Over Her Dead Body (24 page)

“Does it ever get to you?”

“Sometimes. I’ll feel kind of down after working on a story if there’s a lot of brutality to it. And I don’t cover stories that involve violence toward kids. I just couldn’t bear doing that.” I glanced at my watch. “Oops, I better check the pasta.”

I was afraid that I might have overcooked it—and after bragging about being the master of al dente, no less. But it was perfect. As I dumped the spaghetti into the drainer, the steam billowed back into my face. If I got any hotter, I was going to have to hose myself down.

As I mixed the sauce and clams with the pasta, I considered how things were going. I still felt slightly discombobulated by the surprise nature of his visit, but other than the fact that I’d raised the topic of menstruation during the salad course, I wasn’t doing anything to humiliate myself. It was also clear that we were clicking as much as we had when we’d spoken briefly by the pool in East Hampton.

“I hope this isn’t death by garlic,” I said as I carried the pasta bowl to the table and spooned the contents into the smaller bowls at each place.

“I’ll forgive you if that’s the case,” he said. “It smells amazing.”

The sun had set when I’d been inside, not much of a sunset, just a smudge of pink along the horizon. Before sitting down again, I lit the hurricane candle on the table and several candles along the edge of the terrace.

“So what about you?” I asked, twirling spaghetti around my fork. “Does it ever get to you, tracking the bad things people do to each other?”

“I try not to let it. And anyway, I don’t just cover the evil things people do. I also focus on the good connections between people. When I was shooting the film about the actors, one woman in the cast—she was about thirty—fell head over heels in love with this kind of tubby character actor who had a minor role in the show. It was amazing to see it. From the very first second she set eyes on him, you could tell she was a goner. It was like Paul on the road to Damascus.”

He held my eyes as he said it, not letting them go. Was he suggesting that
he
was like Paul, too—struck by a thunderbolt?

“Unfortunately,” he said, breaking into a smile, “she was married to a soap star and it turned into a big fat mess. Good for my film, though.”

For the rest of the meal, we talked effortlessly. Beau asked lots of questions and listened intently—not exactly in that riveted (sometimes
too
riveted) therapist’s way Jack had, but as if my answers intrigued him. He wanted to know where I was from, how I’d ended up at
Buzz,
how I’d learned to play such a mean game of volleyball. I learned more about him, too. He was thirty-four, had gone to a private high school in Washington and the Tisch School of the Arts at NYU, and he was hoping to make his first feature film before long. He’d never been married, though he said he thought it had to do with the fact that he had spent those three years in Asia and that his real life in New York hadn’t actually begun until his thirties.

“So your parents live in New York?” I asked.

“That’s right. Up in the Seventies.”

“Are you close to them?”

“When I’m not driving them insane. Actually, I think we’re pretty tight these days, but we had a few rocky years. They’re both high-powered career types and they wanted that for my brother and sister and me. The filmmaker thing threw them for a loop. They couldn’t quite understand my interest in the life of Buddhist monks.

“But thank God my brother makes two million a year now,” he added, smiling. “That’s taken a hell of a lot of pressure off.”

There was something both fascinating and incongruous about the mix of his personality: He was outgoing and charming—that sexy grin—but also introspective, the observer. Was
that
what attracted me to him? That paradox? I had no idea. Maybe it was all purely physical attraction, my first real experience with the hypnotic power of deep brown eyes.

“What exactly are you talking to Tom Dicker about, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said. We had finished our pasta but were sitting there with empty bowls, finishing the wine as the city twinkled around us.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be a big secret, but it’s probably best if you don’t mention it to anyone. He wants me to shoot a behind-the-scenes documentary for him. About race car drivers. One of his smaller magazines is about race car driving, and he’d like a short film as a way to promote it. He’d seen my film on bond traders and thought I was right for the job.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know. The money is good, but I have to find out more about it. Plus I don’t know if I’d really enjoy having to answer to him.”

“Well, you’re not the only one. Apparently, Mona hated having to answer to him. . . . I don’t have much in the way of dessert tonight. Just some blueberries. Is that okay?”

