkins.

Martin polished off most of the pizza. By the time Carla returned home, she found him face down in the pizza box sound asleep. The sight of him made her laugh. Tears soon streaked down her face. When she was able to gain control of herself once more, she shook his shoulder to wake him. He groaned and lifted his head. Mushrooms, sauce and some other unidentifiable stuff clung to his patrician nose and face. That caused her to break out in a fresh gale of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Martin asked still sounding half asleep.

“You are.”

“Huh?”

“Here let me wipe some of that stuff off,” she said picking up a discarded napkin.

“Guess I fell asleep.”

“Give that man a prize!” She helped him to his feet. “Next time try a pillow instead of a pizza box, genius.”

She pushed Martin into the bathroom so he could wash his face before she went into the bedroom to undress for bed. By the time he emerged from the bathroom smelling more like soap than pizza sauce, she’d just removed her bra. Instinctively, his presence caused her to cover herself by crossing her arms across her chest.

“Don’t,” he said, as he approached her.

“You’re tired; go to bed.”

“I’m wide awake,” he said, drawing her closer to him.

They stood there looking into each other eyes. He’d forgotten how beautiful her brown, doe-like eyes were. They always made her seem more vulnerable—until now. When he tried to kiss her trembling lips, she pushed him away. Martin looked at her trying to understand her actions.
Why didn’t she melt into my arms? Was it because I still reeked of beer? Was she tired, herself?
Then he became very still. Or did she surmise he was having an affair? Carla interrupted his thoughts, partially giving him an answer.

“I’m tired Martin, and from the way I found you, so are you. Go to bed,” Carla said and climbed into bed facing the wall. A few minutes later, Carla felt the mattress sag as Martin got into bed. The room was quiet for the next several minutes until Martin’s rhythmic snoring broke the silence.

* * *

As Carla lie awake listening to Martin snore, she went over the previous scene with him again in her mind. Had she been a coward or had she done the right thing? Had she blown another chance to confront him and let him know she was aware of his cheating? She concentrated on Martin’s reaction to when she’d told him she was tired. He hadn’t even attempted to try and change her mind. Was that because he’d been with his lover that day? No matter how she looked at it, deep down inside she knew she played it correctly. He didn’t really want her. She was just handy. Even so, she had nearly caved. After all, it was tough passing up having sex with him for the first time in God knows how long.

Carla sighed. No, it seemed best not to let him know that she knew he was cheating just yet. That way she could hold out for the entire ball of wax and win his love back completely with no strings attached. Seriously now, how much sweeter would that be?