Call Me Killer (28 page)

He smiled as he spoke, and behind his glasses his eyes were deep green. He's just flirting, she told herself, trying not to melt over the "bright, beautiful woman" line. He had an offhand humor that she couldn't help liking. She got the impression that he didn't take himself too seriously. His habit of looking directly at her, keeping eye contact even when she tried to avoid it, was forthright and honest. His body seemed to radiate energy and grace. She wanted to kiss him again.

"If you can endure it, I suppose I can," she said. His crack about her having no sense of humor rankled. She attempted a smile.

"That's more like it," he said, lighting up in response to her smile. "Just try to relax. I'm sure they'll have us out of here soon. What can I do to distract you?"

A series of distracting images rose up to offer some delicious possibilities. Their eyes met and locked. Viola’s breasts begin to tingle. Her tongue flicked over her dry lip—a mistake, she realized, as Stephen watched in fascination. Uh-oh.

He took a step toward her. With one hand, he reached out and touched a finger to those lips, slowly tracing the lines of her mouth.
Oh. My. God.
There was a hammer blow sensation in the deepest part of her, and her heart beat heavily.

He gave it a moment, searching her expression for an objection that she couldn't seem to make. It was she who took the final step forward that brought her into his arms. Her eyes drifted shut as his mouth covered hers.

It was so lovely, she thought, as his lips began to explore. His arms drew her to him, full body press, and she wriggled to find the right fit—his hard chest to her aching breasts, his firm belly rubbing hers, and his impressive erection straining against her groin. Although he was tall, she had long legs, so they didn't have to be horizontal to mesh well together. It was as if those interlocking male and female pieces just seemed naturally to, well, interlock. Or try to, impeded by the annoying presence of clothes.

Damn clothes, anyway...who needed them? Bathing trunks and a skimpy bikini had been much more convenient, and easily shed, back in the old days.

He was caressing her back now in long slow strokes, while she wound one hand into those silky curls at the nape of his neck and wrapped the other arm around his back. She loved the smooth feel of his muscles under her palm. Jolts of pleasure kept arcing from her breasts to her clit. She would have been crying out for him to touch her down there if her mouth hadn't been glued to his.

Tongues thrust and whirled, blood pounded, hips twisted and sought a way through the several layers of fabric that separated them from joining—it was total madness, total lust, and it felt delicious.

He nudged her back against the wall of the elevator, and lifting his mouth from hers for the first time since this frenzy had begun, he smiled at her. He pushed up his glasses, which had gotten foggy. "Am I dreaming? Who are you, Professor, that you can make me feel this way?"

Uh, who indeed? A tiny sliver of reality opened. She tossed her head to shake off the madness, but he chose that moment to slide his hand between them, easing aside the thin fabric of her windbreaker, unbuttoning her blouse, delving under her bra to finger her breasts. She arched her back and leaned her head against the wall, giving herself up to pleasure as he manipulated her nipple... switched to the other breast...and then back.

He gave one crest a hard little pinch and she gasped at the sweet sensation of pleasurable pain. She envisioned dropping to her knees in front of him, unzipping him, and sucking his cock into her mouth. For an instant, she thought she actually was dropping...but...no, it was the damn floor that was dropping. Disoriented, she opened her eyes to find the lights had come blazing back on and the elevator was once again descending.

Oh shit.

Stephen regretfully removed his hand from her breasts, saying softly in her ear, "Damn. Just as we were about to get to know each other better. Bloody awful timing on the part of the electric company."

Panting, Viola tried to pull herself together. This had to be the wildest thing that had ever happened to her. And with him. With Stephen Disappearing-Act Silkwood, who still didn't have a clue that it had all happened before.

And suddenly, she was angry. Why didn't he remember? Did he do this sort of thing all the time?

Tearing herself away from him, she struggled to repair the damage to her bra and stuff her breasts back inside her blouse. She wished they would stop tingling, and that her sex would stop throbbing.

"Hey," he said, grinning at her. "Awesome though that was, don't think I've forgiven you yet for that nasty review. It's a good start, though."

