Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

She swallowed, felt her lips part against his.

“Yes.”

*

He heard the phone purring. He opened his eyes, finding himself entangled with her. Then hers blinked open, too. She looked at him and smiled, said “mmmmm,” then closed them once more.

The phone hummed again. He sighed and pushed himself away from her. The covers fell back, revealing her body to him for the first time in full light. His breath caught in his throat.

His hand groped for the phone as he drank in the sight of her. “Yes?” he said, never taking his eyes off her.

“Hello, Mr. Hunter. Sorry if I’m bothering you, sir. It’s ten-thirty. Would you be joining us for breakfast this morning in the dining room? We stop serving at eleven.”

He stared at the swell of her breasts, the smooth, gentle curves of her belly and hips, the impossibly long legs. “No, I don’t think so. Thank you. Is it possible to have a breakfast sent to our cottage?”

“Yes, sir. All day.”

“That’s great. I’ll call in an order later.”

He slid back under the covers, drew her close. Felt the silken warmth of her flesh against his. He wrapped his arms and legs around hers.

Smiled and closed his eyes.

*

He felt something tickling his leg and woke up.

She was sitting upright in the bed, naked in the soft light, like a pale goddess. Her finger was tracing the scar on his thigh.

“Hi, you,” he said. “Good morning.”

She looked at him. “Hi, you. But it’s afternoon.”

They held each other’s eyes, remembering.

“Wow,” he said.

She began to giggle. “You creep. Do you have any idea how sore I am?”

He sat up, grinning. “Aw, the poor baby. Should I kiss it and make it better?”

She blushed and threw a pillow at him. He grabbed her and she squealed as he wrestled her back onto the thick down comforter. He held her close and they searched each other’s eyes and he kissed her, long and gently.

She giggled again. “Down, boy.”

“But you inspire me.”

“ Please, Dylan. I just couldn’t. Besides, I’m starved.”

He sighed. “Okay. I’ll order room service. Besides, I guess I’ve gotten my money’s worth from last night’s dinner.”

“You bastard,” she laughed, pounding his shoulder with her fist. Then, looking serious, she held his face between her hands. “Dylan?”

“Mmmm.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve got a gorgeous body. But the scars. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

He buried his face against her throat. Felt its pulse against his lips.

“Automobile accident. Three years ago. Truck crossed the center line. I swerved, but he clipped me and sent me over the guard rail. My car flipped a few times. I was pretty badly carved up.”

He felt her forefinger on his scalp, tracking the thin scar down and along his jawline. “My face was especially bad. The door caved in and mashed it pretty good. It took the doctors weeks to put it back together.”

“They did a great job. I love this face.”

“I’m glad. It took me a while to get used to the new me.”

“You didn’t look like this before?”

“Somebody once told me I used to look like Tom Hanks.”

“Well, now you look a lot like Clive Owen.”

“Who’s Clive Owen?”

She kissed his cheek. “A man who looks a lot better than Tom Hanks.”

*

She lay back against him in the tub, her head resting on his chest. The hot, powerful jets pounded at them, raising coils of steam into the air. He could smell the scented candles positioned around them. He tilted his head back, noticing for the first time that the ceiling of the luxurious bathroom was composed of mirrored tiles. Using his legs, he lifted her body slightly out of the water.

“What are you doing?” she said above the churning noise of the jets. “I’m getting cold.”

He pointed toward the ceiling. “Look at us.”

In the shimmering candlelight, the steam drifted like fog across their reflected bodies, alternately hiding and revealing.

“Oh, great. I’ve gotten myself involved with a voyeur.”

“No jury of men would convict me.” In the mirrored surface, he watched his own dark hand slide slowly over the naked, glistening curves of her torso. “I feel like Michelangelo.”

She was quiet for a moment. “We are beautiful together, aren’t we.”

He squeezed her, then closed his eyes, letting their bodies relax and drift as one in the roiling water. He tried to push from his mind all thoughts of his past and his future. He tried to hold onto nothing but this moment of magic.

But the warning voice was whispering.

Rockville, Maryland

Thursday, September 25, 1:02 p.m.

When the blond man with the mustache and sunglasses entered the crowded clubhouse and looked around, Barton Ames figured that it had to be the guy. He pushed away from the bar and carried his Scotch over to meet him.

The man turned to him. Smiled. “Mr. Ames. How do you do?” He held out his hand.

“That’s me. Thanks for making the trip over.”

“No trouble at all,” Grayson said. “I am delighted that you saw my little ad here on the bulletin board.”

“Me, too,” Ames replied. “New carts cost an arm and a leg, so I have to stick with used. But if yours is everything you say it is, the price sure is right.”

“Shall we take a look?”

“Great.” He downed the rest of his drink, left the glass on a table, and they went outside.

Grayson wore brown tweed, real high-quality. He had this air about him, too, like some kind of aristocrat or something. A faint accent. Upper crust, for sure. And you couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored shades. Ames felt a little intimidated by the guy.

“So, you said you don’t have time for golf anymore?” Ames asked as they crossed the grass near the first tee.

“Not with my travel schedule. My clientele is far-flung, regrettably. I rarely stay in one place long enough to have the opportunity to work on my game. So, it’s a complete waste to keep a cart.”

“Investment advisor, did you say?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, my sporting goods shop-business hasn’t been so great this year.” He grinned. “So maybe you got some hot investment tips?”

A little smile played on the man’s lips. “A golf cart, perhaps?”

He laughed. Grayson was cool, for sure.

They reached a row of parked golf carts, where Grayson pointed out the pale green one with the white sun top. Ames walked around it, took a long look at the electric engine and batteries, ran his hand over the white leather seats. He liked the rear flip seat, too, since he often golfed in a foursome. He asked Grayson to start it up for him, and the thing hummed smooth and quiet.

“It’s a beauty, all right. Looks brand new.”

“It’s three years old, but as you can see, I haven’t used it much. In fact, it’s been sitting idle for so long that the original tires suffered. So, I got rid of the old ones last week and put on a new set. Also, I had it cleaned thoroughly. I think it’s good to go.”

“And only twenty-four hundred, you say?”

“That’s right.”

Ames nodded. “Well, your loss is my gain.”

Grayson turned to him; his mirrored sunglasses reflected the mid-day sun.

“I wouldn’t say that I am losing anything,” he said, smiling. “It served its purpose.”

Alexandria, Virginia

Thursday, September 25, 2:45 p.m.

“Got some new paper here on the forensics,” Paul Erskine said, entering the office.

Cronin looked up from the piles of paperwork on his desk. “Okay, put it on that stack.”

“FBI report’s on top.” The stocky, middle-aged detective plopped several file folders onto an already-teetering column.