“I don’t know what more I could ask for after that fabulous pasta, but sure, I’ll take some blueberries.”

“Coffee?”

“That’d be great, but let me help.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“Didn’t I do a good job with the placemats and napkins?”

“Absolutely, but you should just relax and enjoy the view.”

I carried the bowls back into the kitchen, where I quickly put on water for coffee and spilled blueberries into two goblets. I covered each with a dollop of sour cream and some brown sugar, something Landon had taught me from his “gay gourmet” bag of tricks.

“So tell me . . .”

I spun around. Beau stood in the doorway again, leaning against the frame with easy confidence and staring at me, a small quizzical smile on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“Why did you call Dicker’s office posing as my assistant?”

“You think
I
did that?” I exclaimed, smiling. “Why would I have done something so ridiculous?”

“You said it yourself. You like to play detective. Did you do it to find out what my name was?”

“Is that why you came here tonight? To try to solve that little mystery?”

“I think you know why I came here tonight.”

I caught my breath when he said it.

“Oh really? I—”

Before I could speak another word, he reached out with one of his gorgeous forearms and pulled me close to him. And then he kissed me.

The kiss was long, but soft and gentle. I could taste the Bordeaux on his mouth. I let myself enjoy the kiss, but at the same time my mind was racing. What did he mean by “you know why I came here”? Had he shown up at my door because he couldn’t resist me, because he’d been struck by that damn lightning bolt? Or was this just a booty call?

He released me and stepped back, looking into my eyes.

“Shall we have our blueberries now?” I asked, picking up a goblet in each hand.
Shall we have our blueberries now?
Jeez, I sounded like a freakin’ kindergarten teacher. Next I’d be asking him if he wanted to watch a video of the
Care Bears.

“We could,” he said. “Or we could save them until later.”

“Save them?” I asked. “And do what?”

“I was thinking how nice it would be to go to bed with you right now.”

I could feel myself flush. I’d let myself toy with such an outcome as I sat through dinner, but now that he’d announced his intentions so boldly, I didn’t know whether I should be flattered or offended.

“That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?” I smiled as I said it.

He laughed. “True. But you did mention this was your summer of being a free spirit. And if it’s any consolation, I don’t generally act so presumptuously.”

I set down the goblets, momentarily conflicted about how to proceed. Here I was in my kitchen with a ravishingly attractive guy who wanted to go to bed with me—and my instincts about him were the same. Granted, we hadn’t even had a date yet, but why not surrender to the moment? As I’d reiterated to Landon the other night: I wasn’t looking to be a
girlfriend.

“Well,” I said finally, “you’ve sort of managed to slip by on a technicality. I don’t like to sleep with someone on a first date, but we haven’t
had
a date yet.”

“Ahh, how lucky for me,” he said. “Will it wreck it if I ask you for dinner tomorrow night?”

“No, it won’t wreck it,” I said.

He pulled me to him and kissed me again, this time firmer and longer. He slipped his tongue in my mouth, but deliciously slow. There was something so exotic and mysterious about the kiss—perhaps because of the way he smelled and tasted, or because he was so damn sure of himself. He was holding my waist, and his hand edged up higher until just the edge of his palm touched my breast.

A moment ago I’d felt unsure of exactly what I was going to do, but now I gave in to the kiss, kissed him back urgently this time. His hand moved onto my breast and massaged it. A second later he slid his hand under my shirt and took my breast into his cool, rough hand. Then both breasts in both hands. As I leaned in closer to him, I felt his erection between my legs.

“Look,” I said, pulling back, “since I wasn’t expecting a night of wild sex, why don’t you give me a second to make sure my bedroom doesn’t look like a war zone.”

He smiled. “As long as there’s a bed, I don’t care.”

As soon as I’d closed the bedroom door behind me, I exhaled enough to blow out my windows. Again I wondered if I was a fool to be going through with this. It seemed so delicious to just give in to my desire, yet I knew how guys could be unforgiving if you refused to play the third-date game. I remembered, suddenly, my first impulse when I’d seen Beau in Dicker’s office—the thought that I’d marry him someday. It seemed silly and overly romantic now, but I hadn’t felt that sort of industrial-strength reaction since I was with Jack. I couldn’t ignore it. On the other hand, if I just gave in, like I wanted to, maybe my head would clear.

