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I pulled off Jack's boots and socks, wiping off his wet cold feet with a hot washcloth and drying them vigorously with a towel. But I left him to remove his own jeans. I went outside one more time, to clean the bloody fingerprint from the post. That had been niggling at me.
It was still raining. Any other traces Jack had left would surely be obliterated.
I'd turned down the bed, and by the time I came in the room, Jack had managed to climb in and cover up. On my side. His chest was bare and it occurred to me he was most likely bare all the way down.
I'd given him one of the pain pills Carrie had left me a few months before when my ribs had been bruised. It had knocked Jack Leeds clean out, as I'd expected.
I yanked the blue nightgown off and stuffed it in the trash can. I pulled a pink one out of my dresser drawer. It was almost as pretty; I buy good nightgowns. I put the bloodstained bathrobe into my washer and set it to wash on cold; as an afterthought, I threw in Jack's damp jeans, socks, and underwear, which he'd left in a heap on the bathroom floor. Hot water would have been better for his stuff, but I couldn't stay awake for two loads. While the clothes churned through the shortest cycle, I straightened up the bathroom and set out a toothbrush, still in its wrapper. I rechecked all the locks. Then I put the washed clothes in the dryer.
When all the lights were out, I slid into bed on the wrong side. The night was silent except for the friendly sound of the tumbling dryer and the detective breathing heavily beside me, and I slept.
I opened my eyes about five-thirty, later than I usually get up. To see my clock, I had to raise myself to peer over the dark mound that was Jack. I thought I'd heard him go into the bathroom, heard the water ru
The rain was drumming on the roof again, loud enough to penetrate the comforting drone of the central heating. I made my own trip to the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth. I snuggled back down into bed, turned away from my sleeping companion. I sank into a half-doze, random thoughts floating through my head.
It was Friday. Not a good day to start back to Body Time, considering my interrupted night. Nor a good day to resume karate. But I had to work today... Deedra, the peculiar Mookie Preston, the Winthrops, another afternoon appointment ... I waited expectantly, but I couldn't summon the surge of purpose I needed to feel at the onset of the working day.
What I felt instead was a surge of hormones. Jack Leeds had woken me the night before, beating on my door. Now he was waking me in an altogether different way. Jack was stroking my back and hips. I sighed, hardly knowing if it was one of exasperation or sheer desire. But I certainly didn't feel apathetic any longer.
I knew he could tell I was awake. When I didn't speak, he scooted closer, fitting his body to mine. His hand circled around, cupped a breast, resumed the rhythmical stroking. I had to bite my lip to keep silent.
"What happened to ‘after this job is over'?" I asked finally, and my voice was more like a gasp.
"Waking up in a warm bed with a beautiful woman on a rainy day in winter"—and while he was speaking his hand never stopped—"has overcome my business instincts." His voice was breathy and low. His mouth began to deliver little sucking kisses to my neck, and I shivered. He began to ease up the pink nightgown. It was now or never. What did I want? My body was about to take over from my brain.
I turned toward him, putting up a hand to press against his chest and hold him at a little distance—I think—but at that moment his fingers slid between my legs and instead I wrapped my arm around his neck and pulled him close for a kiss. It was so dark and private in my room, like a quiet cave.
After a while, his mouth descended to cover my nipple through the nightgown. I reached down to touch him. He was swollen and ready. It was his turn to do a little moaning.
"Do you have ... ?" he asked.
I reached across him to grope in the night-table drawer for protection.
Jack began to whisper to me, telling me about what we were going to do and how it was going to feel. His hands never stopped.
"Now," I said.
"Wait a little."
I waited as long as I could. I was shaking. "Now."
And then he was in me. I arched against him, found his rhythm. My pleasure was instant, and I cried out his name.
"Again," he said in my ear, and kept on going. I tried to keep pace, once again matched him. I began urging him on, gripping him with my i
He collapsed on top of me and I put both my arms around him for the first time. I ran my hands over his back and bottom, feeling skin and muscles, planes and curves. He nuzzled my neck gently for a minute, withdrew from me, and rolled onto his back. The white gauze was spotted with red.
"Your shoulder!" I raised up on an elbow to look. My bedroom was getting a little lighter; the dark and secret cave had opened to the world.
"I don't care," he said, shaking his head from side to side on the pillow. "Someone could come in here and shoot me again, and right this moment I wouldn't care. I tried to stay away from you, tried not to think about you ... if they hadn't been so close, I wouldn't have come here, but I can't be sorry. Jesus God, Lily, that was absolutely—wonderful. No other woman... God, that was sensational."
I was shattered myself. Even more than by the physical sensations Jack had given me, I was a little frightened by the urge I had to touch him, hold him, bathe myself in him. In self-defense, I thought of all the women he'd had.
"Who are you thinking about?" He opened his eyes and stared at me. "Oh, Karen." I was frightened that he knew so much about me that he would read my face that way. His own eyes lost their glow, flattened, when he said the name Karen.
Jack Leeds had become a household reference right about the time Lily Bard had, in the same state, Te
Karen Kingsland, from her newspaper photos a sweet-faced brunette, had been sleeping with Jack for four months when catastrophe wiped out three lives. She was twenty-six years old, earning her master's degree in education from the University of Memphis. She was also the wife of another cop.
One Thursday morning, Walter Kingsland, Karen's husband, got an anonymous letter at work. A uniformed officer for ten years, he was about to go on patrol. Opening the letter, laughing about receiving it, in front of many of his friends, Walter read that Karen and Jack were having sex, and having it often. The letter, which Walter dropped to the floor as he left, was quite detailed. A friend of Jack's called Jack instantly, but he was not as quick as Walter. No one called Karen.
Walter drove home like a maniac, arriving just as Karen was leaving for class. He barricaded himself and his wife in the bedroom of their east Memphis home. Jack came in through the front door moments later, hoping to end the situation quickly and privately somehow. He had not been thinking well. He stood at the door of the bedroom and listened to Walter plead with his wife to say Jack had raped her, or that it was all a malicious lie on the part of some enemy.