Temptation's Kiss (22 page)
“But it will be more precious to us now.”
He began by taking her hand and kissing the palm as he would her mouth. His lips opened over the soft flesh and deflowered it with his thrusting tongue. He slid it along each finger with agonizing slowness, then caught the fingertip in his mouth and sucked it like a candy stick.
“Please, Josh,” she cried, reaching for his shoulder with her free hand.
He eluded her grasp. “Let me love you like I wanted to the first time. Slowly. Fully.” He used both hands to pull down the zipper of her robe. With reverence, he lowered it from her shoulders as though uncovering a sacred treasure.
His eyes worshiped her first, surveying her like a rare piece of sculpture created for him alone. Lifting up first one arm, then the other, he kissed the insides of her elbows, finding erogenous places she didn't know she possessed.
He tugged on the nipples of her breasts while his hands coasted down her ribs. With his thumbs, he massaged the downy mound between her legs with the same erotic rhythm as his tongue circling her nipples.
She grabbed handfuls of his dark hair and imprisoned his head against her breasts. He wrested himself free. “Shhh, not yet Lie down.”
She had no energy to argue as he gently set her down. Her head tossed frantically on the pillow as his mouth continued its ritual on her stomach, working ever downward.
Long moments passed while she swirled through a galaxy of uncharted bliss. It was all the better when he covered her body with his and tightly sheathed himself in the depths of her love. They soared above one universe and went on to the next, each one higher and brighter, until they reached that plane where spirits are united in an everlasting fire of love.
Replete, they clung together, marveling over the magnitude of the love they shared.
“I've been selfish again. Forgive me for taking my time,” he said quietly.
“There's one thing I hope you'll always be fiercely selfish about—your love for me,” she whispered.
He smiled and cuddled her close against him. “Of that you may be sure, my love. Of that you may be sure.”
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W
e've got a two-alarm fire working on Clermont just south of Sixth Avenue. It should be at about 42H on your Mapsco. And get there pronto. I want some good video.”
The inch-long ash on the end of Pinkie Lewis's cigarette fell unnoticed on his battered, cluttered, littered desk. The harried news director paused long enough to say “Hiya, sweetheart” to the young woman who had just moved aside a day-old Moon Pie, a roll of masking tape, and two cups of cold gray coffee in order to perch on the corner of the desk.
“When you're done with the fire,” Pinkie went on, returning his attention to the two men lounging by his desk, “swing by that elementary school where the third-graders are writing letters to the Russians. If we have any time left on the six o'clock, it'll make good human interest. Anybody hear from Jack lately? It's taken him four hours to shoot that bit on the drug bust.”
“Maybe he's hanging around, hoping they'll let him sample the goods.” The videotape photographer grinned as he heaved the camera to his shoulder. The reporter, who was pulling on his sport coat, thought his cohort's suggestion was funny and laughed.
“I'll have his ass,” Pinkie growled. “So what are you two bozos waiting for?” The grins collapsed. That particular tone in Pinkie's voice could bring about miraculous changes in a man. “The damn fire will be out before you get there. I want to see flames, smoke, tragedy in the making” he yelled, waving his arms descriptively. “Now get out of here!”
The reporter and cameraman left, stumbling in their haste. Pinkie glowered after them and ran a hand through his hair. Or he would have if he'd had any hair. Actually, he ran his hand over a rapidly growing bald spot that blended into his beefy forehead. It was his florid complexion and fair hair that had given him his nickname.
“One of these days you're going to have a heart attack,” the young woman commented. Disgustedly she stubbed out three cigarette butts left in the ashtray. They hadn't been properly ground out and were curling acrid smoke into the already polluted atmosphere of the television newsroom.
“Naw. I drink too much whiskey. It scares sickness off.” Pinkie picked up a Styrofoam cup and took a swig. He made a face at the stale coffee. “Buy you a cup,” he said, taking the woman's arm and guiding her into the hall and toward an alcove where numerous vending machines were tucked outside of the flow of continuous foot traffic.
