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Slowing to a more prudent pace, she decided it was time to turn back. As she retraced her course, each impact with the pavement drove a splinter of pain up her shins and thighs into her lower back, but at least it was manageable now. Her lungs still labored, but the burning sensation in her muscles abated.
Her conscience, however, continued to prick her.
Thoughts of him and their night together had been launching surprise attacks on her all day. She hadn’t allowed herself to entertain these recollections for long, because doing so seemed somehow to compound the original offense, like an intruder who not only invaded his victim’s property, but also violated his most personal belongings.
But she couldn’t stave off the thoughts any longer. As she wound down her workout, she invited them in and let them linger. She tasted again the food they had shared at the fair, smiled when she remembered his telling a silly joke, imagined his breath in her ear, his fingertips against her skin.
He had been sleeping so soundly, he hadn’t awakened when she slipped from the bed and dressed in the dim room. At the bedroom door she had paused to look back at him. He was lying on his back. One leg had been thrust outside the covers; the sheet caught him at his waist.
He had wonderful hands. They looked strong and manly, but well tended. One had a loose grip on the sheet. The other rested on her pillow. The fingers were curled slightly inward toward his palm and until moments ago had been nestled in her hair.
Watching his chest rise and fall with peaceful breathing, she had struggled with the temptation to wake him and confess everything. Would he have understood? Would he have thanked her for being honest with him? Maybe he would have told her that it didn’t matter, and drawn her back down beside him, and kissed her again. Would he have thought more or less of her for admitting what she had done?
What had he thought when he woke up and found her gone?
No doubt he had panicked at first, thinking that he’d been robbed. Straight out of bed, he had probably checked to
see if his wallet was still on the bureau. Had he fanned out his credit cards like a poker hand to make certain that none were missing? Had he been surprised to find all his cash present and accounted for? Had he then felt tremendous relief?
Following the relief, had he become puzzled by her disappearance? Or angry? Probably angry. He might have taken her sneaking out as an affront.
At the very least she hoped that, having awakened and noticed her gone, he hadn’t simply shrugged, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. That was a sad but distinct possibility which caused her to wonder whether or not he had even thought of her today. Had he replayed the entire evening in his head just as she had, taking it from the instant their eyes had locked across the dance floor until that last time…?
His lips brushed kisses across her face. He whispered, “Why does this feel so good?”
“It’s supposed to feel good, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But not like this. Not this good.”
“It’s…”
“What?” Angling his head back, his eyes probed hers.
“It’s almost better.”
“Being still, you mean?”
She closed her thighs around his hips, hugging him tighter, securing him. “Like this. Just having you…”
“Hmm.” He buried his face in her neck. But after a long moment, he groaned. “I’m sorry. I can’t be still.”
Lifting her hips, she gasped, “Neither can I.”
Suddenly, lest she stumble, she stopped running and bent from the waist, resting her hands on her knees as she sucked in the sultry, insufficient air. She blinked salty sweat out of her eyes and tried to dry them with the back of her hand, only to realize that it was dripping, too.
She must stop thinking about it. Their evening together, while being wildly romantic to her, probably had been nothing out of the ordinary for him, regardless of all the poetic things he had said.
Not that it mattered one way or the other, she reminded herself. It made no difference what he thought of her, or if he thought of her at all. They could never see each other again.
After a time she regained her breath and her heart rate slowed, then she jogged down the steps of the seawall. More than the exhausting run, the certainty of never seeing him again sapped her of energy. She lived only a few blocks from the Battery, but walking those seemed longer than the entire distance she had run.
She was still lost in despondent thought as she unlatched her front iron gate. The rude bleat of a car horn startled her, and she spun around just as a Mercedes convertible screeched to a halt at the curb.
The driver tipped down his sunglasses, looking at her over the frames. “Good evening,” Bobby Trimble drawled. “I’ve been calling you all day and was about to give you up for lost.”
“What are you doing here?”
His chiding smile made her skin crawl.
