Every Wickedness (9 page)

She cleared her throat, looked at her wineglass, nearly full, and wished for Evian. She watched Jordan deftly manoeuvre his chopsticks and lift tiny kernels of rice to his mouth. He was faring much better than she, her hands suddenly feeling like they had ten thumbs.

“I can see why the Japanese stay so slim,” Beth said. “Half my food is on the rug,” She made a hopeless gesture with her chopsticks.

“Their carpet beetles are enormous, though. Wipe an entire village right off the map.” He smiled again. “Allow me.”

Skillfully, Jordan wedged a tender piece of salmon between the chopsticks and raised the morsel to her lips. She chewed slowly, knowing she was blushing, and hoping, in the semi-darkness of the room, he couldn’t tell.

“There,” he said softly. “Good?”

She nodded.

His face was close to hers. “Now your turn.”

Beth took the chopsticks from his hands, their fingertips brushing. “Maybe yours are lucky.”

She managed to trap a piece of salmon and was about to lower her mouth to the food when Jordan said, “No. Here.” He pointed to his mouth. She watched as his tongue flicked out to receive the food.

They went on that way for awhile, eating some, dropping some, Beth readjusting her grip on the chopsticks between fits of nervous laughter. “Much better,” Jordan said when they’d had enough. “See? Practice helps.”

“That holds true for a lot of things,” Beth said, then bit her lip. “Sorry. That sounded coy and silly. Must have been the wine talking.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Jordan picked up a chopstick. “You’ve hardly had any.” He traced a line down the deep V of her dress.

She shivered. “How did you know about me, Jordan? What brought you to my store?”

“More questions?”

“This is it. I promise.”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Try me.”

“I saw you eating breakfast in the café down the street from your shop.”

“Beyond Expectations?”

He nodded. “I was having coffee, saw you, rehearsed a thousand lines in my head, but they all sounded ridiculous. Just when I’d decided to ask you
if you were finished with the newspaper, you got up and left. So,” he hesitated, “I followed you.”

“You what?” Was it only the other day Ginny tried the same thing with a stranger? “What would you have done if I’d gotten into a car and driven off?”

He shrugged. “Probably would have chased your car, hollered that I thought you were gorgeous, something like that. Look, I don’t do the bar scene. I’m not smooth. I saw you, liked what I saw, wanted to find out more. So I followed you. Spent the next couple of days gathering up the courage to speak to you. Then what was I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, but I’ve been following you and I really want to take you out?’”

“Dating seemed easier when I was younger. I find it awkward now, too.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better. You have a right to be angry.” He moved a little closer, brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face. His touch grazed her cheek. “Are you?”

“You’ve obviously misrepresented yourself, Jordan,” Beth said, her tone serious. “You don’t need a decorator. You’ve admitted to following me, pacing in front of the store, now you’ve enticed me here, poured some fine wine … this situation could be dangerous.”

“Only as dangerous as you want it to be,” he said, his voice low.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I.”

“Deep.”

“Good,” she murmured, tilting her face upward.

“I was afraid I was misreading your signals.”

He kissed her then, a deep lingering kiss, and he wasn’t shy any more. Beth felt his arms around her, the powerful strength of his body against hers as he pulled her to her feet. She didn’t think she could kiss him deeply enough, long enough, hold him tight enough, and when he whispered, “Come upstairs,” she wasn’t sure she’d make it.

It wasn’t like in the movies. It never is. Their clothes didn’t mysteriously melt away. In truth, their clothing didn’t cooperate at all. Jordan’s shirttail caught in his zipper; his watchband snagged Beth’s stockings. They took turns muttering “damn,” “sorry,” and “I don’t believe this.” When one of Beth’s earrings became entangled in her hair, they decided slowing down might be the answer. But they couldn’t, and it was only after they’d climbed into the antique four-poster that Beth realized Jordan still had his socks on. And then there was no way, and no time, to do anything about it. Their coupling was feverish, frenzied, and over too soon.

Lying in each other’s arms, they laughed about Jordan’s lack of restraint, which made everything wonderful.

“Talk about warp speed,” he murmured against her neck. “Next time, I’ll go so slow you’ll beg for release. Honest. It will be excruciating.”

She felt his lips tickle the hollow of her throat. “Are you planning to torture me anytime soon?”

