Too Lucky to Live Page 5

  Time to call it a night. An interesting night. I was beat. We were both zombies. I headed the Volvo home and parked it in Margo’s driveway. I woke Tom and hustled him, his cane, and his suitcase across the street and into my place. No hotel for him tonight. Although Tom was getting more famous by the minute, I figured he was more anonymous with me. No one who had seen me with him tonight should have any idea who I was or where I lived. We hadn’t been followed, as far as I could see, and I’d looked behind us as thoroughly as any normal paranoid person would do. All was quiet. Peaceful, even. Bedtime. At last.

  My living room couch may have been the best flea market find of all time because, in addition to being pretty, it’s double-wide. It’s not a sleeper sofa but it makes up into a reasonable bed. I’d spent many a night on it myself after succumbing to the sedative effects of late-night television. I keep a couple of sheets, a comforter, and some pillows in a nearby chest for overnight guests.

  I parked Tom, uncomplaining and pliable as a sleepy child, in a chair and made up the couch. Then I led him to the downstairs bath, helped him locate all the fixtures, waited outside until he came out and led him back. He peeled out of his jeans without the slightest hint of embarrassment, got under the covers in his tee-shirt and boxers, and was snoring lightly in less than a minute.

  I waited another thirty seconds to be sure he was under before I peeled off my own jeans and crawled in next to him in my panties, bra, and shirt. That seemed circumspect enough. No way I was going upstairs and leaving both of us alone. Who knew what might grab either one of us before dawn? I nudged him with my butt until he surrendered enough room for me to lie beside him. I lay there for ten seconds, listening to us both breathing, savoring my stolen closeness, and followed him down into dreamland.

  ***

  I was wrenched out of a sound sleep into a noise so huge it felt like it was inside my chest. I suppose the storm had been rumbling in, but until lighting struck almost in the yard and the thunder fell upon us like a truckload of rocks, Tom and I had slept in sweet oblivion. Now, though, we were instantly, totally awake.

  He sat straight up and in the flare of another lightning flash I saw the stricken confusion on his face.

  “Tom.” I said his name as calmly and quietly as I could, given how loud my own heart was thundering. “Tom. You’re with me. Allie. It’s only a storm. We’re okay.”

  “Allie,” he whispered. “Thank God, it’s you. What are you doing here? I thought you were going upstairs to bed.”

  I told the mostly truth. “I was scared. I didn’t want to leave you alone. I didn’t want to be alone myself. I needed to…huddle, you know?” I was ambushed by the echo of tears in my voice.

  We were up now for sure. Sitting side by side. On a couch. Like regular people. Both wide awake. Both getting oriented to our new and different reality. He slid his hand over until it contacted mine and then he took it in both of his. “I’m sorry you were scared. I’m glad you stayed. I probably would have jumped up and run into a wall if I’d been by myself. That was loud.”

  “But we’re okay now. We’re here. We’re together.”

  He was quiet for a second before he murmured, “Plus, we’re awake.”

  “I am. That’s for sure.”

  “I believe I promised I was going to start kissing you again at the first opportunity.”

  The tingle was back. “I’m confident you’re a man of your word. And if there ever was an opportunity for kissing, this would be it. We’re alone as can be. It’s storming like a banshee, so no one would want to be after us and your ticket right now.”

  Plus, I added to myself, neither one of us is actually wearing pants.

  He bent down, then, to put his lips in the center of my palm. Mmm. Nice move. I felt reckless. We’d survived it all, up until now. The danger we’d come from. The danger out there somewhere in the rainy dark. I’d lost my sense of—what? Respectability? Protocol? Ah, here was my answer: I’d lost my sense of common sense.

  His mouth found mine as if he could feel my lips waiting. The kissing took up where it had left off when we were interrupted by Tsunami Millions. Nothing had changed. I wanted him to keep kissing me until I died from it.