As usual, Pinkie's pockets produced no change when he began slapping them in search. “Let me buy this time,” Kari Stewart said, smiling. The coffee was too black and bitter, but it was hot. Crossing her ankles, she leaned against the wall and sipped cautiously.
Pinkie smiled at her with paternal affection. “God-amighty, you're a sight for sore eyes. Helluva day. One of the video cameras is on the blink. It'll cost a fortune to repair and then I'll catch hell for going over budget. I've got two unexciting but dependable reporters out with flu.” He belched. “I need a drink.”
“You need a hot, balanced meal, far fewer cigarettes, far less whiskey—”
“Yes, Mother—”
“—and a good woman to take care of you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Pinkie asked belligerently. This was a familiar topic of conversation. “You got someone in mind?”
“Bonnie.”
“That dried-up old prune! She's too old for me.”
Kari laughed. The switchboard operator who handled all the calls coming into the television station with amazing alacrity and patience had carried a torch for the crusty news director for years. “You'll never change, Pinkie. You're biased, stubborn, grouchy, and predictable. That's why I love you.” She poked him in the spare tire that sagged over his belt.
“How'd the interview go?”
“He was as wretched as he's reputed to be.” That morning Kari had interviewed an aging television sitcom actor who was now doing “legitimate theater” on the dinner theater circuit. “I can see why his varied series went down the tubes. He was rude, obnoxious, and condescending. But I'll have the last laugh. I went to last night's rehearsal. The production is a turkey. And I didn't think anyone could ruin a perfectly wonderful Neil Simon.”
Pinkie crumpled his empty cup and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. It didn't make it, but he didn't notice. “Goose the old geezer right in the pride. Don't soft soap it. I want gutsy stuff on the newscast, even during your entertainment segment.”
Kari saluted. “Right, Chief.”
Pinkie's beet-red face split into a grin as he lit one of his unfiltered cigarettes. “And
that's
what I love about you. You don't give me any guff.” He sauntered away in the direction of the newsroom. “And you've got great legs,” he called over his shoulder.
Kari took the compliment for what it was, a teasing gesture between friends. Pinkie had been her friend and ally ever since she'd signed on with WBTV five years ago. Where others were cowed by the querulous news director, Kari, as a green intern with no more television journalism experience than her college diploma afforded her, had called his bluff one day and forever won his respect. She talked to him as no one else would dare and got away with it be-cause of their mutual affection. She knew he wasn't nearly as fierce as he pretended.
Pinkie saw in her a dedicated, thorough reporter with initiative. He could count on her not to “screw up,” as he put it. At the same time, he liked her warm personality, her femininity. He had had a hunch that the viewers would be as charmed as he, and he had been proven right.
When Kari had married Thomas Wynne two years earlier, Pinkie had feared he would lose her. But she had assured him that she wanted to continue working. “Thomas agrees. Until we decide to start a family, he wants me to do anything I want. And I want to keep working for you.”
“There might be a conflict of interests here, Kari,” Pinkie had said. “How can you impartially cover the city hall beat when your husband is one of the city councilmeh?”
“I've already thought of that. Much as I hate giving up that beat, I think it's the proper thing to do.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“I've got an idea for an entertainment segment on the news programs.”
His white eyebrows had jumped up then lowered into a thoughtful frown. “Let's hash it over.”
Pinkie had trusted her judgment and her ability to implement her idea successfully. Kari Stewart's critiques were a highlight of every newscast. She was witty and incisive without being scathing or vicious. The viewers adored her.
Now Kari went into the editing room and closed the door behind her. She dropped into the chair and fished a cartridge of videotape from her oversized bag, which served as both purse and carryall. Pushing back a mass of untamed blond hair from her cheek, she inserted the cartridge into the computerized editing console and began watching the interview she had conducted barely an hour before.
She picked up the telephone and dialed an extension. “Sam, hi, Kari. Can you bring that tape you shot last night of the rehearsal to editing room three, please? Thanks.”
A few moments later the door opened behind her and she said, “Just set it down, Sam. Thanks. I'm using that for B-roll. I'll be ready for it in a minute.”
