withholding the final gift.
“Now,” she whispered. “Please.”
When the flood came, it engulfed us both. We surfaced in a quiet pool, spent and out of breath. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys,” I teased. She was suddenly subdued. “There’s only been one other,” she said. “He’s never been this good. Ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I drew her into my arms, cradling her head on my shoulder. “Are you going to shut up and go to sleep? It’s late. The desk clerk is coming for the goddamn roll-away at eight in the morning.”
“I’ll be quiet,” she said. “I promise.”
She snuggled against me. We lay like that for a long time. Her breathing steadied and slowed. I listened as her heart beat next to mine, a thud followed by a smaller echo. Deliberately I tried to slow my breathing, hoping to God I wouldn’t snore.
Time passed slowly. I stared, sleepless, at the empty space above the ed, wondering how long it takes to learn to sleep double in a double bed, to misquote a familiar song. Probably a long time. “Beau?”
“What now?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Sleep like this. I don’t know how to sleep with anyone but Darrell. ” I pulled her to me, holding her for a moment in a crushing bear hug. I kissed the top of her forehead, then shoved her playfully toward the other side of the bed. “Go sleep over there, then, spoilsport. ” “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand.”
And I did understand. Ginger Watkins had been caught up in the need to know she was still alive-a normal phenomenon in the aftermath of death, an instinctive affirmation of survival. If I hadn’t been there, she would have found someone else. I just got lucky.
Chapter 8
THE telephone jarred me awake at seven. “Detective Beaumont? Darrell Watkins is on the phone. He wants to speak to Mrs. Watkins. Should I put him through?”
I felt the unaccustomed warmth of a body snuggled close to mine. It took time to clear my head. I turned, and Ginger stirred, nestling comfortably against me. She had evidently moved there in the middle of the night, our sleeping bodies overcoming our conscious objections. “Sure, that’s fine,” I said into the phone.
With a noisy clatter I fumbled the phone back into place. “Ginger. Wake up. You’ve got a call.”
Her eyes opened and focused on mine with a look of startled dismay. The phone rang again before she could say anything. I handed it to her. “Hello?” Ginger said, her voice still thick with sleep. “Oh, hello Darrell. ” There was a long silence as she listened to what he had to say. Meanwhile, I lay naked under the covers, considering the best way to get to the bathroom while maintaining some degree of modesty. “No.
I haven’t changed my mind,” she said firmly. That galvanized me to action. I had no intention of eavesdropping on her domestic conversation. I groped on the floor, found the discarded roll-away sheet, and wrapped it around me. With clean clothes from the closet, I withdrew into the bathroom and took a bracing hot shower.
The water pounded me. Despite lack of sleep, I was invigorated, stimulated. Exhaustion, my constant companion for months, dissolved. I was incredibly happy, except for one small cloud on my horizon. Ginger might be remorseful.
I didn’t want guilt or regret to tarnish what had happened between us, even if it was nothing more than the survivor’s timehonored, near-death screwing syndrome. Maybe that’s all it had been for Ginger, but not for me. It had reawakened J. P. Beaumont’s lost libido.
I was glad to have the old boy back.
Humming under my breath, I emerged from the bathroom. Ginger sat on her side of the bed with her legs tucked under her. She was wearing the lush silk robe.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Do you always sing in the shower?”
“Only when I’m happy,” I told her.
“I see.”
I looked at her, trying to
“Now,” she whispered. “Please.”
When the flood came, it engulfed us both. We surfaced in a quiet pool, spent and out of breath. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys,” I teased. She was suddenly subdued. “There’s only been one other,” she said. “He’s never been this good. Ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I drew her into my arms, cradling her head on my shoulder. “Are you going to shut up and go to sleep? It’s late. The desk clerk is coming for the goddamn roll-away at eight in the morning.”
“I’ll be quiet,” she said. “I promise.”
She snuggled against me. We lay like that for a long time. Her breathing steadied and slowed. I listened as her heart beat next to mine, a thud followed by a smaller echo. Deliberately I tried to slow my breathing, hoping to God I wouldn’t snore.
Time passed slowly. I stared, sleepless, at the empty space above the ed, wondering how long it takes to learn to sleep double in a double bed, to misquote a familiar song. Probably a long time. “Beau?”
“What now?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Sleep like this. I don’t know how to sleep with anyone but Darrell. ” I pulled her to me, holding her for a moment in a crushing bear hug. I kissed the top of her forehead, then shoved her playfully toward the other side of the bed. “Go sleep over there, then, spoilsport. ” “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand.”
And I did understand. Ginger Watkins had been caught up in the need to know she was still alive-a normal phenomenon in the aftermath of death, an instinctive affirmation of survival. If I hadn’t been there, she would have found someone else. I just got lucky.
Chapter 8
THE telephone jarred me awake at seven. “Detective Beaumont? Darrell Watkins is on the phone. He wants to speak to Mrs. Watkins. Should I put him through?”
I felt the unaccustomed warmth of a body snuggled close to mine. It took time to clear my head. I turned, and Ginger stirred, nestling comfortably against me. She had evidently moved there in the middle of the night, our sleeping bodies overcoming our conscious objections. “Sure, that’s fine,” I said into the phone.
With a noisy clatter I fumbled the phone back into place. “Ginger. Wake up. You’ve got a call.”
Her eyes opened and focused on mine with a look of startled dismay. The phone rang again before she could say anything. I handed it to her. “Hello?” Ginger said, her voice still thick with sleep. “Oh, hello Darrell. ” There was a long silence as she listened to what he had to say. Meanwhile, I lay naked under the covers, considering the best way to get to the bathroom while maintaining some degree of modesty. “No.
I haven’t changed my mind,” she said firmly. That galvanized me to action. I had no intention of eavesdropping on her domestic conversation. I groped on the floor, found the discarded roll-away sheet, and wrapped it around me. With clean clothes from the closet, I withdrew into the bathroom and took a bracing hot shower.
The water pounded me. Despite lack of sleep, I was invigorated, stimulated. Exhaustion, my constant companion for months, dissolved. I was incredibly happy, except for one small cloud on my horizon. Ginger might be remorseful.
I didn’t want guilt or regret to tarnish what had happened between us, even if it was nothing more than the survivor’s timehonored, near-death screwing syndrome. Maybe that’s all it had been for Ginger, but not for me. It had reawakened J. P. Beaumont’s lost libido.
I was glad to have the old boy back.
Humming under my breath, I emerged from the bathroom. Ginger sat on her side of the bed with her legs tucked under her. She was wearing the lush silk robe.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Do you always sing in the shower?”
“Only when I’m happy,” I told her.
“I see.”
I looked at her, trying to
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