  Also, I was becoming aware that while the kissing was as intoxicating as before, our bodies were now much, much less encumbered by the presence of clothes. He pulled me over to him until our bare thighs were touching too. About then another reckless rule-breaker of an idea presented itself.

  I bounced it off him.

  “Why don’t we go up to my room and slip into something more…roomier. Everything that’s happened? I think this should count as at least a third date.”

  “Definitely. I feel as if we’ve known each other for weeks. Decades.”

  “Years. What are we waiting for?” I kissed him again for luck and took his hand.

  My house has one real bedroom. It’s set on top of the first story like a very large, squared-off cupola or a very small squared-off room. The space is barely big enough to hold my queen-sized bed and one dresser. There’s nothing else upstairs but the bath, with its ancient, battered claw-foot tub. The windows push out for the breeze but, with the deep eaves, a straight-down rain can’t get in. It was raining buckets, straight down. What with all the celibacy, I had never brought a man up there before tonight.

  I held tight to Tom Bennington’s hand as we navigated the stairs. Halfway up, I lost my nerve and turned back to him, to try to talk him out of it. To talk me out of it. To talk us both down from the ledge we were standing on. But when I stopped to do that, and began, “Tom. Wait. Maybe we—” he drew me to him and our bodies locked tight together, commanded by the magnet of desire.

  Therefore, I let him press me against the stair wall and put his lips on mine, sweet and urgent as before. This time, though, he also slipped his hands up under the front of my shirt. The delicious sensation of his palms on my bare skin, and his fingers, sneaking deftly around to unfasten my bra, and then coming back around to slip up under there, too, erased the whole, sensible-reasoning, frontal part of my brain.

  The rudimentary animal cheering section at the back of my brain took over and it was rooting for only three things. More and more touching. Fewer clothes to get in the way of the touching. And the inevitable moment when all of Animal Brain’s deepest, most intractable instincts would be addressed. For a very prolonged and rhythmic time.

  So the kissing and touching got more intoxicatingly urgent, and I forgot my reluctance, my name, and why I’d ever had a moment’s doubt that this hot, wild, utterly uninhibited thing was the only thing to do.

  When we got to the top of the stairs, I whispered, “You’ll need to be careful up here, Tom. There’s nothing between you and the stairway.”

  And he replied, “I’ll just have to stay close to you, Allie. And never come down.”

  “That’ll work.” I stopped talking so he could kiss me again.

  Upstairs in the dark room, with the roar of rain and thunder drowning out even the clamor of the waves, we kissed some more and undressed each other the rest of the way. The currents of cool, moist air from the rainy night washed over our skin. We laid our naked bodies across my smooth, white bed and touched some more. Delicate now, exploring, finding all the best spots. And then urgent, everywhere. Kissing and touching.

  Heat.

  More heat.

  Fusion.

  Chain reaction.

  Multi-megaton explosion.

  I like that in a man.

  ***

  It was better sleeping with him in my bed than on my couch. Understatement. Lying in his arms, still skin to skin, still moderately aroused, more by the delicious idea of him—his warm, muscular belly pressed so pleasantly against my slightly rounded one—than the delicious body of him now, I listened to the rain. It was slowing down at last, the thunder trailing the lightning at longer and
longer intervals. Probably worn out by its wild night, just like us.

  This right here was the moment when a person—in this case the person being me—might have had some second thoughts. What did I know about this man, really, except that he was blind—I was pretty sure about that—easily spooked by Hummers, and newly rich? Stop. Make that exceedingly newly rich to about the tenth power. Also, that he was very good looking, used excellent grammar, quoted poetry of heart-wrenching beauty, and made first-class love. To about the tenth power.

  This could be a recipe for a Lothario, for all I knew. Not a gold digger, though. In this equation I figured the gold digger was me. Nope. I might have second thoughts later. Maybe he would too. But for now, I was fine.

  No regrets.

