same
feeling she got so many times when the phone rang and she knew it
was Thornton ... prayed it was Thornton.
The first time they made love it had been raw lust. They'd had
lunch on occasion, flirted in the hallways, elevators, and stairwells at
work. Then he'd asked her to meet him for a drink one evening. They
met in a hotel bar near SNN and within twenty minutes they were
tearing each other's clothes off in a hotel room eighteen stories above
Broadway. After three clandestine meetings, the first hint of affection
finally entered into their lovemaking. But that vanished quickly on
Thornton's part, while she still yearned for the gentleness, the sweetness, the love in lovemaking. It became evident he only wanted sex.
Nothing more. He denied her accusation, saying it was because they
only had those few stolen moments, and she aroused him so much ...
Cotten wanted to believe him, but almost every time, as soon as they
finished-he finished-he'd leave, take his limo home to his wife
Cheryl while Cotten lay in the rumpled sheets, in the dark, and cried.
She'd been a fool to think anything would ever change. A stint in Iraq
was supposed to make her forget.
Now it started all over again-his voice brooding and full of sincerity. His words full of promises. How could she detest what she
craved? It made no sense. She drank the poison because she loved the
taste.
Cotten glanced toward the kitchen. She could see the stove. The
box was just one more pebble in her shoe.
Picking up the phone, she dialed Thornton's cell. She almost
hoped that maybe he'd be home with his wife and wouldn't pick up.
"Hello," he answered.
"Hi," she said, almost in a whisper.
"Oh, thank God." His voice was urgent. "I've been going out of
my mind. I have to see you."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Please, Cotten. We need to talk. I've made a decision."
There was a long pause.
"Let me guess. You're going to leave her."
"Yes."
Cotten didn't respond. This wasn't a new tune.
"I know I've said it before. This time I mean it."
"Thornton, don't. I'm emotionally exhausted."
"I know I haven't been fair. Just let me see you. Please. You won't
regret it."
I already do, she thought.
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she said, "All right," flinching even
as the words came out. It was going to be the same old pattern.
They'd meet. They'd talk. They'd have sex. It didn't matter what he
promised.
"Can you meet me?"
Cotten slumped into the couch cushions. "When?"
"I'm working late, but I'll finish up and get out of here in an
hour."
She hung up without answering.
They had often met at Giovanni's in the past-a small out-of-theway restaurant about ten blocks from her apartment. It reminded her of the one in The Godfather where Michael Corleone committed
murder for the first time. Cotten didn't know which of her sins was
worse, adultery or stupidity.
When she entered Giovanni's, the head waiter greeted her. "Good
evening, Ms. Stone. Mr. Graham is waiting." He led her to a table in
the back.
Prints of the old country covered the walls, along with empty
Chianti bottles and plastic flowers.
"Cotten," Thornton said, standing and taking her in his arms.
"God, I'm glad you came." He tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
"Hello, Thornton." She slipped into the chair across from him.
He took her hands in his and rested them on top of the table. "I
was crazy with worry. Ted told me all about your escape from Iraq.
You're a lucky lady."
"In some respects."
"So how was it?" Thornton asked. "Did you get the story you
wanted?"
"Most of it. It's running tomorrow night."
"I know," Thornton said, squeezing her hands. "I previewed it
before leaving work. You did an outstanding job." He paused. "Ted
told me you got upset and rushed out of your edit yesterday. He said
he tried to call you all day today, but you weren't home. They had to
do the edit without you. What happened, sweetheart?"
"Nothing really," she said. "I
feeling she got so many times when the phone rang and she knew it
was Thornton ... prayed it was Thornton.
The first time they made love it had been raw lust. They'd had
lunch on occasion, flirted in the hallways, elevators, and stairwells at
work. Then he'd asked her to meet him for a drink one evening. They
met in a hotel bar near SNN and within twenty minutes they were
tearing each other's clothes off in a hotel room eighteen stories above
Broadway. After three clandestine meetings, the first hint of affection
finally entered into their lovemaking. But that vanished quickly on
Thornton's part, while she still yearned for the gentleness, the sweetness, the love in lovemaking. It became evident he only wanted sex.
Nothing more. He denied her accusation, saying it was because they
only had those few stolen moments, and she aroused him so much ...
Cotten wanted to believe him, but almost every time, as soon as they
finished-he finished-he'd leave, take his limo home to his wife
Cheryl while Cotten lay in the rumpled sheets, in the dark, and cried.
She'd been a fool to think anything would ever change. A stint in Iraq
was supposed to make her forget.
Now it started all over again-his voice brooding and full of sincerity. His words full of promises. How could she detest what she
craved? It made no sense. She drank the poison because she loved the
taste.
Cotten glanced toward the kitchen. She could see the stove. The
box was just one more pebble in her shoe.
Picking up the phone, she dialed Thornton's cell. She almost
hoped that maybe he'd be home with his wife and wouldn't pick up.
"Hello," he answered.
"Hi," she said, almost in a whisper.
"Oh, thank God." His voice was urgent. "I've been going out of
my mind. I have to see you."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Please, Cotten. We need to talk. I've made a decision."
There was a long pause.
"Let me guess. You're going to leave her."
"Yes."
Cotten didn't respond. This wasn't a new tune.
"I know I've said it before. This time I mean it."
"Thornton, don't. I'm emotionally exhausted."
"I know I haven't been fair. Just let me see you. Please. You won't
regret it."
I already do, she thought.
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she said, "All right," flinching even
as the words came out. It was going to be the same old pattern.
They'd meet. They'd talk. They'd have sex. It didn't matter what he
promised.
"Can you meet me?"
Cotten slumped into the couch cushions. "When?"
"I'm working late, but I'll finish up and get out of here in an
hour."
She hung up without answering.
They had often met at Giovanni's in the past-a small out-of-theway restaurant about ten blocks from her apartment. It reminded her of the one in The Godfather where Michael Corleone committed
murder for the first time. Cotten didn't know which of her sins was
worse, adultery or stupidity.
When she entered Giovanni's, the head waiter greeted her. "Good
evening, Ms. Stone. Mr. Graham is waiting." He led her to a table in
the back.
Prints of the old country covered the walls, along with empty
Chianti bottles and plastic flowers.
"Cotten," Thornton said, standing and taking her in his arms.
"God, I'm glad you came." He tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
"Hello, Thornton." She slipped into the chair across from him.
He took her hands in his and rested them on top of the table. "I
was crazy with worry. Ted told me all about your escape from Iraq.
You're a lucky lady."
"In some respects."
"So how was it?" Thornton asked. "Did you get the story you
wanted?"
"Most of it. It's running tomorrow night."
"I know," Thornton said, squeezing her hands. "I previewed it
before leaving work. You did an outstanding job." He paused. "Ted
told me you got upset and rushed out of your edit yesterday. He said
he tried to call you all day today, but you weren't home. They had to
do the edit without you. What happened, sweetheart?"
"Nothing really," she said. "I
Similar Books
