Public Displays of Affection Page 3

It’s not polite to devour and run

  But I had a plane to meet

  Meat

  That first time remains

  In my blood

  And I’d lie if I said

  Anything since has been as thick

  Or juicy

  And filling

  As you were

  Hungry

  Always so empty-hungry-open-ready

  Waiting

  For your meat

  Charlotte put away the poetry journal. She removed her convenient handheld lover from its soft cotton storage sleeve. Then she made that mysterious battery-powered journey through memory and fantasy until she arrived at the only kind of release she’d known since that perfect afternoon thirteen years ago, in the arms of the man with the greedy hands, the insistent mouth, the endless dark eyes that swallowed her soul.

  The man of her fantasies.

  The man with no name.

  Chapter Two

  “My name is Joseph W. Mills and I’m here to pick up my keys.”

  The bleached blonde he’d been told was LoriSue Bettmyer rose from her desk and produced a saleswoman smile. Then she smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles of her tight blouse, in case he’d missed her customized upper body at first glance.

  As if anyone could.

  “Oh!” She brought a red-nailed hand to her boobs and breathed deeply. “Oh, my! You’re our mystery man!”

  He smiled politely. “I understand you have the keys to Twelve thirty-two Hayden Circle.”

  “Well, of course, but… let me introduce myself.” She rounded the corner of her desk, brushed a swinging hip against her in-box, and now stood too close to him, close enough that he got a blast of severe perfume and could see right down into the dark roots of her hair.

  She held out her hand. “LoriSue Bettmyer. That’s my married name. But I’m not married. I mean, well, we’re separated.” She shrugged and giggled. “I’ll be going back to my maiden name professionally. Very soon now. Probably within the month.”

  “Great.” He gave her hand a perfunctory shake. “I’m kind of in a hurry, so if you don’t mind—”

  She smoothed her blouse again.

  Joe looked at his watch.

  “Oh! Please. Just follow me.”

  Then LoriSue Bettmyer strutted her stuff in front of Joe with such resolve that he feared she’d dislocate her pelvis. They went down the hall and out into the reception area of Sell-More Real Estate, where half a dozen women waited for him with open mouths and wide eyes. A pudgy grandmother type spilled her coffee.

  “Everyone, this is Joseph Mills. He’s the client who bought the Connor house.”

  They all nodded and stared at him as LoriSue bent over a file cabinet and rooted through envelopes, wiggling as she worked. Joe thought the woman should just get a tattoo on her rump that read: “I’m LoriSue and this is my ass.” It would save time.

  “So, are you getting settled in?” the youngest of the women asked. She blinked rapidly.

  “Just got to town. I need my keys before I can settle in.”

  “Oh! Right.” She laughed nervously.

  Then a rather mousy woman in a brown sweater asked, “Are your wife and children excited to be moving to Minton?”

  Thrilled out of their little nonexistent heads. “I’m divorced. No kids.”

  The grandmother let out an involuntary squeak, continuing to mop up her coffee with a soggy paper towel. Joe glanced with longing toward the door and Main Street beyond.

  “Voilà!” LoriSue moved triumphantly in his direction, holding the garage door opener in one set of lacquered fingers and the keys from the other. “The movers came yesterday, so you should be all set, Mr. Mills. And if there’s anything else you might need—” She breathed in. “Anything at all—” She breathed out, handing him the items. “Please let me know.”

  “Thanks. I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll be off. Goodbye, ladies.”

  He got out of there as fast as possible, thinking that maybe he’d be safe in Minton, Ohio, because if Miguel Guzman’s men ever came around sniffing they’d be eaten alive—picked to the bare white bones by a pack of starving females—before they could find him.

  “His schedule’s not the only thing that’s tight.”

  LoriSue pressed her face up against the window while the rest of the Sell-More staff gathered behind her to make a few observations of their own.

  “Did you hear that? Divorced. No kids. My legs are kinda shaky.”

  “He had that earring, though. Do you think he’s straight?”

  “Lord, yes. I could smell it.”

