What the Lady Wants (16 page)

She loved Mitch.

She turned back into the darkened room, trying not to think about Mitch, and stepped on the polar bear rug that separated her bed from the window, scrunching her toes into the thick polyester pelt.

Armand had hated the rug. He'd wanted to get her a real polar bear pelt, and he hadn't understood when she'd said she couldn't sleep with a corpse in her room. Of course, Armand hadn't understood her room, hadn't understood why over the years she'd had the furniture taken out, the rugs removed, until now all that remained was white walls and hardwood floors, her carved pine vanity with the huge mirror that reflected back the sunlight from the windows, her oversize pine bed piled high with white down pillows and comforters, her pine worktable and bentwood chair and the polyester polar bear rug. It was all she wanted: space and light and texture. She'd thought she was going to have a home like it someday, but now it looked as if Armand had cheated her—and June and Harold—out of that, too.

She turned on the big lamp on her worktable and sat on the edge of the bed, drawing the satin sash tighter on her robe.

They weren't going to find the money. Mitch had looked everywhere, and it wasn't going to turn up. Whatever Armand had done with it, she'd never see it. It didn't matter for her. It really didn't. She'd never wanted the money, anyway. She just didn't know how she was going to take care of Harold and June on fifteen thousand a year from her job at the art institute. She wasn't sure she could feed
Bob
on fifteen thousand a year.

Maybe Mitch could invest it for her.

Mitch.

She let herself fall back into the downy thickness of the comforters and tried to distract herself with thoughts of Harold and June and Bob and the house they'd never have, but all she could think about was Mitch.

It wasn't just physical. It was the way he took care of her by not taking care of her, the way he trusted her to take care of herself. The way he made her laugh. The way she felt good just looking at him. The way she trusted him. Everybody lied, he said. She didn't believe it. In less than a week, he'd become the one person she'd trust with her life.

She thought again of the shooting, and how terrified she'd been, and how he'd been there then, and how much she'd wanted him to hold her, and how he hadn't.

I can't do this anymore.

She was dizzy with wanting him, and it was torture to spend time with him and not touch him. It had to end. The money was gone, and it was over, and she was never going to get what she wanted. She didn't know what she was going to do next, but she knew what she wasn't going to do.

She wasn't going to torment herself by seeing Mitch again.

She sat up and pulled the phone over to the edge of the table and dialed his number.

The phone rang forever, and then, just as she was about to hang up, he answered it with
"What?"

"Mitch, this is Mae." Her voice quavered, and she swallowed to try to steady it.

"What's wrong?" He didn't sound angry anymore. "Sorry, I was in the shower. What happened? Are you all right?"

Mae took a deep breath. "You're fired."

"No, I'm not." He sounded perplexed. "What's wrong with you?"

"We're never going to find the money, and I can't afford to pay you anymore, and your week's up soon—"

"I'll work for free. I'll pick you up tomorrow and we'll talk about it."

"No!"

"Mabel, tell me what's wrong right now, or I'm coming over there."

"No!"

"Mabel—"

"All right." Mae blinked. "All right, then. But listen. Just listen." She stopped and there was nothing but silence on the other end. "All right." She swallowed. "I can't see you anymore. I'm...attracted to you."

Mitch's snort came over the wire like an explosion. "Well, I'm attracted to you, too, but—"

"Just listen!"
Mae swallowed again in the silence. "I'm not just attracted to you. I want you." Once the first words were out, the others followed, uncontrollably. "I want you everywhere, every way possible. I want to touch you everywhere, I want to taste every inch of you, I want to wrap myself around you forever. I want your hands everywhere on me, and your mouth, and—" The words tumbled out of her, her voice rising, and she said things she'd never dreamed she could say to anyone, things she'd never said to herself, swinging in wilder and wilder arcs of erotic fantasy, and she said them all to him, chanted them as she got dizzier and dizzier thinking of him, until she shrieked, "And most of all, I want you hard inside me, and
I can't stand it anymore."
Then she stopped, surprised to find herself standing, leaning against the wall by her bed, shaking from the emotion and the release and the need for him that still pounded inside her.

After a few seconds, he said, "Mae?"

She closed her eyes, feeling like a complete fool. "Yes?"

"Are you done?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"Are you all right?"

Her breathing slowed as she thought about it. "Yes. Yes. Actually, I feel better."

"Good." His voice was preternaturally calm. "Now listen to me." He stopped for a moment, and she heard him draw a breath. "This is not a problem. Where are you?"

"I'm in my bedroom," she squeaked.

"First door at the top of the stairs, right?"

She felt her breath go and fought to get the word out. "Right."

"Good. Stay there. Don't move."

He hung up, and she heard the dial tone in her ear, and it gradually dawned on her that he was coming over.

She had promised him more than she had ever even thought of with any other man, and he was coming over. She sank slowly onto the bed, terrified and exhilarated and more aroused than she'd ever been in her whole life.

She was going to make love with Mitch.

"Oh, my God," she said and collapsed back onto the bed.

No, wait, he needed keys. Where were his car keys? Pants pocket. He reached for his pants on the floor and realized he was naked.

Okay, clothes first. He sat down on the bed, and it sagged under his weight, and he heard Mae's voice again in the back of his brain, reciting all the things she wanted, and he closed his eyes to keep from passing out.
Breathe,
he told himself, and he breathed in deep.
Now get dressed.

