Jennifer Greene - Conquer the Memories

“So?”

“Charlie, I’m not going to sell the pups to just anybody.”

“Take out the just,” Charlie suggested. “Five bucks says you don’t sell any of them to anybody, flat out.” He shoved his plate forward and lit his cigar. Sonia could have kicked him. Instead, she scrubbed the broiler pan, washed his dessert plate, whipped the leftover pie into the refrigerator and turned to face Charlie with another ostentatious yawn.

“What’d you buy in town?” he asked her, as if she hadn’t given him every opportunity to amble toward the door.

“Nothing.”

“You came home with a package.”

“Did your mother ever tell you you were nosy?” She leaned back against the counter, regarding her momentary nemesis with an affectionate grin. “Do you hear me asking what you did in town all day?”

“I went to the bank, the hardware store, had lunch with Jim Olsen and checked out the colt Baker wants to sell. Now, what was in the package?”

“Peanut butter.”

“Five bucks says it’s got a neckline that’ll make Craig holler.”

“Craig doesn’t holler.”

Charlie snorted. “Just ’cause he doesn’t yell at you, I wouldn’t be making no rash assumptions that man can’t let loose with the best of them. You just got him hoodwinked so he thinks you’re softer than melted butter.”

She had a fine answer for him, but unfortunately the phone rang. Charlie had only to raise a hand to reach the wall extension. Adjusting his cigar, he barked into the phone, “Hamiltons’, Charlie here.”

His face changed from teasing, gregarious Charlie to an odd stillness. “It’s all right. You can talk to me. I’ll relay the message. Yes…”

She was watching him curiously when his eyes darted in her direction, then shifted. “Nothing important,” he mouthed to her with a smile, then stood up from the chair, taking the phone as far away as its cord would let him.

“You know, Mr. Hamilton was expecting a little more action by now. As in, results. Not that I’m saying you don’t know your business, but if I were you…”

His voice was low, and he had turned his face away from her. Sonia felt something twist inside her. Maybe the person on the other end of the line wasn’t the Chicago detective Craig had hired to find the muggers; maybe the call was just business. Like hell.

Charlie hung up a moment later, and crushed his cigar in the ashtray on the counter. “Craig told some dude he might be interested in some horses of his,” he said blithely.

“Sure.” Sonia straightened from the counter and headed for the door, her tone suddenly crisp. “Did I tell you George went to Brock’s with me this afternoon, Charlie? He bought a fan belt for the pickup.”

“He wha-?” Charlie’s voice trailed off. He stared at her, guilty awareness imprinted on his face as clearly as a milk mustache. “Now, look. Sonia…”

“Forget it.” She kissed his cheek. “Sleep well.”

Enough, she told herself firmly. Enough, enough, enough. Everyone on the ranch seemed to be involved in conspiracies, primarily regarding her. Since when had anyone ever had to treat her like porcelain?

In her bathroom, she flicked on the tub faucets and reached for a vial of perfume. She poured in a few drops and, on second thought, emptied the little bottle. The fragrance burst free in the steamy water; she stole one more look at the clock in the bedroom, then closed the doors to seal in the scent, and rapidly stripped off her clothes. Eight twenty-four. She had half an hour, anyway, before Craig was due home.

Her planned soak was a quick one, just long enough for the perfume to permeate her skin. From there she stepped out to wrap a towel around herself, applied a scented cream to her feet and hands and throat, and when that was dry dropped the towel and hurried into the bedroom. Lights, she thought absently, and promptly turned on the shaded lamp on the dresser, then closed the curtains with a single glance outside to make sure Craig wasn’t driving in at that instant.

He wasn’t. The green satin nightgown was hidden in the closet; gently, she pulled it off the hanger and slipped it over her head. In front of the dresser mirror, she adjusted the two tiny straps and took a first glance.

The gown definitely had Garbo seductiveness, the satin slinky from neckline to floor, flowing smoothly even as it outlined her breasts and tummy and thighs. In its center was an embroidered cutout, baring a triangle of white skin at her navel. Her mood lifted into irrepressible wickedness as she brushed her hair into a deliberately disheveled mass of curls. No lipstick, but she bit her lips three times and then stared again. She definitely liked that little peephole in the center of the gown.

