Desperate to the Max (26 page)

“I want you to come. Christ, I
need
you to come.” His plea ended on a groan.

He was hot and hard against her backside. She moved with him, caressed him with her body as his fingers pushed her higher and higher. Coming wasn’t such a hard thing to do for him. Not so hard at all. She bit her lip, let another moan slip out, then gave him that special little
ooh
sound he liked so much. His fingers moved faster, dipping inside her, then back to that sweet hot bud.

He kissed her hair, her ear, her neck, and whispered things she couldn’t understand. Sensation shot up and out, then spiraled back down to the place his fingers worked her. She squeezes her thighs together around his hand, rode the feeling, and exploded with a shower of lights behind her eyelids.

Before she floated back to the bed, she gave him all the
ooh
sounds he could possibly want.

“Damn, that was so fucking good,” he murmured against her hair, his fingers still stroking the soft curls at her apex.

“You didn’t even have an orgasm.”

It took a moment for his answer. “You don’t really know what I need, do you?”

Never were truer words spoken. She was afraid to know. She made a move, maybe to get out of bed, maybe to put a little distance between them.

He clamped his arm around her waist and held her to him. “Don’t go. Stay.” His breath fanned her nape. “Sleep with me.”

She held her breath, closed her eyes, opened her mouth to say yes, yes, and yes.

“Sleep with me ‘cause I’m so fucking tired right now I can’t think straight.”

Just like that, he was out.

She lay awake another half hour, the clean scent of him in her nostrils, the rhythm of his breath against her hair, and the fear in her chest that one day soon he’d get tired of playing the game her way.

When he did, he’d leave.

* * * * *

Witt had been gone when Max woke at seven, though God only knew how he’d managed to get out of the twin bed without waking her. The man seemed to thrive on two-hour cat naps.

There’d been a note on her desk, a choppy scrawl that emulated his speech. “Call me when you find that rolling pin.” When, as if he had no doubt she’d find it. He’d signed with three X’s and three O’s, no name. It was endearing. She’d felt herself sink an inch deeper in the quicksand she’d fallen into the day she met him.

Now here she was once again on Garden Street. Dinner time. Bud Traynor’s sleek white Cadillac sat curbside. She’d been watching it for ten minutes. As if she expected it to turn into a pumpkin she could squash with the wheels of her car. A snake that would slither down the drain. As if he might walk out of that house and drive away.

Her feelings about him were ambivalent, to say the least. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t absolutely, positively terrified of the guy. Going into that house, with Traynor inside, was akin to giving your first speech in a filled-to-capacity eighteen-hundred-seat auditorium. You knew you had to do it, that you would do it, that nothing really bad could possibly happen to you in there, that it was all in your head because this wasn’t a viper pit, and yet you were so scared, you knew you’d choke on the first word that came out of your mouth. With Traynor, she might indeed choke on every word.

“Why are you so afraid?” Cameron whispered inside her head. She ignored him because she didn’t have an answer. Because she knew he did, and he’d force her to see it, too. She really hated it when he shoved her face in things she didn’t want to see.

She also knew Bud Traynor was in that house to have dinner, and he wasn’t going to leave.

Which meant at some point she’d have to face her fear head on. Tonight, tomorrow, next week. Some day. One day. She’d have to face him.

Ladybird Long’s front door opened as Max climbed from her car.

“Oh my dear, you look lovely,” the little lady called.

Max wore another new outfit. She was getting downright high-maintenance after two years wearing black slacks and blazers. This get-up had a split skirt and reached to mid-calf, olive green with small leaves and tropical flowers. She wasn’t the flower type, but the small white buds had appealed to her when she saw the ensemble in a shop window.

“Thank you, Ladybird.” She walked through the open gate and down the path. Okay, so a few minutes with Witt’s mom was another way to avoid the inevitable.

Ladybird stepped off the porch and reached for Max’s arm. “Now, my dear, I must tell you, DeWitt’s on the war path about our little impromptu visit to the Springs.” Max opened her mouth, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Ladybird. “I talked to him yesterday and told him it was all my idea. That way he can’t be mad at you. I’m used to his crankiness, so I can take it. Now you remember to follow along.”

