Peter Jensen - The blackmailed mother book II

But the thoughts just wouldn't go away – as Oliss well knew and had counted on. Carmel fought back the waves of nausea, ashamed at him self for being so weak of character to allow himself to fall apart this way, of condemning his wife in his dreams before he had the evidence. He wanted a drink, two drinks, perhaps a whole bottle to help him forget. He'd become quite drunk last night, but not drunk enough… and today it was plain impossible to do any work. Not until this matter was cleared up one way or another. Thankfully, today was Saturday, and the factory was only open until noon. He would spend the afternoon by himself and get thoroughly drunk, so damned drunk that the lashing, whip-like images in his mind would go away…

A knock on the open door of his office brought him upright. He saw a girl standing in the door way, the secretary to Larson, the personnel manager. He didn't know the girl's name, wasn't especially interested at that particularly moment, and said in a brusque manner, "Yes? What do you want?"

Kim Copeland smiled tentatively. Demurely she clasped her hands in front of her clinging blue shift, and in a small, hesitant voice, she said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Carmel, but…"

"Well? I'm very busy," Carmel snapped.

You son of a bitch, you're going to pay for this. Kim's brain looked at the muscular, handsome man who was frowning at her, and she felt the blood boil in her. Kim knew the best way of worming her way into the soft underbelly of a naive and preoccupied man like Roger Carmel, and long practice she judged that this was not the time to be seductive, bewitching, alluring; that was for later, after he had become friendly with her and his guard was down, and perhaps a couple of drinks was warming his stomach and dulling his thoughts. Now she had to be all sweetness and angelic helplessness, and although inside her beat the heart of a carnivorous feline, outwardly she trembled like the mousiest of retiring people.

As shy as she seemed to Roger, she still couldn't hide the fact that she was a beautiful sensual woman. She was proud of the thick coils of burnished copper hair, her soft, small hands and smooth white shoulders, of her ripe, up-lifted breasts and her large, round green eyes with their luminescent flecks of gold.

"Gee, Mr. Carmel, I didn't mean to…" She blinked her eyes sadly.

Carmel felt sudden pangs of guilt. For Christ's sake, pull yourself together! No reason to jump all over this nice, lovely girl… My problems don't have anything to do with her, and she's only trying to do her job. Roger had no way of knowing that her attitude and his reaction was exactly that – part of her job, the job that she was doing for Zeigler. He said in a contrite voice, "I'm sorry, Miss… ah."

"Copeland," she replied eagerly and stepped into his office. "Everybody calls me Kim, though. That's short for Kimberly."

Carmel managed to smile. "All right, Kim, what can I do for you?"

Hooked. The sucker is as gaffed as a salmon… "I came to tell you that your friend, Mr. Oliss, has already left the plant. He asked me to tell you that he won't be able to see you this afternoon." True enough… after I called that silly fool and told him Carmel was unable to meet with him. Kim rubbed her hands nervously. "I… I could have called you on the intercom to tell you but, well…" She lowered her eyes, as if afraid to continue.

Now I've frightened the wits out of her. Look at her shake! "Come on, Kim," Roger said softly. "But what? Don't worry, I won't bite."

"It was just that… that my car broke down, and… and if, if you were going to your motel in a little while…" She let the suggestion dangle.

"You want a ride home, is that it?"

"Oh, could you, Mr. Carmel? I'd be so grateful. It isn't far from the El Mecca, and otherwise, I'd have to take a taxi, and they're so expensive, and…"

Roger held up his hand, cutting off her explanations. "Of course I can, Kim. I'd be glad to." Least I call do to make up for the bastard way I first treated her. "Let's see," he said, "It's nearly eleven-thirty now. Do you get off at twelve?"

"Well, to be honest," she said, smoothing her dress front, seemingly unconscious of the way the thin material clung to her rounded thighs and dipped into the hollow of her pussy, "I can leave anytime you're ready, Mr. Carmel. My work is finished and Mr. Larson didn't even come in today."

"In that case, get your coat and your purse, and we'll go right now." Carmel was glad for the excuse to leave.

He stood, smiling. "And for heaven's sake, if I'm going to call you Kim, then you should call me Roger. Okay?"

"You know the rules about being too familiar with executives, Mr. Carmel – Roger," Kim said coyly, a small smile dimpling her cheeks. "I wouldn't want anybody to hear me call you by your first name."

"Nonsense," Roger said expansively. "I'll take full responsibility. Besides, as of right now, we're both off work. Right?"

"Right!" And Kim Copeland left with a swirl of her dress and a brief flash of her lovely, slim legs.

The Chevrolet which Roger had rented at the airport was a large, two-door business Impala which almost steered itself as Roger cruised through the downtown Kirsten traffic. For a small town, it sure had enough people, he thought as a car cut him off, making him swerve into the next lane, but then this was Saturday and all the locals would be shopping, he supposed. Kim Copeland was thrown against him, and she gasped with a startled cry as the softness of her breasts brushed against Roger's shoulder. Her touch made him acutely aware of her presence, more than all of the laughing and pleasant conversation they'd indulged in since leaving the Skopos plant. Kim, he had found, was a smart, sparkling woman, and the rapport between him and her was easily established. He realized in that sudden moment of physical contact that she had allowed him to forget his deep-set troubles, and for those few minutes of grace, he was eternally grateful to her. The lurid green-with-jealousy mental picture of his wife being fucked senseless by another man became more remote as the miles passed, and by the time he parked in front of her apartment house, he was almost sad to see her leave him.

Nothing sexual, he hurriedly told himself. Nothing like that at all. Just because Lonnie was – he snapped the sick reverie as a hot coal began to burn once more in his belly. He turned to the stunning beauty of Kim Copeland and felt the tingle of her provocative physical aura and the relief from his bitter depression. He said: "Well, this is it, Kim. Glad I could be of service."

"Won't you come up for a cup of coffee?" she asked, her wide eyes dispelling any salacious intentions such an invitation might arouse. Roger felt torn between the natural hesitation of a married man to be alone with so alluring a female as Kim and the reluctance to once more be alone. She purred through her slightly moistened lips, "Or a drink? It's a little of that old Indian Summer today, and sort of hot. I could use a gin-and tonic, and I don't like drinking alone."

She placed a friendly, warm hand on his leg – not too low, nor so high as to warn him, scare him off, just at the place mid-leg where a hand might touch innocently. But Roger felt her electric contact, and his mouth went dry. "I… I really don't know if I should."

"Do you have anything planned for right now?"

"Well, no, not really. I…" he looked at her, weakening, and bit his lip. "I don't know if it would be right, that's all."

Kim laughed lightly, like a spring nymph enjoying the morning dew. "Oh, you men, always thinking about your wives!" She chuckled again with a lilting, teasing manner. She moved like a lithe cat, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her dress. "As you told me, Roger, I won't bite."

The reference to his wife, if only in a passing, allegorical way, made Roger jerk on the car seat. His heart trip-hammered. "What about my wife?" he said in a halting voice.