Viola adjusted her windbreaker, jerking the zipper all the way up to her chin. Her heart still pounding, her head still singing. It was all a joke to him. No doubt he cheerfully molested women in elevators every chance he got.

The ground floor indicator pinged and the doors rolled open. She stepped quickly into the hall and made for the glass doors that would take her out into the hard-falling rain.

"Wait," Stephen said, catching her arm just above the elbow and pulling her to a stop. She glared at him, but his eyes were laughing into hers. His glasses, she noted, were back in place. "Don't be angry. Come and have that coffee with me."

"No. It's late. I'm going home."

His expression sobered, although that wicked gleam in his eye remained. "Look, I'm sorry. Coming on to you like that. Hell, that's the sort of thing old Bart would do, isn't it? I'm not really like him. Let me prove it."

Bart, she thought maliciously, would have thrust her down on the floor and rammed his dick into her, with no care for her pleasure and with the probable intent of torturing her to death. His creator, at least, wasn't violent, was he? Her mind clouded as it always did when something reminded her of Derek, her ex. Shivering, she hunched her shoulders, feeling chilled in her thin windbreaker.
I have to get out of there
.

"I need to go home. Please let go of my arm."

He did, at once, but he offered his hand to her instead. "May I drive you home?"

She moved away, declining to take his hand. "No, thank you. I have my own car. It's been a long day, and I'm tired. Goodnight."

"Give me your number, then. I'd like to call you."

She pictured herself waiting for her phone to chime. Checking her text messages, scrolling through her email in search of his name. Oh no. Never again. She shook her head fiercely. "No."

Two giggling young women who had been staring at them from in front of the water fountain chose this moment to approach.

"Aren't you Stephen Silkwood?" one of them asked while the other blushed and looked foolish. "I love your books. I've got a copy of your latest mystery right here. Could you sign it?"

Viola shoved open the doors as Stephen turned to oblige the girls. "I
will
call you," he promised as she stepped out into the rain. "You’re not getting away from me that easily."

Yeah right. That's what he'd said to her the last time, too. "I'll call you. I'll write to you. I have to see you again. I've really fallen for you, Viola. I want you so much."

It had been her first lesson in the untrustworthiness of men. A tough lesson, painfully learned, and never forgotten.

At the traditional college watering hole in downtown Rolling Meadows, home of Whittacre College, Stephen Silkwood bought a couple of beers and carried them back to the table in the corner where Jeff Slayton was waiting. Somewhere an old-fashioned jukebox was wailing love songs from the seventies, or maybe the sixties. It sounded like the same repertoire that had been golden oldies back when he was in college.

He and Jeff had just finished a couple of games of pool, stepping aside when other patrons wanted to play. "This place hasn't changed a bit," Stephen said, sliding into the booth and pushing a bottle of beer across the table to Jeff.

"Except in the sense of not carding us before serving," his friend said. "Remember the time they threatened to call the cops over your fake ID?"

"Were we ever that young?"

"Scary, isn't it?"

They both sipped their beers gazing at one another across the battered wooden table. He and Jeff had met in college, not at Whittacre where Jeff was now a history professor, but at Penshurst in the next town. There were several colleges and universities within a short distance of each other in this part of Massachusetts, and this particular bar had been a favorite hangout back when they'd both been living in the area.

Stephen had a house on the Cape now, and Jeff had returned to Massachusetts a few years ago after doing his graduate work at Berkeley. Instead of driving home tonight, Stephen was staying at Jeff's place for the weekend. Tomorrow a few more of their friends would be joining them.

They talked about various things for several minutes before Jeff leaned back said, "Was it my imagination or were there some sparks flying between you and Viola Bennett at that panel today?"

Stephen grinned, remembering just how powerfully those sparks had ignited in the elevator. What an unexpected pleasure that interlude had been. Who would have thought that prim, disapproving book reviewer would turn out to be hiding a volcanic sensuality? "Is that her first name? Viola?"

"Yup. Sorry, I didn’t realize you two hadn’t been properly introduced."

