“Too much lawyer work.”
“Way too much. I do real estate litigation and there's never a shortage.”
“Meanwhile, you come to Malibu and watch much older women agonize over bikinis.”
“Slightly older women.”
“Liar,” she said, cheerfully.
“May I ask your name?”
Eyeblink. “Gloria. Like in the song… well, Mr. Volpe the lonely, busy attorney. You did make my day. By noticing.”
“Gloria,” said Aaron, “you are extremely easy to notice.”
Pulling the line off with utter sincerity because he meant it. Up close, the tight and lean was even more impressive, the total package enhanced by generous breasts too soft and bouncy not to be real. Those lovely little bumps of unfettered nipple. He imagined her dressing quickly but expertly in a mansion ranch house, green acres vivid through a crystalline window. Nothing to do today but try on bikinis.
Eyes the color of the ocean as the sun kissed it.
The dark patch right beneath the hem of her shirt, oddly appealing. Aaron wanted to help her. Knew he couldn't, she was nothing more than… a potential data bank.
Rich, good-looking woman who paid for her humongous diamond and the rest of her lifestyle with pain.
Guilt and atonement.
She'd given him something to work with.
He said, “Going back to the whole guilt thing, I guess the difference between good people and bad is the level of atonement.”
She said, “Speaking of which.”
“Pardon?”
“You could atone for your sin.”
“What sin is that?”
“Standing there watching while I went through those bikinis. What if I was the type to get freaked out?”
“I really am sorry. It was just…”
“Just what?”
“What I said before. You're an extremely-”
She silenced him with a finger over his lips. Her skin was warm, slightly dank, maybe even a little greasy. As if she'd used lotion recently. Or was secreting something.
Aaron could feel little bubbles of his own sweat popping in his hair.
Gemma Dement shifted closer. Her hand lowered to his. She rubbed the space between his thumb and forefinger. Pretty blatant, out in public like this.
People walked by, no one seemed to notice.
No one recognizing her. A woman ignored.
Aaron's lips were dry. He restrained himself from licking.
Gemma Dement's eyelids lowered. Big, curling lashes. Another flash of Pacific. Twelve cylinders of perfume.
“Your sin,” she said, “was watching me but not following through.”
He followed in the Porsche as her X5 drove out of the Cross Creek lot, turned right at the light, continued north on PCH.
She drove faster and better than she had on the ride from home. No absentminded sways, no cell phone distraction.
Aaron kept to the speed limit, he couldn't afford to do otherwise.
As if sensing it, Gemma Dement slowed down so he could stay with her.
Like a dance.
Like a woman fixing herself to your rhythm. Putting you back inside when you popped out.
Where was she taking him? Back to the ranch? Lem out of town on some shoot, the kids in school, whatever staff was around that discreet?
A woman that blatant, he could see why she got beat up.
No, scratch that, there was never an excuse.
Still…
What was he getting himself into?
Just south of Point Dume-well before Solar Canyon-she stuck an arm out of the driver's window, jabbed three times to the left.
Aaron pulled into the center island behind her, hoping no Chippie would happen by. The X5 waited for traffic to pass then swooped up a steep blacktop driveway.
At the top was a series of white, clapboard bungalows. A sign on a post read Surf 'n Sea Beach Hotel.
Daily and Weekly Rates, Premium Cable, the AAA seal of approval.
Hotel, my ass, this was your basic fifties-era motel.
Not the first time the job had taken him to a drive-in tryst. Only this time, he'd be more than a guy with a camera.
Rigors of the job; little Moe had no idea.
When the coast was clear, he turned.
She'd waited fifteen feet in, half hidden by a cloud of bougainvillea. Her arm shot out again. Aaron was supposed to hook a right. He complied, found several parking spaces shaded by a gigantic coral tree. Messy thing, the Porsche was sure to get dirty, but he could see why she'd picked the spot.
Out of visual range of the northernmost bungalow that served as the motel's front office.
As he pulled in, Gemma Dement cruised past. Five minutes later, she was walking toward him, looking grave, Fendi lenses flashing coppery light. On the surface, all business, but her body language disputed that: swinging a key on a dolphin-shaped holder in wide, playful arcs. Like a kid ready for an adventure.
Once they were inside the small, dim, mildewed room, she drew the drapes, tugged several times to make sure no sliver of daylight intruded.
One step short of total darkness. Aaron's pupils dilated as he strained to follow her movements. She moved easily, familiar with the layout.
What the hell have I gotten into?
As he stood there, she got into that humming thing again. Powered up the twelve-inch flat-screen sitting atop a tilting bureau. Punched a code without consulting the guide.
Home away from home.
The station she selected was all music. So-called smooth jazz, heavy on repetition and low on imagination.
Lots of brush-percussion. Lots of lazy saxophone.
Oh, Lord, a porno soundtrack.
He still hadn't budged from just inside the door when she marched to the bed, folded back a corner of the comforter, ordered, “Get naked and comfy. I'll be back in a jif.”
She took her purse into the bathroom. Aaron listened for telltale sounds, anything weird. Heard nothing.
Okay, this was the choice point: make his escape and possibly miss the chance for a serious lead, or go with it.
Seconds later, he was under the covers, clothes folded neatly over a chair, wallet, watch, cell phone safe at the bottom.
He watched numbers shift on the cheap digital clock next to the TV.
“A jif” stretched another four minutes, during which he fantasized about terrible things.
She's got a gun.
A razor.
I'm an idiot.
The bathroom door opened and she was at the side of the bed, standing lean and unclad, brown-pelted crotch inches from his nose, ready for inspection.
Not a young woman's body, but beautiful. That long-waisted configuration he liked, but still plenty of leg. That nice belly curve women developed when they didn't get crazy about starvation. Those child-bearing hips defined by angular bones. Generous breasts, no false advertising by the T-shirt. A little droopy but for some reason that appealed to him. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail. The diamond ring was nowhere to be seen. That last fact-and her ass-got him instantly hard.
As she bent at the waist and leaned over him, he smelled her breath, astringent with alcohol. Gin, the junipers were in bloom. She'd fortified herself with a bathroom belt.
He touched her. Mixed business with pleasure and looked for bruises.
None but the single camouflaged patch. How many internal wounds, he had no idea.
Gemma Dement got in bed and his nose filled with booze and perfume. Clapping one hand on his head, she fed him her left nipple.
“Suck it hard but don't bite it. Keep your eyes closed. I really am much older.”
Aaron wondered how he'd itemize this on his next bill to Mr. Dmitri.
He went into it expecting craziness-manic sex, followed by tears, guilt, some sort of histrionics.
Sobbing discussion of guilt and atonement.
She worked him like a pro, athletic, silent, not even breathing hard. Positioned herself serially, as if playing for an unseen camera.
While she was in the bathroom, he'd gone over every damned inch of the room to make sure there wasn't any camera.