Smooth Talking Stranger

  “Wait,” I said with difficulty, my fingers tangling helplessly in his shirt. My body throbbed in every extremity. My mouth felt swollen. “I have to stop.”

  Jack looked down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded, his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose burnished with high color. “Not yet,” he said thickly. “We’re just getting to the best part.” Before I could make another sound, he bent to take my mouth again. This time there was intent in the rhythm, a shameless grinding deliberateness. He was pushing me, teasing, letting my squirming body carry the momentum.

  Taste, movement, hot rhythmic stroking, all pulled the ecstatic sensations into one forward direction. I jerked against him, giving a low cry. The rush was so powerful that I couldn’t keep up with my own heartbeat. I shivered and hunched and clenched my hands in his shirt. And Jack prolonged the pleasure, maintaining the unhurried sliding rhythm, knowing exactly what he was doing. As the last few twitches left my body, dissolving in a white-hot glow, I whimpered and sagged against him. “Oh no. Oh God. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Jack nipped at my chin, my scarlet cheek, the tender skin of my throat. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s all good, Ella.”

  We both fell silent, waiting for me to catch my breath. Pressed as close as we were, I could hardly keep from noticing that he was still aroused. What was the sexual etiquette for this? I had an obligation to reciprocate, didn’t I? “I guess,” I faltered after a long moment, “I should do something for you now.”

  Jack’s midnight eyes were bright with amusement. “That’s okay. My treat.”

  “That’s not fair to you.”

  “Get some rest. Later you can tell me what’s on the menu.”

  I looked at him uncertainly, wondering what he might expect from me. I’d had a normal healthy sex life with Dane, but we had never strayed into what anyone would consider exotic territory. “My menu is pretty limited.”

  “Considering how much I liked the appetizer, I wouldn’t complain.” Jack released me cautiously, keeping one hand on my shoulder as I swayed. “Want me to carry you to bed?” His tone was teasing and gentle. “Tuck you in?”

  I shook my head.

  “Go on, then,” Jack murmured. I felt him pat my bottom.

  And he left the apartment while I stared after him, feeling dazed and elated and horribly guilty. I bit my lip to keep from calling him back.

  I checked on Luke, who was deep in slumber, and then I went to the bedroom and crawled beneath the covers. As I lay in the darkness, my battered conscience crawled out of a trench, waving a little white flag.

  I realized Dane and I hadn’t talked the previous night, or this one. The familiar pattern of my life was fading like a rub-on tattoo.

  I’m in trouble, Dane. I think I’m going to make a terrible mistake. I can’t seem to stop it from happening.

  I’m losing my way.

  Let me come home.

  Had I not been so exhausted, I would have called Dane. But I knew I wouldn’t be coherent. And in some obdurate, bruised corner of my heart, I wanted Dane to call me.

  But the phone stayed silent. And when I fell asleep, Dane had no part of my dreams.

  THIRTEEN

  Dear Miss Independent,

  I just started going out with a guy I have nothing in common with. He’s a few years younger than me and we have different tastes in just about everything. He likes the outdoors, I like to stay inside. He likes sci-fi and I like knitting. In spite of all that, I have never been so crazy about anyone. But I’m afraid that since we’re so different, the relationship is doomed to fail. Should I break it off now before we get any more involved?

  —Worried in Walla Walla

  Dear Worried,

  Sometimes when we’re not paying attention, relationships happen. There is no rule that requires two people in love to be exactly alike. In fact, there is some scientific evidence to suggest that on a genetic level, the people who are the most opposite are the most likely to have a healthy and long-lasting pairing. But really, who can explain the mysteries of attraction? Blame it on Cupid. The moon. The shape of a smile. Both of you can thrive on your differences, as long as you respect them. You say tomato, he says tomahto. Let it happen, Worried. Dive in headfirst. We usually learn the most about ourselves from people who are different from us.

