Chill Factor (20 page)

He flipped open her coat and reached inside. His arms went
around
her, and dipping his knees slightly, he drew her up and into him. He
splayed his hand over the small of her back and held her flush against
him in a way that said, without equivocation, I
want you
.

A warm, fluid tide of desire spread through her belly and
thighs. It
had felt great to experience again that rush of sensation that no
potable or drug could replicate. There was no other buzz like it,
nothing to compare with the intoxicating tingle of sexual excitement.

It had been years. Certainly not since Amy had died, when
neither
she nor Dutch had had the emotional resources to make good sex. They'd
tried, but it became so difficult to pretend enthusiasm for it, she
hadn't even attempted to fake orgasms.

Her lack of response was a further blow to his self-esteem,
which
was already foundering. He'd sought to restore his ego by having a
series of affairs. Those she could almost forgive. He'd gone to other
women for what she was no longer able to give.

What she couldn't forgive were the affairs he'd had before Amy
was
even conceived.

It had taken her a long time to understand why Dutch had slept
with
other women during those early years of the marriage, when their sex
life was still so active and good. But she had come to realize that he
required constant reassurance. In bed, certainly. Even more so out of
it. She also came to realize how exhausting it was to provide that
reassurance on a nonstop basis. No amount of bolstering was ever
sufficient.

They had met at a black-tie fund-raising event for the Atlanta
PD's
favorite charity. Riding a wave of recent publicity for solving a
multiple homicide case, Dutch was the department's poster boy and had
been asked to speak at the banquet.

At the podium, he was handsome, charming, and eloquent. He was
a
dazzling package: former college football star turned crime-solving
hero. His speech had prompted the glitterati in attendance to be
generous with their contributions and also had prompted Lilly to
approach him afterward and introduce herself. By the end of the
evening, they'd made a dinner date.

Within six months they were married, and for a year life
couldn't
have been better. They both worked hard in pursuit of their careers,
but they also played hard and loved hard. They bought the cabin and
retreated to it on weekends; sometimes they never left the bedroom.

During those times, he'd brought his self-confidence into
their bed.
It showed in the way he made love. He was a sensitive and generous
partner, an ardent and considerate lover, a supportive husband.

Then the quarrels began, arising out of his resentment of her
earning capacity, which far exceeded his. She argued that it didn't
matter who made the most money, that he'd chosen a public service
career, where the toughest jobs went underpaid and mostly unappreciated.

She was speaking the truth. He heard only rationalizations for
his
perceived failure. He feared he would never reach the same level of
achievement in the police department that she would at the magazine.

Over time his obsession with failure became a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Simultaneously, Lilly's star was rising. Her success
continued
to chip away at his pride. He sought to repair it with women who
regarded him as the dashing hero he wanted desperately to be.

Each time Lilly confronted him with his cheating, he expressed
deep
remorse, claimed his affairs were nothing more than meaningless flings.
But they weren't meaningless to Lilly, who eventually threatened to
leave him. Dutch declared that if she left him he would die, swore to
her that he would remain faithful, told her he loved her, and begged
her to forgive him. She did—because she was pregnant with Amy,

The promise of a child reinforced the marriage. But only until
Amy
was born. During Lilly's postpartum months, Dutch began seeing a
policewoman. When Lilly accused him of what she knew for fact, he
denied it and blamed her suspicion on fatigue, depression, lactation,
and unstable hormones. His ridicule had offended her more than his
transparent lies.

In the midst of this marital battleground, Amy created a
neutral
zone in which they could coexist. She generated enough love to make
things seem almost normal. Their shared joy over the child helped them
forget past disagreements. They avoided the issues that caused
friction. They weren't exactly happy, but they were stable.

Then Amy died. The weakened underpinnings of the marriage
rapidly
crumpled under the weight of their grief. Their relationship became
increasingly bad until Lilly didn't think it could get any worse.

And then it did.

Now, recalling the incident that, for her, had been the
deathblow to
the marriage, Lilly shuddered and instinctively pulled her knees closer
to her chest, burrowing her head deeper into the pillow.

However, after a few seconds she reminded herself that her
marriage
was history. She didn't even have to think about it anymore. Yesterday
had marked her emancipation from Dutch. No longer shackled to him
legally or emotionally, she could look strictly forward.

The timing of Ben Tierney's reentry into her life was
strangely
ironic. He had reappeared on the day she was officially free. Last
night, he hadn't only roused slumbering erotic sensors but awakened
them with a clamor and a clang. His kiss had made her ears ring.

She had been attracted the moment he smiled at her from his
seat on
that creaky, rusty bus. Over the course of that day on the river
,
she'd grown to like everything about him. His looks, certainly. What
wasn't to like? But she also liked
him
, his
intelligence, the
ease with which he could converse on any subject.

Others in the group that day had also been attracted to him.
The
college girls had made no secret of their infatuation. But even the
blowhard, who at first had seemed resentful of Tierney's superior
kayaking skill, was asking him for pointers by the end of the day. With
no apparent effort, Tierney drew people. No one was a stranger to him.

Yet
he
remained a stranger.

He befriended people by inviting them to talk about
themselves, but
he revealed nothing of himself. Was it that paradox that made him
mysterious and seductive?

It startled her even to think the word
seductive
,
because
of its sinister overtones. But she couldn't think of a better word to
describe Tierney's magnetism. On the two occasions she'd been with him
she had responded to that indefinable quality to a degree that was
disquieting.

Since their first hello they'd been moving toward last night's
kiss.
Separately but unquestionably. So when he kissed her, it had seemed
like an inevitability that had simply been postponed for a few months.