  Tom was breathing slowly and deeply. I was drifting away, pondering lightly and without remorse that a mere twelve or so hours ago I’d never met Tom, never had sex with him—twice—never had sex with a multi-millionaire, and, as far as I could tell, never lived at all. The interludes of danger and disaster seemed worth it at the time. I was happy. I didn’t care. And then I was asleep.

  ***

  When I awoke in the dappled glow of a sunny morning, we were both still in the bed, both still unclothed but not touching anymore. Good. That meant I was able to slip out and brush my teeth before he woke up.

  One completely awesome thing about sleeping with a blind man, apart from that fabulous “I will read your whole body like Braille” aspect, is that it doesn’t matter how you look when you wake up together. Woo hoo, I say. A touch up with the toothbrush, a splash of water, a comb and I was presentable. As far as I could tell, his looks hadn’t deteriorated one whit. So we were even-steven.

  As I crawled back in, he stirred, rolled over on his back, stretched out, and ran his hand down over his bare chest, noticing, I assumed, that his tee-shirt and boxers had gone away somewhere. I saw him frown the teeniest bit, and then I lay very still to watch the memory of one completely surreal afternoon and night wash over him.

  To his credit, he didn’t pull the covers over his head. He reached his hand out until he found me.

  “Good morning, Alice Jane. I’ll give you ten million dollars if you’ll let me do that again.”

  Chapter Nine

  But he didn’t. Even though I would definitely have given him one freebie. Or at the very least a five-million-dollar coupon: Buy One, Get One Free. Reality was catching up with us. There was a lot of stuff to take care of that we needed to hop out of bed and get dressed for.

  Nonetheless, after we were securely clothed we stood in the kitchen and kissed for a long couple of minutes while the coffee dripped. I had developed a proprietary relationship to his beautiful self and therefore felt quite comfortable running my hands over most of it as he kissed me. But I stayed out of the truly perilous places as best I could. He seemed to be operating by the same guidelines.

  “Dr. Bennington,” I breathed against his cheek as we came up for air. “Mmm Mmm.”

  “I concur, Master Allie. You are the epicenter of Mmm Mmm in all of Greater Cleveland. Perhaps the universe.”

  “Epicenter, huh? I thought you didn’t approve of earthquakes.”

  “That was before we broke the Richter Scale. Now stop kissing me before I forget how much trouble we’re in.”

  Damn.

  We had coffee. And OJ. I found some steel-cut oats I’d cooked up earlier in the week and stashed in the fridge. Microwaved, doused with milk, brown sugar, and a handful of dried cranberries, they were good as new.

  We ate, making small talk such as recent acquaintances might if they found themselves sharing a cab. Or a bed. Maybe a smidge of “Wait a second. Who is this person?” Companionable but still slightly awkward. I knew both of us were mentally prioritizing the things that needed to happen before we and Rune could be out of danger.

  The ticket, squirreled away inside the cabinet door, barely an arm’s length away, was weighing heavily, of course. On me, at least. Although it was Tom’s ticket, I was all about its well-being. I wanted to hold its crumpled self on the palm of my hand and poke at it repeatedly to make sure that it was still breathing. That it was real. I wanted to check those numbers one more time and feast my eyes upon their accuracy. I wasn’t obsessed with all that money—exactly—but the ticket preyed on my mind. How many of my grinding budgetary issues could be rendered insignificant, no, infinitesimal, by this scrap?

  Think previously insurmountable car repair, Alice.

  Not that I coveted Tom’s ticket. Exactly. It was just so small. So…vulnerable.

  I noticed that when I stopped talking so I could ponder all this, Tom got a funny, alert expression. As if he could hear me thinking what some people might interpret as greedy and rapacious thoughts.

  I decided to think merely practical thoughts. Like wondering what was going to happen next.

  “Tom. Do you know how we cash in your ticket?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re the Mondo expert. Don’t you know?”

  “Nope. My lottery fantasy always ended in one of those New York restaurants where I could spend a month’s salary on an appetizer. I’m shallow that way. There were some instructions on the back of the ticket, but I didn’t take time to look at them and it’s out of our reach right now.”

