Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

In this older neighborhood, people were buying the houses and either razing them to rebuild on the coveted wooded lots or completely renovating. Griff guessed this was one of the latter, because it appeared as though what had once been the garage had been converted into a room. But it had been done well, and the house had retained its character and charm.

He’d bought the red Honda from Wyatt Turner. It wasn’t what he wanted to drive, but it ran okay and he figured that paying cash for a flashy new car-soon after shelling out a deposit on the duplex-would send up all kinds of red flags to his probation officer, the IRS, the FBI. Even his lawyer eyed him suspiciously when Griff asked how much he wanted for the car and then counted out hundred-dollar bills to pay for it. Turner didn’t ask how he’d come by the cash. Griff didn’t volunteer the information.

Now he kept the Honda’s motor running so he could leave the air conditioner on. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and hummed accompaniment to the country song playing on the radio. The artist had sung the national anthem to open one of the Cowboys’ home games, then, at the invitation of the owner, had watched all four quarters from the sideline.

After an easy win against Tampa Bay, he’d asked Griff for his autograph. This guy was a hot new star. He’d won several Grammy Awards, but he’d hem-hawed and stammered, tongue-tied and starstruck, as he extended Griff his program and a Bic pen.

Today that singer wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.

He heard her car over the radio and his own humming. He shut down the Honda, took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out.

He followed the driveway along the west side of the house and came up behind her on the small porch as she was unlocking the front door. Sensing him there, she turned, startled. “Oh.”

“Hi.”

“I didn’t realize you were already here.”

“I parked around back.”

“Oh,” she said again, then hurriedly unlocked the door and went in ahead of him. She closed the door as soon as he’d cleared the threshold. A short entry hall opened into a living area. Louvered shutters were closed over the wide windows, so the room was dim. It was basically square, with a small fireplace in the center of one wall, a hardwood floor, standard pieces of furniture.

She lowered the strap of her handbag from her shoulder but clutched the bag against her chest, as if she was afraid he might grab it from her. “I thought I’d got here ahead of you.”

“I don’t live far.”

“I see.”

“Couple of miles. I got here sooner than I expected.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too long. But you’re not late. You’re right on time.”

During this scintillating conversation, she had adjusted the wall thermostat. Cool air began whirring through the ceiling vents. Griff was grateful. He’d begun to perspire. He wanted to take off his sports jacket but thought she might read something suggestive into the removal of a garment, any garment. Since he didn’t have a clue how this was supposed to go, he figured he’d follow her lead, even though doing so involved some sweating.

She was dressed for the office. Her suit was black, but the fabric was summer weight. Linen, he thought. The skirt came to the tops of her knees, the jacket was nipped in at the waist. Under it was a pale pink top that draped across her chest and looked soft. Same jewelry as before. Black high-heeled sandals. Her toenails were painted a pearly ivory color.

He’d noticed all this as he came up behind her on the porch. He didn’t dare scope her out now, because she was drawn as taut as a piano wire, acting uptight and all business. If she’d had DO NOT TOUCH tattooed on her forehead, it couldn’t have been any plainer how she felt about being alone with him.

“There are some magazines in there.” She pointed out an armoire in the corner. “And a TV with…with videos.” Simultaneously they looked at the closed doors of the armoire, then back at each other.

“Okay,” he said.

“Give me a few minutes. Then, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the bedroom.”

And with that, she walked across the living room, down a hallway, turned in to a room at the end of it, and closed the door.

Well, at least now he knew how it was going to be. They’d do it like porcupines.

He shrugged off his sports jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. He went to the armoire and opened the double doors. It contained a treasure trove of pornography. He sorted through the stack of magazines. A panoply of possibilities. Something for everybody. Same with the collection of videos.

Who had stocked this stuff? he wondered. Foster? Her? Somehow he couldn’t see them visiting a triple-X video store, browsing among the titles for something that would turn him on. “What do you think he’d like, honey? Twixt Twins or Euro Snatch?

Maybe they’d sent Manuelo on that errand; one of the magazines was in Spanish. Maybe Manuelo was into porno. Maybe that accounted for his vacuous smile.

Griff recognized his musing for what it was: stalling.

He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was bottled water and a six-pack of Diet Coke in the fridge. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, drank some as he went into the former garage, which was now a sunroom, although not that much sunlight was coming in through the drawn blinds. The house was as sealed off as Mrs. Speakman.

He returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa that faced the armoire. He tugged off his boots, wiggled his toes, and tried telling himself he was comfortable and relaxed. He sorted through the magazines again, and the glossy photos on the covers got things started. But, deciding he preferred his own imagination, he set the magazines aside, pulled his shirttail out, and unbuttoned his jeans.

He leaned back against the sofa cushions, closed his eyes, and recalled the night he’d been with Marcia. But erotic images of her were instantly obliterated by those of her lying in her hospital bed looking like something out of a war zone.

Shit!

Before he lost what he had, he searched his mind for something to think about that would keep it up. What had recently tickled his fancy or even sparked his curiosity? That mind search took only a few seconds, but it was the real deal, all right. He became instantly aroused.

And once he really focused on it…

He tapped on the closed door.

“You can come in.”

He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. It was completely furnished, although later he couldn’t remember a damn thing about it except the pastel sheet that covered her to her waist. She was lying on her back, a pillow beneath her head, her hands clasped over her stomach. She still had on the pink top, and he could see a sliver of bra strap at her shoulder.

And under the sheet?

Her jacket and skirt were folded on a chair. Shoes were beside the bed.

Panties? He didn’t see them. On or off?

In any case, he was glad he’d followed a hunch and kept his clothes on. Obviously getting naked wasn’t part of the program.

But out of necessity his jeans were unbuttoned. Her glance in that vicinity was so fleeting he wondered if what she saw even registered before she looked up toward the ceiling and kept her eyes trained on a spot there.

He walked to the side of the bed and faced away from it. She didn’t say anything, so neither did he. He took off his jeans but left his boxers on. For good measure-literally-he discreetly squeezed himself through his shorts and felt a reassuring bead of moisture dampen the cloth. Then keeping his back to her, he lifted the sheet and lay down. He felt ridiculous modestly pulling the sheet over his legs, but he did.