She was capably punching buttons while scanning the two monitors, one with the unedited tape playing, the other with the edited version she was electronically compiling. She was so engrossed that she didn't notice that the door didn't close.
“Kari.”
Pinkie's voice and the unfamiliar tone of it brought her head around. She had seen him in moods ranging from elation when they had scooped all their competitors on a story, to drunken melancholia over a bad ratings report. She had never seen him as he was now: deflated, sagging, abject, and most uncharacteristic of all, pale.
She half rose out of her chair. “Pinkie? What is it?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and eased her gently back into the chair.
“An accident report came in over the police radio a few minutes ago.”
“And?” A cold fist of dread began squeezing her heart. “What kind of accident?”
He ran his hand over his head, then dragged it down his face, distorting the features. “Auto/pedestrian. Just a few blocks from here, right downtown. I sent a cameraman over there. He just called in.”
She did stand now, fighting off his hands as he tried to restrain her. “Thomas? Something's happened to Thomas?” There was no one else in her life. Pinkie wouldn't be acting like this if it weren't Thomas.
She made a mad dash for the door, but Pinkie caught her. “It is Thomas, Kari.”
“He's hurt? What happened? What?”
“A truck hit him.”
“Oh, my God.”
Pinkie dropped his eyes to the middle of her chest, which was just about eye level for him. “It was… fatal. He died at the scene. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
Several ponderous seconds ticked by. She remained motionless, speechless. Disbelief paralyzed her. Then quietly she said, “You're telling me Thomas is dead?” Her hands gripped Pinkie's shirtfront like claws and she shook him. “A truck hit him?! Killed him?!” she screamed. Several of the station's employees were now crowded into the doorway of the editing room. The women were weeping. The men looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Kari, Kari,” Pinkie crooned. He patted her back.
“There's a mistake. It couldn't be—”
“I made the reporter confirm it a dozen times before I came to tell you.” Her eyes were wild in her pallid face. Her lips worked, but no sound came out. “Come on,” Pinkie said gently. “They've taken him to Denver General. I'll drive you.”
It was the cold that struck her first. She had never been in a room this cold. The dual swinging doors closed silently behind her and Pinkie as they entered. She shrank against him, hating this stark, clinical place instantly.
The fluorescent lights hurt her eyes. The brightness offended her. Shouldn't this room be dark and serene, lending death some dignity and reverence? But here death was considered only a physical phenomenon. This place was so very sterile. And so very cold.
She felt like turning to run, but Pinkie urged her forward. A man in a white lab coat looked up from his desk. He stood up immediately “Mrs. Wynne?”
“Yes.”
He led them to a large table draped with a white sheet. Beneath the sheet lay the still form of a man. Kari began to whimper involuntarily and mashed her lips flat with her fingers.
How could she bear to see Thomas's body mangled and bloodied? Would she disgrace him and herself by her actions? Would she scream? Faint? Dissolve into hysterics?
The pathologist pulled back the sheet.
At first she thought it must all be a tasteless joke someone was playing on her. Or some outlandish mistake. Her eyes flew up to the man holding the sheet. He read the unspoken question in them; saw her incredulity.
“He was killed by the impact,” he said softly. “The truck struck him from behind. The trauma traveled up his spine into his brain. There is a bruise on his back. Otherwise…”
He left the rest unfinished.
Kari stared down at Thomas's body. He looked as though he were asleep. Nothing more. His face was relaxed. The silver hair that she had found so attractive the first time she met him was neatly combed. The hand lying by his side looked merely at rest, ready to lift up a tennis racquet or caress her hair.
His tall body seemed as strong as it had that morning when she had kissed him good-bye. He exercised religiously at a gymnasium to maintain that hard muscle tone and to avoid middle-age spread.
“Thomas, Thomas, darling.” Her whisper sounded loud in the silent room. She almost expected him to open his eyes and look up at her, to say her name, to smile. She would see again the sparkle in his blue eyes and hear the rich sound of his laugh.
She had thought it would be unbearable to see his body broken. It was almost worse to see it looking so normal. His untouched state made the whole thing seem that much more absurd and unreal. It simply hadn't happened!