  —Miss Independent

  I stared at my computer screen. “Let it happen?” I muttered. I hated to let things happen. I never went anywhere new without MapQuesting it. Whenever I bought something, I sent in the registration and warranty cards. When Dane and I had sex, we used condoms, spermicide, and the pill. I never ate foods containing red dye. I wore sunscreen with double digit SPF.

  You need some fun, Jack had told me, and subsequently proved that he was more than capable of supplying it. I had a feeling that if I ever let go with him, there would be a lot of seriously adult fun involved. Except that life wasn’t about fun, it was about doing the right thing, and if fun was an occasional by-product, you were lucky.

  I cringed at the thought of the next time I saw Jack, wondering what I would say to him. If only I could confide in someone. Stacy. But I knew she would tell Tom, who would make some comment to Dane.

  Halfway through the day, the phone rang, and I saw Jack’s number on the caller ID. I reached for the phone, snatched my hand back, then reached again cautiously.

  “Hello?”

  “Ella, how’s it going?” Jack sounded relaxed and professional. An office voice.

  “Pretty good,” I said warily. “You?”

  “Great. Listen, I made a couple of calls to Eternal Truth this morning, and I want to bring you up to date. Why don’t you meet me for lunch at the restaurant?”

  “The one on the seventh floor?”

  “Yeah, you can bring Luke. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

  “Can’t you just tell me now?”

  “No, I need someone to eat with.”

  A slight smile rose to my lips. “Am I supposed to believe that I’m your only option?”

  “No. But you’re my favorite option.”

  I was glad he couldn’t see the color that swept over my face. “I’ll be there.”

  Since I was still wearing my pajamas, I dashed to the closet and grabbed a beige twill jacket, a white shirt, jeans, and sandals with wedge heels. I spent the rest of the time getting Luke ready, changing him into a fresh onesie and baby jeans that snapped along the insides of the legs.

  When I was certain we were presentable, I put Luke in his carrier and slung the diaper bag over my shoulder. We went up to the restaurant, a contemporary bistro with black leather chairs and glass tables, and colorful abstract artwork on the walls. Most of the diners were business people, women in conservative dresses, men in classic suits. Jack was already there, talking with the hostess. He was lean and handsome in a dark navy suit and French blue shirt. Ruefully I reflected that Houston, unlike Austin, was a place where people dressed for lunch.

  Jack saw me and came forward to take Luke’s carrier. He disconcerted me by pressing a brief kiss on my cheek.

  “Hi,” I said, blinking. I was annoyed to discover that I was embarrassed and breathless, as if I’d been caught watching an adult cable channel.

  Jack seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. He smiled slowly.

  “Don’t look so smug,” I told him.

  “I’m not smug. This is just my way of smiling.”

  The hostess led us to a corner table by the windows, and Jack set Luke’s carrier on the chair beside mine. After seating me, Jack handed me a small blue paper bag with string handles.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s for Luke.”

  I reached in the bag and pulled out a small stuffed truck made for infants. It was soft and pliant, sewn with different textured fabrics. The wheels made a crinkling noise when you squished them. I shook the toy experimentally and heard a rattling sound. Smiling, I showed the toy to Luke and placed it on his chest. He immediate
ly began to grope the interesting new object with his tiny fingers.

  “That’s a truck,” I told the baby.

  “An articulated front loader,” Jack added helpfully.

  “Thanks. I guess we can get rid of that sissy bunny now.”

  Our gazes held, and I found myself smiling at him. I could still feel the place on my cheek where he had kissed me.

  “Did you talk to Mark Gottler personally?” I asked.

  Jack’s eyes glinted with humor. “Do we have to start with that?”

  “What else would we start with?”

  “Couldn’t you ask me something like, ‘How did your morning go?’ or ‘What’s your idea of the perfect day?’”

  “I already know what your idea of the perfect day is.”

  He arched a brow as if that surprised him. “You do? Let’s hear it.”

  I was going to say something flip and funny. But as I stared at him, I considered the question seriously. “Hmmn. I think you’d be at a cottage at the beach . . .”

