Reede pulled his hat down low over his brows and left, but not before catching her wounded expression. Alex’s face had held that same devastated, disbelieving expression when he had told her that her mother’s body had been cremated.
Seconds after he had uttered the words, she recoiled against the wall, clutching the lapels of her robe to her throat as if she was warding off something evil. “Cremated?”
“That’s right.” He watched her face turn pale, and her eyes turn glassy.
“I didn’t know. Grandma never said. I never thought…”
Her voice dwindled into nothingness. He remained silent and unmoving, figuring that she needed time to digest that sobering piece of information.
He had mentally cursed Joe Wallace for dumping such a rotten task on him. The goddamn coward had called him, fit to be tied, whining and carrying on, asking what he should tell her. When Reede suggested that Alex be told the truth, the judge had interpreted it as volunteering and had been all too willing to abdicate the responsibility.
Alex’s numbness hadn’t lasted long. Her senses returned abruptly, as though she’d been jarred into consciousness by a thought. “Did Judge Wallace know?”
Reede remembered shrugging with feigned indifference. “Look, all I know is that he called me and said that what you wanted to do was impossible, even if he had handed down a court order, which he would have been reluctant to do.”
“If he knew my mother’s body had been cremated, why didn’t he tell me himself this afternoon?”
“My guess would be that he didn’t want a scene on his hands.”
“Yes,” she murmured distractedly, “he doesn’t like messes. He told me so.” She looked at him without expression. “He sent you to do his dirty work. Messes don’t bother you.”
Reede, declining to comment, pulled on his gloves and replaced his hat. “You’ve had a jolt. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Her blue eyes were filled with tears and her mouth trembled slightly. She clasped her hands at her waist, as though forcibly holding herself together. That’s when he had wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, wet hair, damp towel, bathrobe, bare toes, and all.
That’s when he had moved forward and, before he even realized what he was doing, forcibly pulled her arms out to her sides. She had resisted, as though wanting to cover a
bleeding wound.
Before she reconstructed that barrier, he slid his arms around her and pulled her against him. She was dewy and warm and fragrant, fragile in her grief. She seemed to wilt against him. Her arms dangled listlessly at her sides.
“Oh, God, please don’t make me go through this,” she had whispered, and he had felt her breasts tremble. She rolled her head toward him, until her face was making an impression on his chest and he could feel her tears through his clothes.
He had angled his head to secure hers against him. The towel wrapping her hair unwound and fell to the floor. Her hair was damp and fragrant against his face.
He told himself now that he hadn’t kissed it, but he knew his lips had brushed her hair and then her temple, and rested there.
At that point, a severe case of lust had seized him, and it had been so powerful it was a wonder to him now that he hadn’t acted on it.
Instead he had left, feeling like crap for having to tell her something like that and then slinking out like a snake. Staying with her had been out of the question. His desire to hold her hadn’t been nobly inspired, and he didn’t try to kid himself into believing it was. He’d wanted gratification. He had wanted to cover that hurting, courageous smile with hot, hard kisses.
He swore to his dashboard now as he drove the Blazer down the highway, heading in the opposite direction from home. Sleet froze on the windshield before the wipers could whisk it off. He was driving too fast for the weather conditions—the pavement was like an ice rink—but he kept going.
He was too old for this. What the hell was he doing entertaining sexual fantasies? He hadn’t consciously done that since he and Junior had jerked off while drooling over centerfolds. Yet, at no time in recent memory had his fantasies been so vivid.
Completely forgetting who Alex was, he had envisioned his hands parting that white bathrobe and finding underneath it smooth, ivory flesh; hard, pink nipples; soft, auburn hair. Her thighs would be soft, and between them she would be creamy.
Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She wasn’t just any woman who happened to be eighteen years younger than himself. She was Celina’s daughter, and he was old enough to be her daddy, for crissake. He wasn’t, but he could have been. He very well could have been. Knowing that made his stomach feel a little queasy, but it did nothing to decrease the thick hard-on now testing the durability of his fly.
He wheeled the truck into the deserted parking lot, cut the engine, and bounded up the steps to the door. He tried it, and when he discovered it was locked, pounded on it with his gloved fists.
Eventually, the door was opened by a woman as broad-breasted as a pigeon. She was wearing a long, white satin peignoir that might have looked bridal had there not been a black cigarette anchored in the corner of her lips. In her arms she was holding an apricot-colored cat. She was stroking his luxurious fur with an idle hand. Woman and cat glared at Reede.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.