  “How old do you think he is?”

  “Thirty-five, thirty-six max.”

  “I don’t know—his eyes look much older.”

  “Maybe, but he has the bod of a twenty-year-old.”

  “And the booty of a Greek god.”

  LoriSue pushed away from the window and ran back to her office to retrieve her purse, pager, and cell phone. “I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon!” Her hand hit the front door handle. “I’ve got to catch up with a friend!”

  “Quick, Justin. Hand me the Techno-Spy camera.”

  Justin Bettmyer reached down into the right pocket of his paratrooper shorts and scooted on his belly in the pine needles until he was stretched out next to Hoover the dog. “Did you get the plate number?”

  “Negative,” Matt whispered over Hoover’s large brown head. “Bad angle.”

  “Was that a Mustang?”

  “Affirmative.” Matt took a few shots before the garage door closed. He then handed the camera back to Justin, propped his elbows on the ground, and returned the binoculars to his eyes. “The windows were too dark to see in, but it’s definitely not the Connors coming back for something they forgot. My guess is we got ourselves a solo male suspect.”

  “What’s our next step?”

  Matt turned to Justin Bettmyer and smiled. “In a few days we check out the mailbox and the garbage. And we wait him out. Nobody can stay inside a house forever.”

  A voice carried across the yard and through the pine trees, causing Matt to wince.

  “Ma-aaatt!”

  “Jeez Louise, my mom’s got lousy timing.”

  “Ma-aaatt! Just-iiin! Do you want a snack?”

  “Any idea what it is today, dude?” Justin’s eyes narrowed.

  “Whole-wheat fig bars. They taste like dog turds rolled in sand if you ask me.”

  Justin’s eyes widened. “Hey. Your mom’s made those before and I think I kinda liked ‘em. What to drink?”

  Matt pushed up to a stand and shrugged, tucking the binoculars inside his utility belt, next to his plastic bowie knife, squirt gun, bent coat hanger, and notepad. “You know how weird my mom’s been with food lately—probably your choice of soy milk or green tea.”

  The boys walked companionably out of the pines, the dog trotting between them. Justin looked down at his younger friend. “You ever have Kool-Aid, dude?”

  “Three times—at your house. The red kind.”

  “Right.”

  “I had Mountain Dew there once, too.” “Yeah.”

  “Mom’d freak if she knew.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I ate a whole bag of Doritos at Steve Jacobucci’s birthday party last week.”

  “No kidding?”

  “And a box of Nerds at Tasha Wainwright’s skating party.”

  “Cool.”

  “Must be nice to eat whatever you want, whenever you want,” Matt said.

  Justin shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  The boys came to a halt in the driveway. Matt saw his mom and Bonnie waiting for them on the back patio, a tray of snacks sitting on the table. Hank was already munching away.

  “Your mom’s pretty cool,” Justin said.

  “She’s okay.”

  “She’s always home when you are. She hangs out with you and stuff.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Must be nice,” Justin said
.

  Charlotte took one look at the way her son was outfitted and sighed. She’d gone over this with him before, but it was like talking to a pile of bricks.

  “Have you been spying again, Matt?”

  His head popped up from his snack and his eyes got big. “Just playing around, Mom.”

  “But you haven’t been invading people’s privacy again, right?”

  Her son blinked. She groaned and looked over at Bonnie.

  Since Kurt died, Charlotte had searched desperately for something fun and educational to keep Matt busy, keep him excited and positive. Matt had idolized his father and loved him fiercely. When he died, he took the center out of the boy’s universe, and nothing seemed to interest him. He skipped baseball last season. His grades plummeted. And then, suddenly, Matt developed a passion for all things related to espionage, and he set about collecting Mega-Wheat cereal box tops and saving his allowance until he could afford to send away for his beloved spy kit—binoculars, camera, decoder ring, notebook.

  Charlotte had been grateful for the distraction until the day she dropped off several rolls of film to be developed and got a load of photo after photo of the residents of Hayden Heights going about their daily routines—getting into their cars, going to their mailboxes, taking out their trash, eating in their kitchens, kissing in their bedrooms.

