Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“You can say that again.”

“I’d like to know if he comes around. In fact, I need to know.”

“Absolutely.”

“You’d be dumb to take him on alone, Griff.”

“I won’t.”

Thoughtfully Arnold threaded his clip-on necktie through his fingers. “His reputation being what it is, I’m a bit surprised he’s keeping his distance. Nothing from him since that day at the prison, huh?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

So much for not lying to his probation officer.

Griff’s physical strength and conditioning served him well, and he mended. During the week following the surprise visit from Jerry Arnold, the swelling around his eyes and mouth subsided and his face began to look familiar.

The bruises faded to an ugly greenish yellow, then the green began to go away, leaving him with only an overall jaundiced look. The gash above his eyebrow was reduced to a faint pink line. It matched the faint pink line across his cheekbone, a lasting gift Rodarte had delivered himself that night in the parking garage.

Rodarte had a shitload of grief to answer for. Despite what he’d told his probation officer, Griff couldn’t wait for the opportunity to pay the bastard back.

He hadn’t resumed his multi-mile runs yet, but he had swum laps the past two days. His muscles were sore, but in the good way that came from exercise, not from being pounded on by fists that had felt like meat tenderizers.

He wasn’t up to full speed, but he no longer moved like a ninety-year-old with arthritis in every joint. He was feeling more like himself. Which was good. Because Laura Speakman called one morning as he was stepping out of the shower.

“One o’clock?”

“That’s good for me.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door. If she had turned her head away from him before, she might go into a full-fledged cower at the sight of him today. His appearance had improved, but he still looked like he’d taken a sound beating.

He gave himself another critical once-over in the mirror, front and back. One good thing, he thought, she won’t be seeing me naked.

LAURA OPENED THE DOOR FOR HIM, THEN STOOD ASIDE AND motioned him into the house. No sports jacket this time, she noted. He was wearing a white oxford cloth Polo shirt tucked into his jeans, and brown cowboy boots, which he’d been wearing the other two times she’d seen him. He was carrying a small white paper sack.

She closed the door and joined him in the living area just as he was taking off his sunglasses. She managed to keep from gasping but just barely. His face, particularly around his eyes and along his jaw, was bruised.

Gauging by the sickly color of the bruises, they were a week or so old. They must have looked much worse when fresh. The cut above his eyebrow was new. The one on his cheekbone was fainter than it had been a month ago.

Either he was accident prone or…

She didn’t want to speculate on the or. None of the possibilities that came immediately to mind were good.

He noticed her staring, but since he neither acknowledged nor explained his battered appearance, she didn’t ask about it. He set his sunglasses and the sack on the coffee table, then stood looking at the closed doors of the armoire for several moments before turning back to her. “It didn’t take?”

Because she was still wondering under what circumstances his face had become so bruised, it took a second or two for his question to sink in. Looking away, she shook her head. “If it had, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Right.”

The a/c cycled off. Without its soft whir, the house seemed abnormally quiet.

“Well-”

“I-”

They began at the same time. Laura motioned for him to go ahead.

He reached for the small sack he had carried in with him and passed it to her. “I brought this.”

She looked at him curiously, then opened the sack and peered inside. When she saw the box, her heart gave a little jump.

“It’s, uh, it’s not the kind that has a spermicide,” he said. “I double-checked, ’cause some of them do. Have it, I mean.”

Not trusting her voice to speak, she nodded.

The cowboy boots shifted slightly. “I just thought since-”

“Yes. Thank you.” Before any more could be said, she hurried toward the bedroom.

Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it. She had the sack clutched in a death grip. Her palms were actually damp. This was silly, getting so flustered. But what flustered her more than the tube of lubricant was that he had thought to bring it. That he had thought at all about what they would do today.

She set her handbag on the dresser and went into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reflected an image that looked surprisingly normal. Dark hair. Gray eyes that verged on green, a distinctive black spot in the right one. A triangle-shaped face, the brow slightly wider than the jaw. It was saved from being too prim by her lips, which were full and-she’d been told-sexy.

Her color was a little high. She attributed that to the midday heat.

A month ago, as well as today, she had carefully selected what to wear, dressing in her most structured business suits. Nothing too feminine, certainly nothing provocative. She took off her suit jacket, skirt, and shoes. As before, she left on her top, which today was an unadorned V-necked T-shirt, light blue, not too fitted. She also left on the three strands of silver chain around her neck, which somehow made her feel more dressed than un.

She took the box out of the sack, opened it, removed the tube. Just in case he was wrong, she read every word on the label. Twice.

Afraid that she’d taken too long, she hurried from the bathroom, folded back the covers, and got into bed. She removed her panties and tucked them between the mattresses, as she had done last time. She raised the sheet to her waist, then a bit higher.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax and control her hectic breathing. Her heart was beating way too fast. This waiting for him was agonizing.

What was he doing out there?

Well, of course she knew what he was doing. She just wondered what he was doing. Was he sitting up? Lying down on the sofa? Did he feel any self-consciousness at all? Was he the least bit anxious about his ability to perform? Had it occurred to him to wonder what she was thinking about while she waited for him?

She hadn’t heard any sound coming from the living room either the last time or today, so she imagined he had decided against the videos in favor of the magazines.

Or maybe he didn’t need either and was simply fantasizing, conjuring up his own prurient images. Surely he’d been with countless women. When he was a football star, women would have thrown themselves at him. Undoubtedly many still would. He would have had hundreds of erotic experiences from which to draw.

What kind of woman appealed to him? Tall or petite, slender and athletic or curvy and buxom, blond or redhead? Brunette?

His knock was soft, but it still gave her a start. She took a deep breath. “Come in.”

He stepped into the room. Although they were the only two in the house, he closed the door. Even without his boots he seemed towering in the confines of the bedroom. Their eyes connected for a nanosecond as he walked toward the bed. He sat down on the edge of it, his back to her.

He hesitated for several beats, then raised his hips only high enough to push off his jeans. He worked them down his legs and left them lying on the floor. She thought he removed his socks, too, but she couldn’t be sure.

He started to get between the sheets, then muttered something she didn’t catch. She cut her eyes to him, about to ask what he’d said, when he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them off.