I checked the room. It looked decent. I fluffed up my comforter and opened the two windows to let the breeze blow in.

When I returned to the living room, Beau was standing in the doorway to the terrace, staring out at the darkening sky.

“So,” he asked, turning to me. “Did you hide away all those photos of you with old boyfriends?”

“Actually, I was putting away my Scrabble game. I often play alone on Sunday nights.”

“See, I knew I was interrupting something. Well, hopefully I can find a way to please you as much as a game of Scrabble.”

When he said that about pleasing me, my legs turned rubbery. Before I could respond, he stepped closer and kissed me again. I let my own arms go around him and stroked his back. Through the fabric of his shirt, I could tell how taut his body was.

With both hands he took the bottom of my tank top and pulled it up, breaking the kiss for only a second as the fabric flew over my head. He caressed my breasts softly. He traced my nipples first with his fingers, then with his tongue. As he leaned in closer to kiss me on the mouth again, I could feel the hardness between his thighs.

“I’m offering a lovely evening breeze in the bedroom,” I whispered.

“Lead the way,” he said.

The sex was like him in certain ways: sometimes fast, intense, passionate (what you’d expect from someone who just showed up at your door after meeting you once) and other times unhurried, deliberate, and almost unbearably pleasurable (was that inspired by all his exposure to Zen?). I’d never experienced anything quite like it.

And he seemed reluctant to stop. I would drift off to sleep and wake to find his fingers inside of me or his mouth moving slowly up my thighs.

At around seven, as the early light was seeping through the windows, I opened my eyes to find him sitting on my side of the bed, fully dressed and cupping my face in his hand.

“Bailey,” he whispered, “I should get moving. I have someone coming by my studio at seven-thirty.”

“No breakfast?”

He grinned. “If you do breakfast as well as dinner, I hate to say no. But I’m already running late.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering whether or not my hair was in a faux Mohawk. “I’ll let you out.”

I pulled on a robe and walked him to the front door.

“Thanks for last night,” he said, smiling. “For the pasta, the wine—everything.”

“Thank you, too. It was a very nice surprise for a Sunday.”

“Better than Scrabble?” he asked.

“Scrabble has yet to make my toes curl.”

“I’ll call you later, okay? About dinner.” He leaned in and kissed me softly on the mouth.

“Great. But we’re closing so it will have to be late.”

I crawled back in bed for a while, with just the sheet pulled over me. There was no denying how I felt. I had a monster crush on Beau Regan. As I lay there feeling the breeze blow over my body, I swung back and forth between luxuriating in my infatuation and wondering where in hell it would take me.

Once I was finally in the shower, with hot water streaming over my body, I forced myself to refocus on the case and my story. I was anxious to speak to Nash and find out what secret Jed had placed up for sale. I also desperately needed to hook up with Kiki. And I was going to have to watch my back every step of the way. With Beau in my bed, my anxiety had temporarily subsided, but as I toweled off I felt it return with a vengeance.

I was at
Buzz
by nine-thirty (trying not to do the post-

shagathon shuffle) and there were already more than a few people at their desks. Soon the place would be filled with the manic “We gotta close today” energy of a typical Monday at
Buzz
—as people frantically finished their stories, fiddled with layouts, and wrote cute captions about Brad, Jessica, Angelina, and Colin. I’d overheard that the cover story this week was going to be on “love rats,” bad boys in the celeb world who cheated on their girlfriends or simply broke off the relationship without explanation. Like
FREAKY BEAUTY RITUALS OF THE STARS,
it was one of those timeless stories that was kept in the can in case there was no breaking celeb news.

Jessie was already tapping at her computer. She cocked her head quizzically at me. “How you doing?” she asked.

“Still rattled,” I said. “I appreciate your call yesterday. I just wish I could figure out who did it.”