Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

Instead, he takes hold of my wrists and pulls me to my feet, which brings my face to the level of his chest. Then he slips his arms around my waist and looks down at me but does not kiss me. He peers into my eyes and pulls my waist to his, which leaves me in no doubt about his need for me. My skin feels hot and tight, itches for the flow of cool air or the touch of his skin. I’m thinking of taking his hand and placing it over my breast when it finds its way there on its own, as though moved by the impulse in my mind. He gives me a gentle squeeze, as if to say, Here we are. We are real in this space, and aren’t we lucky to be here? Then he lowers his face and touches his lips to mine. My heart thumps against my sternum, as I knew it would, but it’s nice to have my instinct confirmed.

“How long do we have?” I ask.

“All night.”

“That’s the right answer.” I kiss him again, opening my mouth to his. Then I pull back. “Maybe I should start using your first name now.”

His eyes shine with delight. “Whatever you want.”

“We’ll make the first occasion momentous. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Make love to me, John.”

He smiles, then lifts me into his arms the way they do in old cowboy movies, and I sense the strength in his body. I expect to be lowered onto the bed, but instead he carries me into the bathroom.

“It’s been a long day. You’d like me better after a shower.”

“Or maybe during one,” I reply, laughing.

He laughs and sets me on the counter, then turns the shower taps. Steam begins to fill the room as he takes off his shoes.

“Jesus, I forgot this.”

There’s a rip of Velcro, and then he’s holding a small revolver in a ballistic nylon holster. The sight of the gun makes something inside me go cold.

“This is for you,” he says. “It’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber featherweight. You know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll put it out on the desk.”

When he returns, I try to shake off the weight of dark memories. “You know what I like about American hotels?” I ask.

“What?” he asks, putting his hands on my knees.

“The unlimited supply of hot water. You can take a two-hour shower if you want to.”

“Ever done it?”

“You better believe it. When I land in the U.S. after coming in from the Middle East or Africa, I open a cool bottle of white wine and just sit on the floor of the shower until I wrinkle into a prune.”

“Well, then. I’d better take a quick look before you hit the prune stage.” He takes the hem of my T-shirt in his hands and waits for me to lift my arms. I smile and oblige, and he slips off the shirt, then unbuttons his own and pulls my chest to his. This time I initiate the kiss, and he breaks it only to say, “I think the water’s ready.”

I wriggle out of my jeans, pleased by the fact that I feel no shyness in front of him, and step toward the curtain. As he slips off his trousers, his eyes take me in from head to toe.

“You’re beautiful, Jordan.”

The truth of his belief is plain in his face. “I feel beautiful right now.”

He takes my hand, then pulls back the curtain and helps me into the tub. Even though I showered only hours ago, the shock of the hot water is wonderful, and having him under it with me even better. He soaps my back, and I soap his. Then we soap fronts, which is much more interesting. I put my arms around his waist and pull him against me, which requires some adjustment on his part.

“It’s been a pretty long time for me,” I tell him.

“For me, too.”

“That’s what Wendy tells me.”

‘What?“

“She says all the women at the field office lust after you, but you haven’t given in to one of them.”

“You know what I like about showers in good hotels?” he asks with a teasing smile. “The nozzles are high enough for me to get my head under them.”

“I see. Well. Are you too tall to put your head down here where it can do some good?”

He laughs, then leans down and gently kisses my breast, his tongue cool against my nipple in the steam. I reach down and run a fingernail along him.

“Are you in agony?”

“Mm-hmm,” he moans.

“Good.”

As the hot spray pours over my face and neck, one of his hands flattens in the small of my back, and the other searches lower. Then he is murmuring in his throat, passing the vibration into me. I lean back against one hand and settle upon the other, and in this exquisite embrace feel myself becoming as liquid as the water. His lips slide up my neck to my chin, then my mouth, and then a clamorous ringing shocks us motionless.

“Fire alarm?” he asks, but the sound dies.

“Bathroom phone.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Fifty bucks says it’s Wendy.”

It rings again, a maddening klaxon in the tiled cubicle.

He sighs. “You’d better answer it.”

I reach around the curtain and dry my hand, then pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Jordan, it’s Daniel Baxter.”

I mouth “Baxter” to John, who quickly turns off the water.

“What’s going on?”

“Ah… is John up there with you?”

“Just a second, the TV’s too loud.” I press my hand over the transmitter. “He wants to talk to you.”

“My cell phone battery must have died.”

“Or you just didn’t hear it. Which would mean Baxter knew to try my room second.”

John shrugs. “He’s not stupid.”

“You want me to say you’re not here?”

He shakes his head and takes the phone. “What’s up, boss?”

As he listens, his eyes flick back and forth with growing intensity. “When?” he asks. Then he listens some more, and I see in his face that we won’t be spending the night in each other’s arms. Something terrible has happened. “I’ll be right there,” he says. “Right. I’ll leave Wendy in the room with her.” He hangs up, his eyes cloudy with confusion.

“What?” I ask, fighting my rising fears. “They found bodies? They found my sister?”

“No.” He takes my hands in his. “Thalia Laveau has disappeared. Daniel thinks she’s been taken by the UNSUB.”

Nausea rolls through my stomach. “ Thalia? But she was under surveillance.”

“She purposefully evaded it.”

“What?”

“He wouldn’t give me the details over an unsecure phone. I won’t know anything more till I get there. Jesus, why her?”

Several answers come to me, but all I can think of is John’s use of the singular pronoun. “Till I get there? What was that about leaving Wendy in the room with me?”

His eyes don’t waver, and if he tells me I’m not going back to the office with him – that in essence I am good enough to sleep with but not to take into a meeting where I may not be wanted by some people – my mouth and breast are the only parts of me he will ever taste.

“Get your clothes on,” he says. “You’re coming.”

I don’t move, and neither does he. Standing naked in the tub with water dripping off us, Baxter’s revelation doesn’t seem quite real. But it is. And I have the strange sensation that once we step out of this tub, it may be a long time before we’re this intimate again.

“You okay?” he asks, touching my cheek.

“I guess. What about you? Can you wait until whenever we get back here?”

He nods, but his heart is not in his answer.

“Do we have thirty seconds to spare?”

He nods again.

“Stay here.”

On the counter by the sink is a sampler pack of soap, shampoo, conditioner, and hand lotion. I uncap the lotion and get back into the tub.

“I’m breaking one of my own rules,” I tell him, “but you can pay me back later.”