  “My perfect day includes a woman,” he volunteered.

  “Okay. There’s a girlfriend. Very low-maintenance.”

  “I don’t know any low-maintenance women.”

  “That’s why you like this one so much. And the cottage is rustic, by the way. No cable, no wireless, and you’ve both turned off your cell phones. The two of you take a morning walk along the beach, maybe go for a swim. And you pick up a few pieces of seaglass to put in a jar. Later, you both ride bikes into the town, and you head for the outfitters shop to buy some fishing stuff . . . some kind of bait—”

  “Flies, not bait,” Jack said, his gaze not moving from mine. “Lefty’s Deceivers.”

  “For what kind of fish?”

  “Redfish.”

  “Great. So then you go fishing—”

  “The girlfriend, too?” he asked.

  “No, she stays behind and reads.”

  “She doesn’t like to fish?”

  “No, but she thinks it’s fine that you do, and she says it’s healthy for you to have separate interests.” I paused. “She packed a really big sandwich and a couple of beers for you.”

  “I like this woman.”

  “You go out in your boat, and you bring home a nice catch and throw it on the grill. You and the woman have dinner. You sit with your feet up, and you talk. Sometimes you stop to listen to the sounds of the tide coming in. After that, the two of you go on the beach with a bottle of wine, and sit on a blanket to watch the sunset.” I finished and looked at him expectantly. “How was that?”

  I had thought Jack would be amused, but he stared at me with disconcerting seriousness. “Great.” And then he was quiet, staring at me as if he were trying to figure out some sleight-of-hand trick.

  The waiter approached us, described the specials, took our drink orders, and left us with a bread basket.

  Reaching for his water glass, Jack rubbed his thumb over the film of condensation on the outside. Then he shot me a level glance as if taking up a challenge. “My turn,” he said.

  I smiled, having fun. “You’re going to guess my perfect day? That’s too easy. All it would involve is earplugs, blackout shades, and twelve hours of sleep.”

  He ignored that. “It’s a nice fall day—”

  “There’s no fall in Texas.” I reached for a cube of bread with little shreds of basil embedded in it.

  “You’re on vacation. There’s fall.”

  “Am I by myself or with Dane?” I asked, dipping a corner of the bread into a tiny dish of olive oil.

  “You’re with a guy. But not Dane.”

  “Dane doesn’t get to be part of my perfect day?”

  Jack shook his head slowly, watching me. “New guy.”

  Taking a bite of the dense, delicious bread, I decided to humor him. “Where are New Guy and I vacationing?”

  “New England. New Hampshire, probably.”

  Intrigued, I considered the idea. “I’ve never been that far north.”

  “You’re staying in an old hotel with verandas and chandeliers and gardens.”

  “That sounds nice,” I admitted.

  “You and the guy go driving through the mountains to see the color of the leaves, and you find a little town where there’s a crafts festival. You stop and buy a couple of dusty used books, a pile of handmade Christmas ornaments, and a bottle of genuine maple syrup. You go back to the hotel and take a nap with the windows open.”

  “Does he like naps?”

  “Not usually. But he makes an exception for you.”

  “I like this guy. So what happens when we wake up?”

  “You get dressed for drinks and dinner, and you go down to the restaurant. At the table next to yours, there’s an old couple who looks like they’ve been married at least fifty years. You and the guy take turns guessing the secret of a long marriage. He says it’s lots of great sex. You say it’s being with someone who can make you laugh every day. He says he can do both.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Pretty sure of himself, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but you like that about him. After dinner, the two of you dance to live orchestra music.”

  “He knows how to dance?”

  Jack nodded. “His mother made him take lessons when he was in grade school.”

  I forced myself to take another bite of bread, chewing casually. But inside I felt stricken, filled with unexpected yearning. And I realized the problem: no one I knew would have come up with that day for me.

  This is a man, I thought, who could break my heart.

  “Sounds fun,” I said lightly, busying myself with Luke, repositioning the truck. “Okay, what did Gottler say? Or did you talk with his secretary? Do we have a meeting?”