  “Matt?”

  “What?” He stopped chewing.

  “Have you been taking pictures again?”

  “Just trees and stuff.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I learned my lesson, Mom.” Matt looked at Bonnie and swallowed hard. “Ned told me I could go to jail.”

  Bonnie gasped. “He didn’t!”

  “Yep. Juvenile detention for trespassing,” Matt said.

  “And he oughta know,” Justin said between bites. “He’s the police chief.”

  “He’s retired, honey,” Bonnie corrected him.

  “But he still knows all about jail and how people get fried like bacon in the electric chair, right?”

  Charlotte leaned toward her son. “I don’t want to have to take away your spy kit, Matthew.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Excellent fig bars, Mrs. Tasker.”

  Justin Bettmyer smiled at Charlotte, and though she was aware he was playing the decoy for Matt, she couldn’t help but be charmed. The sandy-haired, brown-eyed kid was a sweetheart—no matter who his parents were.

  “You sticking around for dinner tonight, Justin?” she asked.

  He took a swig of tea. “What are you having?”

  “Vegetable lasagna.”

  “Awesome.”

  Joe dropped the duffel bag on the white Mexican tile and let his eyes adjust to the cool dimness of the space. It was all very pale and sleek, and the powers that be had done a pretty good job picking out stuff to go in it, he supposed—not that he had any particular interest in interior design.

  He walked through the kitchen, running a finger along the cold white surface of the kitchen counter. He flipped the switch to the family room ceiling fan, then bent down to check out the gas fireplace. The idea that he’d be here long enough to watch spring and summer pass into fireplace season made him sigh.

  Living room—fine. Dining room—whatever. Like he’d be doing a lot of entertaining. He went up the stairs and looked out over the open foyer—God! If he had kids he’d be scared they’d crash through the railing and plummet to their deaths. Who designed houses like this? He grabbed the polished oak railing and shook it to make sure it was secure.

  He poked his head into an open door—his bedroom. Good enough. What concerned him most was his office—he’d told the movers that he wanted the biggest bedroom for his office space, and he was relieved to see they’d followed through.

  Joe stood in the doorway of what was probably referred to as the “master suite” in LoriSue Bettmyer’s world. It had a vaulted ceiling, dual ceiling fans, four huge windows, two walk-in closets, and a fancy attached bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub. He could live with that.

  The movers had set up his desk against the inside wall. He’d have to change that. He wanted it by the windows. He’d be spending a lot of time at the computer, and maybe an occasional dose of fresh air and sunshine would lessen the feeling of imprisonment.

  He bent down to double-check that all his computer equipment and files had been delivered. He counted thirty-two boxes. Everything was here.

  Joe ran a hand through his hair and scratched his chin. His two-week goatee was just starting to feel smooth under his fingertips, finally past the itchy phase. He hadn’t had facial hair since his Mexico City days, and it was going to take some getting used to. And the hair on his head—he’d had a good eight inches hacked off the day after Steve and his family were killed. He remembered watching the hair fall to the barbershop floor in dark hunks, visual proof that another undercover assignment had ended. He stared at the dark curls, waiting for the sensation of relief to hit him the way it usually did. That sensation never came.

  He sauntered over to the wall of windows and tested the action in the miniblinds. He saw drapery hardware still attached to the window frame and decided he’d get real thick, real private drapes as soon as possible. He’d better start a shopping list.

  His eye was drawn to the big Palladian window in the master bath, right over the tub. As he walked toward it and took off his boots, he figured whoever built this house must have had a penchant for flashing the neighborhood. When he stepped into the sunken tub to pull down the blinds, he saw them.

  Three kids and two women sat at a wrought-iron patio table under an umbrella. They were talking and eating, maybe an after-school snack. He checked his watch—it was four o’clock, so that would be about right.

  He got a good look at the older woman—the grandmother probably. One of the kids was a redheaded, chubby girl no more than seven or eight. She looked like a pistol. There were two older boys. The mom had her back to him, but he could see nice reddish hair up in a ponytail. She had slim shoulders and she was laughing with the kids.

