Dirty (26 page)

He tensed.
 
Bucked hard against me.
 
Groaned like he was dying.
 
I bit my bottom lip to hold back a cry of desperation as my own muscles contracted violently.
 
He bucked twice more then went slack beneath me.

My head dropped onto his shoulder.
 
His arms fell against me.
 
My body throbbed with completion and I closed my eyes and surrendered to the exhaustion.
 
Couldn’t think anymore...

Too tired...shouldn’t have...

I needed to breathe more deeply...couldn’t...needed to stay awake...couldn’t...

Then I relaxed...stopped fighting it...

Cool air whirled around my sweat dampened body.
 
I groaned...hugged myself.
 
Shivered.

“Jackie!”

I could hear Hobbs’ voice but it sounded far away.

Hands pulled at me.
 
Friend or foe...I couldn’t tell but I had no strength to fight or flee.
 
Couldn’t even open my eyes.

Suddenly I was on my back staring up at the stars in the night sky.
 
Where was I?

How did I get here?

“Wake up, Jackie!
 
You’re okay now.
 
Open your eyes, girl,” Hobbs ordered.

“Dawson?”
 
My voice sounded strained...weak.

“Don’t worry, he’s still alive.”

Hobbs leaned closer.
 
“What happened?”

Lacking the focus or wherewithal, or maybe both, to speak I remained mute.
 
I felt as if I’d had the hell beat out of me in addition to going on a week-long drinking binge.
 
Somehow I dredged up the power to rotate my head toward movement in my peripheral vision.
 
Two men I didn’t immediately recognize were attempting to bring Dawson around.

Recognition kicked in belatedly.

Ben and Jerry.

Dawson and I owed our lives to Hobbs’ gay posse.

“Jackie.”

I managed to turn my head back to look at Hobbs.
 
“Hmmm?”

“Who’s the dead woman we found buried with you?”
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Somewhere during my unauthorized sexual education, between Harlequin romance novels read under the sheets with a flashlight and the stories my girlfriends told about back seat romps with various high school sports hunks, I remember hearing the orgasm called the
mini-death
.

I’d never actually thought of it that way, but I knew better now.
 
Admittedly, mine and Dawson’s experience was more likely connected to oxygen deprivation rather than orgasm, still the concept crossed my mind.

We’d scarcely looked each other in the eye afterwards, especially considering the police had arrived immediately following our rescue and we were both busy trying to figure out where the dead woman had come from.
 
Her body had been dumped into the grave, along with the dirt, on top of us.
 
The next few hours had been spent with Nance.
 
He’d barely allowed the paramedics to look us over before he grilled us with questions we couldn’t answer.
 
I was a bit shaken and bruised and Dawson had a lump on the back of his head.
 
Otherwise we were fine.

The conclusion was that we’d stumbled upon the perps in the act of concealing a homicide.
 
I barely restrained a
ya think
?
 
Since we couldn’t identify any of the men involved in our attack, which had clearly been a set-up but we couldn’t tell Nance that, Dawson and I were free to go home after giving our statements.

Dawson hadn’t shown up at the office until noon.
 
He’d gone straight to his own corner, I’d stayed in mine.
 
Obviously neither of us wanted to face the other.
 
Hobbs had talked to Alita who had been appalled at the story of what took place in that cemetery.
 
She’d apologized over and over for being someone’s stupid pigeon.
 
Hobbs explained that the term was stool pigeon or patsy, but I’m not sure she comprehended the difference.

Though I felt confident that Dawson and I had been set up, there was still the remote possibility that we might very well have stumbled upon something simpler, totally unrelated to Disposable.
 
But I doubted it.
 
Or maybe I was simply obsessed with the whole business.

Even now, two full hours after I’d left the office for the day, I wanted to wince each time I thought about last night’s close call.

I shoved the final pin into place that would secure my French twist for the evening.
 
Color rose in my cheeks every time I allowed my mind to wander back there—which was about every two minutes.
 
I told myself I wouldn’t have let things get out of hand if I hadn’t been nearly certain I would die and not have to face the consequences.

Wrong.

I’d been attracted to Dawson from the moment I laid eyes on him.
 
Why deny it?
 
I made a promise to myself that I would keep our relationship professional.
 
Had to keep my personal life and my work life separate.
 
Nevertheless I had come as close to failure as I was willing to own up to.
 
It was as basic as that.
 
Granted I had extenuating circumstances to blame for my transgression, but the end result was the same: I had crossed the line.

Thank God we hadn’t kissed.

It sounded dumb, I know.
 
But somehow I consoled myself with the idea that our lips hadn’t met.
 
Our bodies hadn’t even touched.
 
Not really.
 
Layers of clothing had separated the whole naughty business.

I would hold onto that token consolation and pretend it hadn’t actually been sex.
 
My gaze narrowed as I stared at my reflection.
 
That might be stretching it a little, but if it made me feel better I could look at it that way.
 
Hookers did it all the time.

Denial was a significant part of modern day survival.

The telephone rang, dragging my troubling thoughts back to earth and reality.