The kiss had been worth the wait. She had vivid recollections
of his
thumbs pressing against her cheekbones as he tilted her face up to his,
of his breath against her lips, of his tongue sliding evocatively into
her mouth. Thinking about it now caused a purl of desire deep within
her.

Making as little noise as possible, she turned to look at him
and
smiled. He was too long for the sofa. The armrest caught him mid-calf.
He'd rolled a pillow into a neck support to keep the back of his head
elevated.

He was covered with blankets up to his chin, which overnight
had
become shadowed with stubble. He'd had years of exposure to wind and
sun, but he wore their damage remarkably well. She liked the lines that
radiated from the corners of his eyes. His lips were slightly chapped.
She remembered that from the kiss, how they'd felt rubbing against hers.

She wouldn't have minded a longer kiss. Or a second one. Her
refusal
to sleep with him hadn't necessarily excluded kissing, but apparently
he had taken it as such.

Either that or he hadn't liked it as much as she. No.
Impossible.
Even if she hadn't felt the unmistakable pressure in his groin, his low
growl of self-denial when he released her was enough to convince her
that he'd been into it as much as, if not more than, she. He'd seemed
almost angry when he broke the kiss, released her, and turned away.

So why hadn't he continued? Or at least asked if it was all
right if
he did? She'd made it clear that she no longer had any romantic
inclinations toward Dutch. He should assume she wasn't involved with
someone else, but—

Her train of thought derailed.

She wasn't involved with anyone else, but what about Tierney?

He didn't wear a wedding ring. He'd never mentioned a wife or
significant other, but she had never specifically asked. It meant
nothing that he'd asked her for a date the day they met. Married men
dated other women all the time.

Last night he'd made no reference to a wife or girlfriend who
would
be worried about him when he didn't return home, but that didn't mean
there wasn't one who was frantically pacing the floor and wondering
where he was and with whom, just as she'd wondered about Dutch too many
nights to count.

How naive of her to assume there wasn't a woman in his life. A
man
who looked like him?
Come on, Lilly, get real
.

Her gaze drifted from him to his backpack, which was still on
the
floor beneath the end table where he'd pushed it last night, claiming
it contained nothing useful.

It might, however, contain something informative.

 
*
*
*

"Scott."

"Hmm?"

"Get up."

"Hmm?"

"I said get up."

Scott rolled onto his back and pried open his eyes. Wes was
standing
in the doorway of his bedroom, frowning down at him. Scott propped
himself on his elbows and looked through the window at total whiteout.
He couldn't even see the backyard fence. "They didn't cancel school?"

"Sure they did. But if you think you're going to lay on your
lazy
butt all day, you've got another think coming. Get up. I'll be waiting
for you in the kitchen. You've got three minutes."

Wes left the door open, signaling that there would be no going
back
to sleep for Scott. With a curse, he fell back onto the pillow. He
wasn't even allowed a snow day. Every other person in town would get to
blow off today, but no, not him, not the coach's son.

He wanted to pull the covers over his head. He could probably
sleep
away the whole day if he was left alone. But if he wasn't in the
kitchen in three minutes, there would be hell to pay. A few extra z's
weren't worth the hassle.

With a scorching
shit
! he threw off the
covers.

His old man had actually been timing him. When he entered the
kitchen, Wes glanced at the wall clock, then gave him a look that let
him know he hadn't made it under the deadline. His mom came to his
rescue.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Bacon and eggs or waffles?"

"Whichever's easier." He sat down at the table and poured
himself a
glass of orange juice, yawning widely.

"What time did you turn in last night?" his dad asked.

"I'm not sure. You weren't home yet."

"I was with Dutch."

"All that time?"

"Hours."

"Did you make it up the mountain?"

By the time Wes had finished giving them an account of the
previous
night's events, Dora had served Scott a plate with bacon, two fried
eggs, and two waffles. He thanked her with a smile.

"We had a real adventure," Wes said. "Especially driving out
to that
dive where we picked up Cal Hawkins. We were lucky to escape without
being shot or buttfucked by a trio of hillbillies."

"Wes!"

He laughed at his wife's horror. "Relax, Dora. Scott knows
such
things go on, don't you, son?"

Embarrassed for his mother, Scott kept his head down and
continued
eating. His dad thought it was cute to use vulgar language around him,
like he was including him in the society of men who were allowed such
privileges. It was bogus, of course, because in every other respect, he
was treated like a two-year-old. He was only a few months away from his
nineteenth birthday, but he was told what to eat, when to go to bed,
and when to get up.

He was the oldest student in the senior class. His dad had
made him
repeat sixth grade, not because he'd failed any courses, not because he
was socially immature or in any way maladjusted, but because Wes had
wanted to give him an extra year to grow and develop before he went
into middle school sports.

Being detained had been humiliating, but Wes had made the
decision
before discussing it with either Scott or his mom, and he'd stuck to
his decision despite their protests.

"College scouts start looking at players as early as seventh
or
eighth grade," he'd said. "Another year of growth will give you an
advantage. Coming from a small school like ours, you'll need every leg
up you can get."

Wes was still making all his decisions for him. Legally, Scott
was a
man. He could go to war and die for his country, but he couldn't stand
up to his father.

As though reading his mind, Wes said, "Finish filling out
those
application forms today. You've got no excuse not to."

"Everybody's invited to Gary's house to hang out." Gary was
one of
his classmates. Scott didn't particularly like him, but he had a rec
room with a pool table. Spending a snow day shooting stick had more
appeal than filling out college application forms.

"Finish the forms first," his dad said. "This time I'll be
checking
to see if they're done. After lunch, I'll drive you over to the gym so
you won't miss a workout."

"I can drive myself."

Wes shook his head. "You spin out on the ice, hit something,
have
your leg broken. No, I'll drive you."