“Insatiable, aren’t you.” His tongue traced a path between her breasts.

“I am now. Especially with a man who makes love with his eyes open. Hypnotic.”

At once, Beth felt him pull away.

“What’s that noise?” Jordan asked.

“What noise?”

“That clicking.”

“It’s my heartbeat,” Beth said.

“Come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I, Jordan. It’s an artificial valve.” She explained her condition, mitral valve prolapse. “My case was more debilitating than most. The simplest activity left me short of breath. So, I became the lucky owner of a manufactured valve. A little noisy sometimes, but it works.” She held out her wrist. “Hence, the medic alert bracelet, the abstinence from alcohol, and —” she stroked an area on her breastbone, “—this scar.”

Jordan ran his lips over the fine white line. “And here I thought I was making your heart race.”

She laughed. “Feel free to take some of the credit.”

“Do you have to be careful? I mean, your heart —”

“Relax, Jordan. Please. I won’t drop dead from making love. At least, not unless you’ve got some unusual proclivities. I don’t see a chandelier —”

“Don’t joke around, Beth. I’m concerned.”

“No need. I take my medication faithfully, get regular checkups, use a soft-bristled toothbrush, and an electric razor.”

“Why?”

“I can’t afford to cut myself. Now please, no more. You’re ruining my afterglow.”

Nestled in the crook of Jordan’s arm, Beth stroked his chest. For the first time, she noticed a gold serpentine chain, from which hung an ornate medallion, a blood-red stone in its centre.

“A leftover from my school days,” Jordan explained, his hand closing over hers.

“Parochial school?”

He nodded. “I’m a Good Shepherd boy. It’s down the coast a bit. Sheltered youth, incense …”

“I’ve corrupted you, then,” Beth said, rolling over on top of him.

“No,” he murmured, looking up at her, “but I’d love it if you tried.”

This time, they moved slowly, purposefully, and Beth learned the art of sock removal. The awkwardness of their first experience was gone. The worries of being too fast, too slow, too loud, too passive, were replaced by arms-and-legs-flailing, roll-around rollicking sex. “You’re driving me crazy,” Beth managed to gasp, as his hands, his lips, his tongue, brought her repeatedly to the dizzying edge of ecstasy.

Again, when it was over, they joked about their desire. “You’re under arrest, Pilot Bailey,” she whispered in his ear. “Flying out of control. A turbulent ride. Definitely under the influence.”

“I love being under your influence,” he responded. “You have to admit, the landing was smooth. But please,” he warned, “no jokes about pulling up on my throttle.”

I
t was 7:30 a.m. when Beth pulled into the driveway, time enough to grab a quick shower, throw a muffin in the microwave, then head to work.

“Play hooky today,” Jordan had begged, and more than once she was tempted, especially since, in bed, Jordan’s powers of persuasion were off the seismograph. Ultimately, she chose business over pleasure, knowing there would be many more nights like the last one. Jordan didn’t have a flight until next week, and during the night, while she slept, he’d pencilled his name in her datebook. For every night.

Beth fed Samson, donned a navy suit, activated her security system, then headed back to her car. Tim O’Malley, bleary-eyed and yawning, emerged barefoot from the house next door, his button-down shirt and khakis freshly pressed. Even at his worst, Tim looked good.

“Tough night, Tim?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He smoothed his already neat hair.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Beth said, “maintaining such a hectic schedule. I would think your work would be winding down now that summer’s over.”

Tim shrugged. “I’ve always been a high-energy kind of guy. You’re right, though. Things are starting
to settle down, and I can’t say as I mind.” He shot her a wide smile, then quickly cleared his throat. “See your heartthrob delivered your paper right to your mailbox. Must be nice.” Tim bent to retrieve his
Chronicle
from the middle of a rosebush.

Reaching for her own paper along with yesterday’s mail, Beth said, “If I carry any clout with Bobby, I’ll coax him to aim for your porch.” After wishing Tim a good day, she got into her car and drove off.

At Personal Touch, she found Ginny pacing the sidewalk with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. Ginny’s outfit was slightly less garish than the last one Beth had seen her in — today, Ginny teamed rainbow-striped palazzo pants with an oversized crocheted sweater. A slouchy velvet hat with a huge flower attached to it completed the look.

“What brings you by?” Beth asked after she parked her car.