“I already saw him. I told him it was my idea. We’ve got him perfectly off balance. We should leave him that way, don’t you think?”

Ladybird’s eyes twinkled and her hair glistened in the last of the afternoon light. “Oh my, he has met his match.” She patted Max’s arm. “Now off with you to your dinner.”

Max smiled, did a half turn, gave Ladybird Long a quick wave, and stopped dead in the path. “What did you say?”

“Have a nice dinner.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t talked to Witt today?” Not in so many words. Yet Witt must have told her.

“I haven’t talked to him.”

Okay, so ... “How did you know about dinner?” Goodness, it was Jada, of course, or Virginia.

“Horace told me.”

Then again, Ladybird’s dead husband was a likely candidate. “Ah, Horace.”

The tiny woman’s perpetual smile faded. “You say that just like Witt does. I would have expected more from you, Max.”

“I’m sorry. I always look for the logical answer first and forget sometimes it’s not the simplest one.”

“There’s something else.” Ladybird took two steps down the path toward Max. “Horace says I’m to help you.”

Max almost choked. “Over Witt’s dead body.”

“Yes, well, sometimes the things that boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I think you’ve already done enough by introducing me to Virginia. Let’s not push our luck.”

“No, Horace says it’s very important. Something I must do for you.”

“What is that something?” Max eyed her warily, the sun now setting over the house behind them.

“Well, he was quite vague. He said it wasn’t today, maybe tomorrow, and that he’d let me know when the time came.”

“I think we need something a little more concrete than that, don’t you?”

“Oh, well, he said your Cameron was the one who told him to give me the message.”

“Oh God.” She’d created a monster in Ladybird. It was one thing to think
she
talked to Cameron, quite another to know someone else was doing it, too. Even after all these years, there was a certain amount of comfort in believing she was crazy.

“There was one more thing.”

Max hated to ask. “What?”

“Horace said it had to do with finding the rolling pin. Whatever that means.”

Chapter Thirty-One

All Max wanted was to bring a few bowls in from the warming oven. Or carry away a few dirty plates. She’d even wash dishes. She’d do anything for a chance to search Virginia Spring’s kitchen for the rolling pin that even Horace Long believed was there. She’d do anything to get out of this madhouse faster. O-U-T, out. These people were driving her crazy.

They were too damn polite about it, too. “No, Max, let Jada do that.”

“Please, Max, sit, we’ll take care of everything.”

No one would let her lift a finger.

She also couldn’t figure out why the hell Jada Spring had invited her. It certainly wasn’t the need for a friend or an advocate. Jada had said but two words to her since she’d arrived. Not that it mattered. She was here, in the house, and that was all she’d really wanted for the moment. If she couldn’t find the rolling pin, then she’d go back to the original plan of breaking through Jada’s guard.

Virginia had placed her on Traynor’s right—her skin did the proverbial crawl whenever he spoke. Opposite was Jada, closest to the kitchen door. Virginia, seated on Max’s right, furrowed through a deep bowl of mashed potatoes and ladled a heap onto Jada’s plate, serving her as she would a child. Jada’s eyes tracked the movement of the spoon. Anorexics were obsessed with food. Most people didn’t understand that. Most people believed anorexics didn’t even think about eating. Most people didn’t realize that self-induced starvation was the ultimate in control, the suppression of millions of years of instinct
and
the conquest of an obsession.

Max’s mouth watered as she followed the spoon’s progress. Real mashed potatoes with rivers of melted butter. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had real mashed potatoes. Bethany had adored them, sometimes making a whole meal out of them. So white and fluffy, they reminded Max of when she was a little girl, of her mother letting her mash them, the hours they spent in the kitchen together, cooking, creating, just being ... They reminded Bethany of happier times, too.

“So you, see, Max,” Virginia’s voice popped her out of her reverie. Handing the potatoes off to her guest in favor of a silver tray of carrots, Virginia barely missed a beat. “We simply couldn’t be at Wendy’s funeral. Jada was too ill, and I had to be near her at the hospital in Napa. She needed me.”

Jada pressed her lips together at the invocation of her name.

“You sound defensive, Virginia,” Bud was ever so quick to point out. “Max was merely making polite conversation, not throwing out accusations.”