  “I didn’t even have a fantasy. Although that New York thing sounds interesting. We need to consult some experts.”

  “Maybe we need to steer clear of experts just now.”

  “Good point.”

  Lovely as it would have been to simply sit quietly in the kitchen together for a while, share our romantic first oatmeal ever like normal people, and after that maybe go back upstairs? Not happening. Our moment galloped by. Sweet, with a splash of jumpy.

  “Let’s go see Margo. She’ll have answers. She has answers for everything. And we’ll beg her to lend us the Volvo again.”

  I was confident we’d be able to get the car away from her because this time of morning was Margo’s regular R&M time. Relaxation and Meditation. She’d be there and I was confident she’d be excited to get the Mondo News Flash. I couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

  Margo lives directly across the street and her house is bigger and in better repair than mine. Her garden is for sure more wonderful than mine. Her property opens onto the lake too, but instead of a rickety fence, a rustic stone wall shelters Margo’s plot of ground. Her view is all secret sanctuary and glorious water.

  I kept my voice low as Tom and I stepped, hand in hand, through Margo’s gate, figuring to ease her gently out of nirvana.

  “Give me some sixth-sense magic on this, Tom,” I murmured, leaning toward him until our shoulders did that companionable touch thing. “I’ll fill in the blanks.”

  “It’s splendid. All roses, all the time.”

  Oh, boy. I loved to hear that man talk. About anything. But roses—roses were extra sexy.

  I needed to get a grip. “Roses and much, much more. Margo actually gardens. Wears a big straw hat, carries her basketful of tools, gets down on the ground, and digs.”

  “Commendable. It’s so green. Dense and moist. I hear a fountain. Quite big and bubbly. Can you see the lake? Except for the fountain it’s so…” he paused, listening, “…so still in here.”

  “There’s no wall on the lake side but it’s asleep this morning. The fountain is in the center of everything. Margo’s garden has a real design. Little walkways. Special beds. Herbs—”

  “Yes,” he sniffed the air with his most appreciative dimpled smile. “And it smells like somebody has tromped through her herb bed. Rosemary, tarragon, basil, cilantro. All crushed up. Very fresh.”

  I sniffed. “Wow. Yes.” I leaned down and brushed my fingers over bruised leaves. Some feckless soul had stepped off the path into Margo’s herb bed. “Margo is going to murder somebody. We’d better hope she doesn’
t think it was us. But it smells so heavenly. I wish we had time to sit for a while. This place is loaded up with comfy benches. And there’s a hammock, too, all shaded by trees. It’s so beautiful—”

  And sensual. That old electromagnet of desire was fully charged again.

  I had expected to find Margo parked under the wisteria arbor in her favorite wicker chair, cup of tea and open book by her side. But the garden was empty. Quiet, too. Tom was right. Except for the bright music of the fountain, it was dead still. Not even the usual birdsong disturbed the hush.

  Tom frowned. “Are you sure she’s home? It feels…empty to me.”

  “I suppose she could have gone out. Or maybe she’s in the house. Let’s go around and make sure the car’s here before we go barging in.”

  The Volvo was up against the garage where we’d left it. We trudged up the walk and I started to tap gently on the front door. It moved freely at my touch, swinging inward. A chill started at the nape of my neck and trickled down my spine.

  Dear Lord. Not again.

  I tried to shake it off. Margo was always cavalier about locking up. Not that the thought made me feel much better.

  I called out. “Margo? It’s Allie. And Tom. Where are you?”

  Nothing.

  “Margo?” My voice quavered.

  “Allie?” I could hear Tom’s worry, too. “What’s happening? What do you see?”

  “Nothing. It’s so dark in here. Margo?”

  After the brilliance of the morning, the front hall was dim and the living room with its heavy wooden shutters was thick with shadow. For a long moment I couldn’t see much of anything, and then I made out a still shape in a chair in front of the fireplace.