John Locke - Lethal People

It was Tuesday, after all.

“For me?” she asked.

There was an empty chair waiting for her at the tiny table I’d staked out at Starbucks, and Kathleen had instantly spied the raspberry scone on the small square of wax paper across from me. To my utter surprise, she rewarded me with a radiant smile, removed her coat, and joined me at the table.

“Who’d a thought it?” she said.

“What’s that?”

“There’s a romantic component at work here,” she said, “one that might even rival your desire to separate me from my panties.”

“The mystery never ends,” I said.

“Do I want to know where you’ve been since Wednesday, what you’ve been up to?”

The angel on my shoulder urged me to tell Kathleen everything and let her run out of my life so she could find true happiness. Of course, the devil on my other shoulder said, “When in doubt, just smile and change the subject.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” I asked.

Kathleen frowned and shook her head. “That bad, eh?”

“I’ve had worse,” I said, and immediately realized I was telling the truth. I thought, What a rotten thing to have to admit, even to myself . I looked at Kathleen across the table. Her eyes were locked onto my mouth, as if she could read my thoughts by watching me speak the words. If that could possibly be true, I wanted to give her something better—a happier thought, one she might enjoy hearing. It would have to be something sincere.

Lucky for me, I had one. “I missed you,” I said. I’d wanted to say more about it, wanted to say it better, but at least I’d said it.

Her eyes remained fixed on my mouth while she processed the validity of my comment. Then she slowly twisted her lips into a smile, and I felt that thing I always felt in her presence.

Hope.

Maybe I still had it in me to be a better person than I’d been. Maybe I hadn’t yet descended so deeply into the pit that I couldn’t experience a woman’s love, capture her heart, have a decent life.

She took a bite of her scone and made a production of licking the sugar from her upper lip. She gave me a sly smile. “You really like me, don’t you!” she said.

I laughed. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, I can get cocky,” she said. “Judging by the way your tongue is hanging out of your mouth, I can get cocky anytime I want!”

“That’s pretty big talk,” I said, letting my tongue hang out of my mouth.

“Pretty big what?” she said, laughing.

“Keep talking like that and you’re never going to get me in bed.”

“Oh, yes, I will!” she said.

CHAPTER 37

T he Arabelle is the Plaza Athenee’s signature restaurant. It was also far too ostentatious, Kathleen felt, for the way she was dressed. “However,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at me, “the Bar Seine was voted ‘Best Spot for Romance’ by the New York Post .”

“Then we’re in the right place,” I said. We strolled across the lobby and entered the Bar Seine. I pointed across the leather floor to an empty couch that was covered with an animal print fabric.

“Wanna cuddle over there in the private alcove?” I said.

“Slow down, Romeo, and get me a sandwich first.”

“You can think of food at a time like this?” I said.

She winked. “I need to build some strength for later, you lucky dog.”

We sat beside each other in overstuffed chairs with ridiculously high armrests. There was a small octagonal coffee table in front of us. “Maybe I’ll order a bottle of courage,” I said.

“They don’t serve bottles here silly,” she said. “This is a highclass joint.”

I looked around. “They’ve got a signature hotel, a signature bar, probably got a signature drink,” I said.

“Here we go again,” she giggled. “Actually, they do have a signature drink!”

“As long as it doesn’t contain the words venti or doppo ,” I said.

“If I tell you the name, promise you’ll order it?”

“Is it really pretentious?” I asked.

Her laughter started bubbling up, spilling out into the room.

“More puffed up than the coffees at Starbucks?” I said.

She feigned a snooty look. “Those are bush league by comparison,” she huffed. “Mere pretenders.”

I smiled. “Okay,” I said, “hit me with it.”

Our waitress came, and we ordered a watercress sandwich for Kathleen. “And to drink?” she asked.

“I’ll have a pomegranate martini,” Kathleen said.

The waitress smiled and looked at me. “And for you, sir?”

I looked at Kathleen.

“Say it,” she giggled.

I sighed. “I’ll have a crystal cosmopolitan,” I said, and she howled with laughter.

The drinks came, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but I had to know what happened to make her change her mind about seeing me.

“Augustus,” she said.

“Augustus?”

“You sent him to guard Addie.”

“I did.”

“Even though you and I were through at the time.”

“So?”

“So you really cared about Addie and wanted to keep her safe. That warmed my heart, Donovan. It says everything about your character.”

I remembered how I’d ruined the moment with Lauren the week before and was determined not to react or say anything that could turn the tables on what promised to be an epic evening. I thought I’d stick to a safe topic.

“You had a chance to spend some time with Quinn?” I asked.

“I did,” she said. “Augustus is wonderful with the children—so loving and gentle.”

I couldn’t recall ever hearing the words Augustus and loving and gentle in the same sentence before.

“Did you talk to him about me?” I asked.

“Of course!” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“And?”

“And I told him I thought you were seriously flawed.”

I nodded. “And what did he say?”

Kathleen grew serious for a minute and paused to give weight to her words. “He said you were chivalrous. That you’re always on a quest.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. That you’re a good friend to have.”

“Did he mention I liked puppies and butterflies, too?”

“No … thank God!”

An hour later, we entered my suite, and she mugged me with kisses before I got the door shut. Our hands were all over each other, racing to see who could touch the most skin in the shortest period of time. I pinned her against the wall in a full body embrace, and our mouths worked hard to keep pace with our passion.

Then Kathleen broke away and dragged me to the bedroom. She spun me around and pushed me onto the bed. I sat up and reached for her, but she slapped my hands away.

I said, “Damn, those pomegranates are amazing!”

“You mean these?” she said. She ripped off her bra, and my brain circuits spun like tumblers in a slot machine.

“Now, Donovan!” she said.

“Now?”

She stepped out of her clothes. Licked her lips.

“At your cervix,” I said.

We made love like teenagers, wrecking the sheets, rolling all over the place. At one point, she started moaning like a porn star, and I said, “Hey, calm down. We both know I’m not that good!”

CHAPTER 38

The wind in Cincinnati whipped and swirled under a gunmetal sky. Bits of paper came to life on currents of air. A bus stopped at the corner of Fifth and Vine, and a young lady stepped off, wearing a short gray sweater dress with pleats. The sudden gusts played havoc with her dress, causing it to flutter and dance about her legs in a way that revealed more than she’d intended. A cellophane wrapper rose from the gutter and became part of a tiny swirling cyclone that covered some twenty yards along Vine Street before coming to rest on the sidewalk in front of the Beck Building.