Max’s lip threatened to curl. She could make her own damn excuses for her own damn ill-mannered behavior. She didn’t need that man to help her out. Had she known he was going to be here ... ah, hell, she’d have come anyway. She needed answers. She wasn’t accusing Virginia. She only wanted confirmation on why the woman hadn’t attended Wendy’s service.

“I want Max to understand,” Virginia said, pinch-lipped.

Max took a spoon of potatoes, then passed them on to Bud, careful not to touch him. The argument continued.

“Isn’t it enough to know
I
understand why you weren’t at my daughter’s funeral?” Bud paused meaningfully, meeting Virginia’s gaze. “You can be sure I’ll be there for you at Bethany’s service tomorrow.” The words could be taken either way, but his tone had the right amount of rebuke.

Virginia’s face flushed. She threw a spoonful of carrots onto Jada’s plate hard enough to splash the juice across the pristine mound of potatoes.

Jada smiled, enjoying every second of the little tussle. Bud handed her the bowl of potatoes. Licking her lips and swallowing as if she could taste the butter on her tongue, Jada scooped away three-quarters of the mound Virginia had heaped in the center of her plate and threw them back in the bowl. She looked at Bud, tilted her head, and said sweetly, “I think all Max was saying was that she was sorry she didn’t meet us back then, Mother.”

Was that Jada coming to her defense? The undercurrents flowing were killer, subtle, indefinable, and imperceptible to someone not looking for them. It wasn’t what they said. It was the brittle tones, the hesitations before answering, the pursed lips, deep sighs, narrowed eyes, sly smiles, and glances that passed between them. Virginia to Bud, Bud to Jada. The occasional odd movement of the tablecloth as if someone was doing something beneath the table, something secretive. Something beguiling.

And Bud sitting like a king in a house that wasn’t his own.

Max wondered why she couldn’t even begin to read these people. Maybe it was the food obsession they all seemed to have. Maybe it was Bethany who didn’t want to try. She was too close.

Virginia, passing the carrots, started on the plate of London Broil. She took a deep breath as she served, gave a little shake of her head, and came back into the conversation. “You’re all misunderstanding me. I only wanted to—” She stopped after spearing four pieces of meat for Jada’s meal. “Oh, never mind. Let’s talk about something else. Did Jada tell you she’s going back to college?” Virginia could have been asking anyone. A very neat deflection. She was good, very good. “She wants to learn shorthand and be a secretary.”

Max wondered what the girl had majored in the first time. Starvation?

“Mother, nobody even uses shorthand anymore. And they aren’t called secretaries. They’re administrative aides.” The carrots having made their way back to her, Jada divested her plate of most of the pile her mother had forced on her.

Virginia tut-tutted. “Well, you certainly don’t hear it called Administrative Aides’ Day. It’s Secretaries’ Day.”

Jada rolled her eyes.

Max took two pieces of the too-red meat, then added another at Virginia’s gasped, “Oh my dear, please, you must have more than that.” Bethany had loved London Broil, loved it rare. She’d loved the little baby carrots, too, just like this, smothered in butter and brown sugar. Max barely stopped herself from groaning aloud as the seasoned scent of the meat wafted up into her face.

All she wanted to do now was close her eyes, savor the food, the sweet taste on her tongue, and drown out the arguing. Shut out the bad and relish only the good. That’s all Bethany had ever wanted. That and to be loved.

God, there she was falling into Bethany’s fantasies again. Max passed the plate on. Traynor’s fingers brushed hers along the bottom of the serving dish. Her jaw tightened. He smiled with just his lips, challenging with a glint in his eye. Her teeth ached with keeping her mouth shut. She wanted nothing more than to slap him down. He’d been pulling that kind of shit all night. Handing her a glass. Sitting next to her on the sofa. Helping her into her chair. Such a gentleman. Such an asshole. He was doing too damn good a job of getting to her.

“You’ll learn the computer then,” Virginia, buttering a roll, went on making her plans for Jada as if there’d been no lull in the conversation. “Everyone needs to know how to use a computer these days. There’s so many careers out there if you’ve got computer skills.”

“
You
don’t how to use one,” Jada said, short of a sneer.