It was Friday night.

The blind date.

The bane of a single woman’s existence.

I stepped into my Christian Louboutins and reached for the phone.
 
Whether the date was a total washout or not, I didn’t want to have any regrets on my part.
 
I didn’t like taking the blame for failure.
 
Did I mention I had a few obsessive-compulsive tendencies?

As a safety net I’d selected my Jade dress.
 
There was no going wrong with this dress.
 
It hugged every curve.
 
Complimented my figure as if it had been designed specifically as a smokescreen for my particular flaws.
 
The silky fabric caressed my skin in a way that even turned me on.

“Mercer.”

“Before you give me a piece of your mind, let me explain.”

Mom.

“Hey.”
 
Then I remembered that we’d missed having lunch together yesterday and I’d ignored her call last night while otherwise occupied at the cemetery.

“An emergency meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary came up. I completely forgot our date. Hope you didn’t wait around for me.”

I smoothed a hand over my dress.
 
Yep, I looked killer in this one.
 
“That’s okay,” I assured her.
 
“As a matter of fact I forgot too.
 
Got caught up in something at the office.”
 
I frowned.
 
“Didn’t you get my message?”

“Hells bells, I guess I forgot to check my machine.”

Worry nudged at me.
 
Alzheimer and a number of other ailments with memory loss as a primary symptom zoomed through my mind.
 
My mother enjoyed great health but I still worried.

“I should have taken a nap this afternoon,” she said by way of explanation.
 
“Those damned broads kept me up half the night.
 
I’m still not firing on all cylinders.”

I could accept that.
 
Whenever I didn’t get enough sleep I forgot plenty myself.

“I know what you mean.
 
Was your meeting with the ladies productive?”
 
I analyzed my reflection in the full-length mirror once more.
 
I didn’t look half bad for a woman who’d spent a portion of last night buried in a coffin.

“My word, look at the time.
 
Gotta go, dear.
 
I’ll see you on Sunday.”

A distinctive click punctuated the end of the call.

I stared at the receiver for several moments.
 
Was she giving me the kiss off or what?
 
She’d definitely avoided my question.
 
But why?

Before I could ponder the question too much the phone rang again.

“What’re you wearing?”

It was a good thing I recognized Donna’s voice or I could have mistaken the call for a lesbian heavy breather.

“The Jade dress and
the
stilettoes,” I said.
 
“And hello to you too.”

“Sorry.
 
You know how I get before a blind date.”

How she got?
 
It was my blind date.
 
One that I’d just as soon forget by the way.

“What about perfume?”

“That’s none of your business,” I said flatly.
 
I knew what she was doing.
 
Trying to gauge my excitement level.
 
I didn’t bother telling her that after last night’s near-death experience I wasn’t sure anything could excite me ever again.

“You’ll like Tony,” she went on, choosing to ignore the jab.
 
“He’s irresistible.
 
A real pro at laying on the charm.”

I felt my eyes narrowing in suspicion.
 
Why the sales pitch?
 
This date was about distraction.
 
Nothing else.
 
No need to sell me on the gentleman, we weren’t picking out china patterns.

Two consecutive beeps informed me that I had another call.
 
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.
 
Gotta go.”
 
Before she could argue I stabbed flash.
 
“Mercer.”

“Are you wearing the Jade dress?”

Shari.

I rolled my eyes.
 
“Yes.”

We went through the steps.
 
Yes, Tony was supposed to be great.
 
Yes, the Jade dress did wonders for my figure.

With a promise to tell her everything tomorrow, Shari was off to ready for her own date—with the yoga instructor who could stand on his head during intercourse or something like that.

I dabbed on a little Escada and checked my teeth for signs of lipstick.

“This is as good as it gets,” I told my reflection.

Maybe it was just the dress but my ass didn’t look as wide today.
 
Maybe I’d sweated off a few pounds in that faux silk-lined box last night.
 
I checked a rear view then a side angle.
 
Definitely thinner.

I made a sound of approval and wondered if I should patent the idea.
 
If being buried for under an hour three times per week could help people lose weight I could get rich.
 
Course I’d probably get sued the first time someone failed to follow directions and ended up losing more than a few pounds.

I headed for the living room just as the doorbell chimed.
 
Was that perfect timing or what?
 
I might even manage to escape before Mary Jane got around to calling.
 
I knew her spiel by heart.
 
If you must have sex, use a condom.
 
Two if he’s wearing both boots and a hat
.

Striding to the door with all the confidence provided by my favorite dress and having recently enjoyed an orgasm, however unorthodox the method, I pasted on a smile that took no effort at all.

Said smile drooped into a floor dragging frown when I opened the door to find Special Agent Terrence Brooks loitering there.

“May I have a minute of your time?” he asked, far too politely for my comfort.

“Are you asking?” I tossed back.
 
If so, that was a change, he generally plowed head first into my life and didn’t bother with formality or social etiquette at all.

“This is important, Mercer,” he pressed, his usually indifferent expression looking utterly sincere.