“Practice session with Dieter. You remember the cellist? He lives in Laurel Village, so I thought I’d kill a little time here first.”

Beth unlocked the front door, and Ginny followed her inside. They sat down on a leather sectional toward the rear of the showroom, setting the coffee and Beth’s mail on a reproduction steamer trunk. “You’ve seen this Dieter a few times since your duet at the Marin Festival, haven’t you?”

“Strictly in the musical sense,” Ginny replied, “although if he plays women as well as he does his
cello, then I definitely want a piece of the action. Maybe today’s the day. I just know he wants my body.”

As did the last four men Ginny had dated. Or so she said.

“I’m sure things will work out as they should,” Beth said noncommittally. “But if things don’t go your way, maybe I can help. You’re invited to a party.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Some friend of Jordan’s, a squash partner, I think he said. The Saturday after next. Interested?”

“Of course I’m interested. Do I have to bring a date?”

“You’re not supposed to. Everyone has to come in threes.”

“Great! For once, being the third party could be beneficial.”

“I think that’s the idea behind it. Interesting way to meet new people.”

“Plus I get to check out Mr. Perfect. Make sure his intentions are honourable.”

Beth smiled.

“Oh-oh. Did you do something dishonourable last night, my friend?”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”

“Yes, I do see a difference. A glow, a radiance. I’d know that
AFO
look anywhere.”

“Pardon?”

“All fucked out.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Beth said. “Very thoughtful.”

“Quick study that I am, I recognize you’re changing the subject.” Ginny glanced at the stack of envelopes on the table.

“I’m actually nervous to go through my own mail these days.” Beth sifted through the pile. “Oh no. This is why.”

It was a white envelope, like the others, with nothing but BETHANY WELLS typed on the front.

“I take it that’s no love note,” Ginny said. “Let’s see what the jerk came up with this time.”

“Here, Ginny,” Beth said, handing her the envelope. “You open it.”

Ginny grabbed a pewter letter opener from the display of masculine bric-à-brac on a sofa table behind her, slit the envelope and looked inside. “What the hell? Beth, it’s all bits of paper. Look.” Ginny dumped the contents of the envelope onto the table. Some of the pieces had small print on them; others were varying shades of grey. “Wait. If I turn these bits over …” Ginny placed the printed side down. “Now we have something.” She fiddled with the mess, working it like a jigsaw puzzle. “I think it’s a picture.”

Even before Ginny had finished, Beth said, “It’s me.” Her voice, quivery and soft, sounded alien to her.

“What? Hey, you’re right,” Ginny said, fitting the remaining pieces together. “Where’d it come from?”

“I don’t know who sent it, but the picture was from the
Chronicle
. Remember the feature the paper did on the Designer Showcase?”

“Yeah,” Ginny nodded, “you and the store got a great write-up.”

The Designer Showcase had gathered the Bay area’s best decorators, given them each a room in a dilapidated mansion to restore to its former grandeur, the money from tickets sold going to the Pediatric
AIDS
Foundation. Beth’s rendition of a conservatory, complete with a Bosendorfer grand piano, won rave reviews, and her picture had made the newspaper.

“But Beth,” Ginny said, her voice rising, “that showcase was over a year ago.”

“I know. What kind of person do you suppose would save my picture for that length of time?”

Long after Ginny had gone, Beth tried to make sense of the letters and the picture. She put it in a desk drawer and, during a lull in business, tried to call Jim Kearns, who was out of the office. Did she want to leave a message? “Just tell him ‘Beth got another letter.’” When she was asked to repeat the message, a warm flush rose to her cheeks. Embarrassed, she hung up.

She remembered Tim O’Malley saying Bobby Chandler had personally put her newspaper in her mailbox. He could have slipped the letter in then, too. Was Bobby just lonely, or was he really disturbed? She tried to imagine Bobby, sitting alone in his bedroom, a cache of newspaper clippings hidden between pages of an overdue library book. Suddenly she was tired of watching the ones she knew and
wished Jim Kearns hadn’t given such advice to the crowd at the Fairmont. Beth’s caution was giving way to paranoia. Picturing freckled Bobby Chandler hunched over her photograph, slicing it to ribbons was laughable. Almost. In future, she would follow Tim’s advice and not be so invitational. If Bobby needed someone to talk to, it certainly didn’t have to be her.