J. Jance - Until Proven Guilty

The Royal Crest isn’t quite as luxurious as its name would imply. We entered the lobby. I tried to look at it through the eyes of a lady with a Porsche. Not that bad, I decided, but it could be better. I was grateful none of my lavender-haired cronies were still in the lobby. Some of them watched the closed-circuit channel twenty-four hours a day, however, and they consider it a sacred charge to know who comes and goes. My bringing home a female visitor would keep the gossip mills running for days.

I pushed open the door and let Anne lead the way into 1106. I didn’t turn on the lights. She went straight to the window to look at the downtown skyline. I came to the window and stood beside her. A delicate perfume lingered around her, the same scent that had entranced me the day before at the cemetery. She was as transfixed by the view as I was by her. Her skin reflected back the golden glow of the city lights. The play of light and shadow gave her beauty a haunting quality.

The impulse was more than I could resist. I reached up and ran my finger along her jawline. Her skin was smooth and cool. She made no move away from me. Instead, she turned toward the touch, allowing my finger to retrace its path down her cheek. I felt my throat constrict. “Hello there,” I said huskily.

“Hello yourself,” she replied. I took her in my arms and kissed her, feeling her mouth moist and welcoming on mine. I crushed her to me, awed by her response, her willingness.

Self-imposed celibacy is fine as far as it goes, but once you break training, months of deprivation take over. Every sensation is heightened. We were frantic for release. Each kiss was more demanding than the one before. Anne didn’t shrink before my onslaught. She matched me move for move, her need as deep and overwhelming as my own.

My hands were trembling with urgency as I fumbled with the top button on her blouse. The ruffled material fell away, revealing the deep hollow of her throat. I kissed her there and felt her response in a sharp intake of breath. Two more buttons revealed her breasts, firm and tense with excitement beneath a lacy bra. She pushed my hands away. “Let me do that,” she whispered. With swift, deft movements she undid the remaining buttons and slipped off the jacket, blouse, skirt, and bra. She returned to my arms clothed only in the glow from the downtown skyline.

I had removed my tie and jacket, but not the regulation.38 I carry in a shoulder holster under my left arm. She nestled against my chest. Most women, encountering the pistol for the first time, express something-surprise mostly, dismay sometimes, sometimes repulsion. Anne showed none of these. Her fingers strayed easily across the metal handle, then settled on the small of my back. This time her lips sought mine, sought them, found them, made them her own.

I put my hand on her chin and pushed her away from me. “I thought you said your intentions were honorable.”

“I thought you said not to play games,” she replied matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t prepared to argue the point. I kissed her again, letting my tongue explore at will, learning each corner of her, each curve and crevice. I could probably get away with saying I took her there in the living room on the floor, but it wouldn’t be the truth. She took me every bit as much as I took her, maybe more. Her body arched to meet mine, her fingers in my back spurred me, goaded me. My need and her need melded into one, and when the climax came, I heard an aching sob escape her lips. I kissed her cheek. It was wet with tears.

I moved away from her and lay on my side, watching her, “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I said.

She snuggled against me, nestling her back into the curve of my body, placing my hand so it rested on the sloping fullness of her breast. “I didn’t expect it to be that good. It hasn’t been that good in a long time.”

We lay like that together, letting the aftermath of our lovemaking slowly dissolve around us. She lay so still, I thought she had dozed off. My arm went to sleep. When I tried to move her to one side, she rolled away from me and stood up. “Do you have a robe I could wear?” she asked.

I dragged two of them out of the closet, one for her and one for me. Considering we had just made love, it was silly to be self-conscious, but we both were. The one I gave her was huge when she tied it around her slender frame. She rolled the sleeves up a turn or two so her hands showed. “I offered you a drink,” I said. “You want one now?”

All trace of tears was gone. She smiled mischievously. “No thanks, I already have what I came for.”

I grabbed her arm and swung her toward me. “Why, you little vixen,” I said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’m not,” she said. She gave me a glancing kiss, slipping away from me at the same time. I poured a drink for myself and turned on the lights. I watched with some amusement as she padded barefoot around the room, examining my decorator-dictated knickknacks as well as the pictures of Kelly and Scott on the wall in the entryway.

“Your kids?” she asked.

I nodded. “They’re both in high school now. They live in California with their mother.”

“How long have you been divorced?” she asked.

“Long time. Five years.”

“Girlfriends?”

“I’d like to think I’ve got one now,” I said. “What about you?”

She settled cross-legged on the couch, pulling the robe demurely around her. “I’m a widow. My husband died ten years ago.” She regarded me seriously. “I’ve had too much money to be able to tell who my friends are, to say nothing of lovers.”

“You’re a little young to be a widow.”

“I was a lot younger ten years ago.” She didn’t offer to divulge her age and I didn’t ask, although she couldn’t have been more than thirty, thirty-two at the outside. She sat there looking off into space. She had a way of mentally going off by herself that I found disconcerting. When she came back to the present she was looking directly into my eyes. “Are you going to ask me to spend the night, or do I have to get dressed and go home?”

I almost choked on a very small sip of MacNaughton’s. “Would you like to spend the night?”

“Yes,” she replied. She waited for me to finish my drink; then I led her into the bedroom. I squirmed that the bed wasn’t made, but she wasn’t paying attention to the furniture. She loosened the tie of the robe, letting it fall open. She pulled my hands inside it, wrapping them around her until I could feel the smooth swell of her breasts against my chest.

“Please,” she whispered.

We did.

Through a sleepy haze, I sensed someone touching me. It was soft and teasing. I thought I was having one of my famous Beaumont dreams. Then I smelled her hair and felt warm lips on mine.

“What are you doing?” I mumbled.

“I’m getting you up,” she whispered softly, her lips nibbling my ear.

“I think I am up.”

“Ooh. So you are,” she smiled.

I pulled her onto my chest, settled her on me, our bodies blending comfortably. My hands closed on her slender waist. I watched her face, her lips parting as her body caught fire. Her hunger was almost frightening in its intensity. We each made love as we had never made love before. In the quiet that followed, she wept. This time I didn’t question her tears. I was grateful for them. This time I thought I knew what they meant.

She was resting on my chest, our heartbeats just then slowing, when the phone rang. It was Captain Powell. He was frantic. “Get your ass down here.”

I struggled to see the clock. It was a little before five. “What’s up?” I asked. The phone cord tangled in Anne’s hair, and I struggled to untangle it and listen at the same time.