  Joe found himself easing down onto the edge of the tub, in slow motion, his hand frozen on the miniblind pull. He leaned forward, breathing hard. His skin had started to tingle. His blood had begun to hum. And he was hit with the oddest combination of sensations: dread, regret, lust, utter disbelief. The scent of honeysuckle cut through his nostrils and into his brain.

  Just then, the mom stood up from the table, bent over to pick up a tray of cups and plates, and he got a good look at her petite, shapely body. Her little round ass. Her dainty waist.

  She turned and headed to the back patio door, calling over her shoulder. He saw that graceful throat. That sweet face. That shiny hair.

  He slapped down the blinds, nearly tumbling over the edge of the tub in his hurry to get on the phone to Roger.

  “Get me the hell out of here,” Joe said as soon as his boss answered. “I don’t care if it’s North-fuckin’-Dakota. You gotta get me out of here.”

  Charlotte could not recall the last time LoriSue Bettmyer had been in her house. Probably the day of the funeral, but she couldn’t be sure. The whole town had invaded her home that day, yet she’d been so numb she didn’t recall a minute of it.

  But here was LoriSue now, leaning up against Charlotte’s kitchen counter in her tight little blue businesswoman suit, chatting with her and Bonnie like this was an everyday thing, munching on a carrot stick as friendly as could be. Charlotte had to concentrate doubly hard in order not to lop off a finger while she chopped zucchini, her eyes occasionally moving to Bonnie’s face for confirmation of this strange occurrence.

  “So we’d love to have you and the kids over for dinner one night, Charlotte. You know, to repay you for having Justin over here every once in a while.”

  Bonnie’s eyes darted to Charlotte’s, and she knew immediately what her friend longed to say: “Every week-night is more than once in a while.”

  Charlotte smiled to herself, knowing that th
e kid hadn’t earned the nickname Justin-Time-for-Dinner for nothing.

  “He’s always welcome,” Charlotte said. And she meant it. There was no point in being cruel to a little boy just because his parents were jerks. “You know, LoriSue, he really misses you and Jimmy. He says you’ve been working a lot.”

  “Oh! It’s been crazed, let me tell you! The market is megahot right now with the rock-bottom interest rates, and we’re getting new listings left and right. The office is swamped.”

  Charlotte grabbed another zucchini and hacked off the end, wondering why some people even bothered to have children if they didn’t spend time with them.

  “We’re lucky that Justin has always been such an independent little boy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bonnie said from her seat at the table. “So, LoriSue, any idea who’s moving into the Connor place? We’ve been wondering when—”

  “A man,” LoriSue said, pushing away from the counter. She reached around Charlotte for a zucchini slice and nibbled, not saying more, obviously thrilled that the women now relied on her for information.

  Charlotte stopped slicing, wiped her hands on her jeans, and looked at LoriSue. “Okay. I’ll bite. A man alone? One guy in that big house?”

  LoriSue sucked in her cheeks and pursed her lips, producing a look that announced she had hot news to share.

  “Ladies, I spoke to the movers the other day. He’s a mystery writer. Isn’t that a trip? He came into the office for his keys just a little while ago, and I’ve got to tell you, he looks like a Chippendales dancer. Not an exaggeration. Absolute male-stripper material.”

  Bonnie snorted.

  Charlotte’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

  “Swear to God.” LoriSue held up the zucchini slice, then took another nibble. “Drives a black Mustang. Divorced. No kids. Dark hair just past his ears. A little goatee. Earring. I’m telling you, he is one juicy piece of man.”

  Bonnie snorted again.

  Charlotte went back to cutting vegetables.

  “His name is Joseph Mills. I don’t know if people call him Joe. He didn’t say. He didn’t say much of anything, really. Not the friendliest guy in the world, not that it matters.” LoriSue giggled. “I’ll tell you what—this has been so much fun! We should hang out together more often, just us girls.”