He stood and zipped up his pants, jammed his feet into his loafers and then felt in his pocket for his keys on his way to the door. Good, they were there. He grabbed his jacket from the table and threw the door open.

Newton was standing there, one hand raised to knock. "Oh, good, you're home."

"No, I'm not." Mitch pulled on his jacket as he tried to move past him, but Newton blocked his way.

"You have to hear this." Newton's face gleamed with pride. "I've found out some astonishing things."

"Good. Good for you." Mitch tried to dodge around him.

Newton blinked at him. "What are you wearing? You look like Eurotrash. Where's your shirt?"

"Not now,
Newton." Mitch pushed past him into the hall and ran toward the stairs.

"Wait!" Newton followed him at a more aloof shamble, losing in ground what he was gaining in dignity. "I've found out something—"

Mitch ignored him and pounded down the stairs. Exercise was good. It kept him from exploding from the thought of Mae, naked in his arms.

Then he burst through the street door and saw his car in the lights of the neon signs from the bars.

All four tires were in ribbons.

The seats were slashed down to the springs.

And every piece of glass on the car was smashed to powder. Windshields, head-and taillights, even the glass on the dash.

After an adult lifetime of firmly believing that other people can only annoy you if you let them, Mitch lost it.

His scream was still echoing down the street when Newton pushed through the apartment-house door. "You know, somebody doesn't like you," he observed, blinking at the car.

Mitch grabbed him by the jacket. "Where's your car?"

"In the garage at the end of—"

"Come on." Mitch gripped his sleeve and hauled him down the street.

"I'll drive," Newton said firmly, trying to keep up without breaking a sweat.

"The hell you will," Mitch said.

Her hair was in damp curls, and her face was naked. For that matter, so was she, under her robe.

Oh, great, what now? Makeup? Hair dryer? Sexy nightgown?

What sexy nightgown? She didn't own any sexy nightgowns.

Oh, great.

Mae started to pace. There was nothing to worry about. It wasn't as if this was her first time. It was just Mitch, after all.

Mitch.

She ran to the vanity and pulled a comb through her hair. Now she had damp straight hair. With a scream of frustration, she messed up her hair by scrambling her hands through it and then started to pace again, remembering all the things she'd said to him, and how she'd meant every one of them.

If he'd just get here, she could stop having a nervous breakdown from anticipation and lose her mind making love with him.

The thought made her stop pacing and close her eyes.

Hurry up, Mitch,
she thought, and then she started pacing again to keep from screaming.

"Try not to do that," Newton said from the passenger seat.

"It was in my way."

"Where is it exactly that we're going?"

At another time with a clearer mind, Mitch might have told him. This time, he thought about where he was going and pressed harder on the pedal. The speedometer moved from eighty to ninety.

"This is one-lane," Newton observed.

A car loomed up ahead, growing larger instantaneously. Newton moaned, and Mitch hit the brake, screaming down to thirty before they came up behind it, bumper to bumper.

"The hell with this." Mitch swung out onto the berm to pass him.

Behind them, a siren wailed.

Where was he?
A plethora of ideas crowded her mind: he'd met somebody else, he'd stopped for a sandwich, he'd had a new idea about where to look for the money, he'd changed his mind about making love to her, he'd stopped for condoms—

She stopped pacing. Condoms. What if he didn't have any? She didn't have any. Oh, great. Maybe Harold and June—no. Birth control was no longer a problem for Harold and June. She thought about making an emergency call to Stormy, and then it hit her.

There had been condoms in the box from Armand's town house.

She flew down the hall to his room and rummaged in the box to grab a handful of the red foil packages. Then she ran back to her room and yanked open the worktable drawer and threw them inside.

Then she sat down on the bed again and tried to stop breathing like a draft horse.

Now all she needed was Mitch.

Where
was
he?

He was out of control.

"I'm sorry, Newton."

"I'm sure you have your reasons."

"I do." Mitch took a deep breath. "But I can't act like this." He thought about Mae again, and his head swam a little. It would not be good for him to go screaming into her bedroom. Think Cary Grant.

"I know where some of the money went," Newton said.

Mitch came back from Mae's bedroom. "What?"

"The money. I know what happened to one and a half million of it."

Mitch focused on Newton completely for the first time since Mae's phone call. "What?"

"He gave it to Stormy."

"What?"

Newton nodded. "He bought her a condo—"

"That I knew."

"For five hundred thousand."

Mitch turned the key and eased the car back onto the highway. "So where's the other million?"

"Swiss bank account. His idea."

Mitch turned to him, startled. "How the
hell
did you find that out?"

"She told me."

"She..." Words failed him.

"At lunch. Today." Newton checked his watch. "I'm picking her up for dinner in a half hour. Where are we going? I don't want to be late."

"Mae's." Mitch's voice was faint because he was stunned. "You're dating Stormy?"

"Yes. Why are we going to Mae's?"

"She called me." Mitch felt the heat rise again. No. He was going to be calm. Just like Cary Grant.

He thought of Mae's smile, and Mae's laugh, and then he thought of Mae's body and gripped the wheel tighter.

"Is she in trouble?" Newton asked, alarmed.

"No. She just wanted me to come over."

"Then why are we rushing like this?"

Mitch met his eyes. "Because she wanted me. To come over. Now." He looked back at the road.

Newton frowned at him for a moment. "I don't... Oh." His forehead cleared and he turned to look out the back window. "Step on it. I'll watch for the police."