  Jack smiled at the abrupt change of subject. “Friday morning. I spoke with his secretary. When I mentioned maintenance contract issues, she tried to switch me over to another department. So I implied that it was a personal matter, that I might want to join the church.”

  I regarded him skeptically. “Mark Gottler would agree to have a private meeting with you in the hopes of getting you to join the congregation?”

  “Of course he would. I’m a public sinner with a ton of money. Any church would want me.”

  I laughed. “Don’t you already belong to one?”

  Jack shook his head. “My parents were from two different churches, so I was raised Baptist and Methodist. With the result that I’ve never been sure if it’s okay to dance in public. And for a while I thought Lent was something you brushed off your jacket.”

  “I’m agnostic,” I told him. “I’d be an atheist, except I believe in hedging my bets.”

  “I’m a fan of small churches, myself.”

  I gave him an innocent glance. “You mean being in a hundred and seventy-five thousand square foot broadcast studio with gigantic I-mag screens and integrated sound and production-lighting systems doesn’t make you feel closer to God?”

  “I’m not sure I should bring a little heathen like you into Eternal Truth.”

  “I bet I’ve led a more virtuous life than you.”

  “First, darlin’, that’s not saying much. Second, getting to a higher spiritual level is like increasing your credit score. You get a lot more points for sinning and repenting than if you have no credit history at all.”

  Reaching over to Luke, I played with one of his sock-covered feet. “For this baby,” I said, “I would do anything including jump into the baptismal fountain.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind as a bargaining point,” Jack said. “Meanwhile, put your wish list for Tara together, and we’ll see if we can stick it to Gottler on Friday.”

  * * *

  THE FELLOWSHIP OF ETERNAL TRUTH HAD ITS OWN Web site and Wikipedia page. The main pastor, Noah Cardiff, was a handsome man in his forties, married with five children. His wife, Angelica, was a slender, attractive woman who wore enough eyeshadow to recoat an RV roof. It quickly became apparent that Eternal Truth was more of an empir
e than a church. In fact, it was referred to in the Houston Chronicle as a “giga church,” owning a small fleet of private jets, an airstrip, and real estate that included mansions, sports facilities, and its own publishing company. I was astonished to learn that Eternal Truth also had its own oil and gas field, run by a subsidiary company called Eternity Petrol Incorporated. The church employed over five hundred people and had a twelve-member board of directors, five of whom were Cardiff’s relatives.

  I couldn’t find any clips of Mark Gottler on You Tube, but I did find some of Noah Cardiff. He was charismatic and charming, making the occasional self-deprecating joke, assuring his worldwide congregation of all the good things their Creator had in store for them. He looked angelic, with his black hair and fair skin and blue eyes. In fact, watching the YouTube clip made me feel so good that if a collection plate had been passing by at that moment, I would have dropped twenty bucks in it. And if Cardiff had that effect on a feminist agnostic, there was no telling what a true believer might have been moved to donate.

  On Friday, the babysitter arrived at nine. Her name was Teena, and she seemed friendly and competent. I had gotten her name from Haven, who said Teena had done a great job with her nephew. I was worried about leaving Luke in anyone else’s care—it was the first time we had ever been separated—but it was also something of a relief to have a break.

  As we had agreed, I met Jack downstairs in the lobby. I was a few minutes late, having lingered to give a few last-minute instructions to Teena. “Sorry.” I quickened my stride as I walked toward Jack, who was standing by the concierge desk. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

  “It’s fine,” Jack said. “We still have plenty of—” He broke off as he got a good look at me, his jaw slackening.

  Self-consciously I reached up and tucked a lock of my hair behind my right ear. I was wearing a slim-fitting black suit made of summer-weight wool, and black high-heeled pumps with delicate straps that crossed over the front. I had put on some light makeup: shimmery brown eye shadow, a coat of black mascara, a touch of pink blush, and lip gloss.