Viola. Something was niggling at him, a magnification of nigglings he’d been feeling ever since he’d taken his seat beside the auburn-haired professor. "Viola? It’s not a name you hear often these days. Very 16th century. I did know a Viola once." His voice trailed off as the realization hit him. It didn’t just hit him, it slammed him in the guts. Whoa. He set his beer bottle down so abruptly that foam sloshed out and ran down the sides.

"What?" asked Jeff.

Stephen shook his head, too startled to reply. He had been hurled into the past, with images and memories cascading too rapidly to process them all. Sand, sea, a tangle of naked limbs, the widest, sweetest, most trusting blue eyes he'd ever seen, the most adorable breasts, the tenderest, most damnably tempting thighs. The same volcanic eroticism had erupted between them then, too. No wonder he had come about this close to getting off in an elevator. His body remembered her, even if his brain had not. Viola. Holy shit!

"Dude. You just turned about ten shades of pale. What's going on? You having a stroke or something?"

"I know her. No wonder we had a connection. I
know
her. Goddamn it, Jeff." He slammed the heel of his hand down on the table, making the beer bottles rattle. "I didn’t recognize her."

Jeff was regarding him with interest, his golden eyebrows raised into his hairline. He took the precaution of rescuing his beer from the shaking table. "Are you saying what I think you’re saying? She’s an old hookup of yours? And you forgot?" He chuckled. "I'm so glad I'm not you."

Stephen was still shaking his head, as if to annihilate the nest of cobwebs that had been interfering with his memory. "Not a hookup exactly. She was just a kid. Too young for me, too young for everything I wanted to do with her. Did do with her." He stopped as more memories swamped him. She had been a sweetheart—warm, friendly, fun to be around. He had liked her. A lot.

His friend was laughing at him. "Not cool, forgetting a beautiful redhead like Viola."

"She wasn’t a redhead then. Her hair was short and black and sort of Goth. Black nail polish and fake tattoos. She looks so different now." That sounded lame. "Fuck." Another memory surfaced, not so pleasant this time. "She’s Percy Quentin’s daughter."

"Well, yeah. Everybody knows that."

"I didn’t. Nobody thought to mention it to me."

"You needn't sound so snarky. It’s not something Viola talks much about."

Stephen was surprised at the upsurge of resentment that took him. Thinking about Percy Quentin always made him angry. Percy had been his mentor. He had taught him a huge amount about his craft. Stephen had admired and respected him. But Percy had scuttled that. Stephen had done something stupid and Percy had retaliated with epic Shakespearean rage.

"How come she changed her name? It used to be Viola Quentin."

"The usual reason," Jeff drawled, looking at him as if he suspected Stephen had lost a few brain cells since last they'd met. "She got married."

Stephen swore.

"And divorced," Jeff added, grinning. "Relax. She's single. Not even dating anyone as far as I know, although there's a guy in the English department who's angling after her. He was at the thing today. David Somebody."

Stephen groaned as he remembered the symbolism of murder guy. Yeah. David Somebody had had his eye on Viola, but there had been no glimmer of interest from her, and David Somebody wasn't her type—that much he knew instinctively.
He
was her type. She was his type. They were the same bloody genus.

He envisioned her again as she had looked in the elevator, her eyes closed in erotic concentration, her head thrown back against the wall, strands of shining auburn hair coming loose and framing her lovely face. Her lips damp and swollen from his furious kisses, her shirt unbuttoned and pushed aside, the rosy tip of one breast visible, all hard and pointy from his caresses. Viola. She was even lovelier than she'd been at seventeen. Why had she ever dyed that stunning red hair?

Watching him through half-closed eyed, Jeff said, "No reason to be worried about that guy; he’s no rival. On the other hand, there's me."

Stephen came out of his reverie. "What d’you mean, you?"

"I like her. I've been mulling over the prospect of asking her out. Not only is she easy on the eyes, but I think she might be, you know, fun."

Stephen felt a surge of that old territorial competitiveness that had always enlivened his friendship with Jeff and, upon occasion, threatened to wreck it. They had a long history of being attracted to the same girls. "No way, Slayton. She’s mine. No mulling."

His friend cocked his eyebrows, looking mischievous. "We could share. Three-way?" He sketched a brief, vivid scenario.