Glancing at the clock again, she hastily pawed through the trinkets in a box on her dresser. You’re not going to do this, she told herself, even as she drew out a tiny round glass jewel. Her father had given her the necklace when she was a little girl. It wasn’t valuable; she’d broken the chain years ago and simply kept the little green bit of glass because she loved it. It fit, precisely, in her navel.

She glanced at the mirror again. For heaven’s sake, take that out of there. This is not Arabia. She performed a tentative seductive undulation with her tummy; the stone popped out. Cheeks flushed, she picked it up, and gave the clock another worried look.

Ten to nine. And she’d forgotten the wine. With the glass jewel in her hand, she rushed back to the kitchen, grabbed a tray and two glasses, then added a bottle of wine to it. She started for the bedroom again, then rushed back for the corkscrew.

She was out of breath by the time the clock said nine, ready to collapse on the bed, exhausted. Listening for the sound of Craig’s car, she opened the wine, poured a glass to set on his nightstand, then poured one for herself. Moments later, she lay back against the pillows, carefully arranged the emerald satin gown around her, stubbornly stuck the jewel back in her navel and reached for her wine.

After a first sip, she rearranged the straps on the gown. The satin plunged as it was, but every little bit helped.

By the third sip, she relaxed and stopped panting like a mad thing. One couldn’t race around like a whirlwind and then instantly feel seductive, navel jewel or no navel jewel.

She set down the glass and closed her eyes. Truthfully, it was just as well Craig wasn’t here at this specific moment, because she just didn’t feel all that seductive. She felt…confused.

George had been…funny. Charlie’s face when he was fibbing over that phone call had also been funny. But her sense of humor seemed to have temporarily deserted her. She felt oddly disturbed, not able to pinpoint any exact source of worry, but just feeling it, as she’d felt after Craig’s one-sided lovemaking the night before.

As far as George and the investigator went, she knew Craig was acting out of love for her. He wanted to care for her and protect her and ensure that nothing like the Chicago incident ever happened to her again.

For that, she loved him.

But for the moment, all of it was just bringing back to the forefront of her mind the incident she’d been trying so hard to forget. She couldn’t possibly live her life looking over her shoulder for someone to attack her; she didn’t want to and she wouldn’t. She’d worked it all through weeks ago. Crime was real; insane people who liked to hurt others were real…The attack had shaken her world. And for the first week, she had been looking over her shoulder…but no more. The door was locked at night now, but she wasn’t going to stop smiling at the gas-station attendant just because she didn’t really know him all that well; she wasn’t about to avoid going anywhere out of fear. She refused to live that way; she refused to be afraid any longer…

She opened her eyes and glanced at the clock again. Ten. A creak sounded from the living room, and she jumped. Darn it, it was just a night sound; she knew that.

Craig, would you kindly come home and make love to me? she thought irritably. You have no idea how fast that kind of nonsensical reaction would disappear if you, my overprotective husband, would put the whole thing out of your mind as well.

The clock edged toward ten-fifteen, and still there was only silence. Sonia took one last sip of wine and closed her eyes.

Craig wandered through the dark hall and paused in the doorway to their bedroom. The dresser lamp radiated faint yellow circles that did not quite reach the bed. Sonia was sleeping, her cheek nestled against the pillow with her palm beneath it. His eyes darkened just at the look of her.

She was lying on her side, uncovered but for the green gown, one knee bent forward, her free arm thrown back, her lips slightly parted. His brows narrowed fractionally as he noticed an odd, hard, glistening object on her stomach, and he tiptoed forward.

His lips twitched as he removed the green glass jewel from her navel. What if it had cut her? Silently, he placed the stone on the bedside table, then straightened to tug off his tie, his eyes still on his wife, glancing once at the glass of wine by his side of the bed.

A blind man could have figured out what the lady had in mind. Sonia was a little blind herself if she thought she needed any tricks to make him want her.

Tugging off the rest of his clothes, he flicked off the dresser lamp and came to her in the darkness. She didn’t stir when he gently lifted her to curl back the covers and tuck her into them. He fitted her close against him, heard her groggy murmur of approval and whispered to her firmly to go back to sleep.

She did.

But he couldn’t. With her head in the cradle of his shoulder and his arm around her, he stared hard and unseeing into the darkness, and after a time he reached for the glass of wine.