I gasp with shock before I can stop myself. Actually, 150 is a gift, but I’m sure as hell not going to let him know that.
“That’s a low blow, Hurley. There isn’t a woman alive who has her real weight on her driver’s license. And I can’t believe you’re wasting your time investigating me while the real killer is running around loose. If the rest of the police force is as swift as you are, heaven help the citizens of Sorenson.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when I rescued you from your ex earlier.”
“I didn’t need rescuing, you Neanderthal. It wasn’t what you thought. We were having an argument. That’s all. Nothing else. I hate to strip you of your armor, white knight, but all you did was butt into a minor squabble and jump to a bunch of wrong conclusions.”
“That’s not how it looked to me. But then, maybe I did misinterpret things. Maybe you were just having a little fun, eh? Maybe you like it rough and you and your ex were just reliving old times. Was that it? Did I interrupt the grand reconciliation?”
“I was not…we were not…Christ! I give up!” I don’t believe in physical violence, but I’ve never wanted to slap someone so badly in my life. Unless you count the time Desi told Greg Johnsen right before our first date that I never went on a second date unless the guy showed me his penis at the end of the evening.
“Damn it, Hurley. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do I? Big fancy house. Handsome and talented husband. Must be hard to give all that up after seven years together. You wouldn’t be the first woman to trade fidelity for some creature comforts and a cushy lifestyle.”
I stutter with fury for a few seconds before I manage to spit out, “You’re a pig, Hurley.” I turn away from him to go back inside.
“Mattie, wait. Please.”
Something in his voice makes me stop, but I don’t turn back to look at him. I am afraid of what I might say, or of what I might see in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I didn’t mean all that. It’s just that…I mean I…oh, hell.” Suddenly he grabs my shoulder and spins me around to face him. Before I know what’s happening, his lips descend on mine, crushing, urgent, and wonderfully needy. It takes all of a millisecond for my irritation to give way to total forgiveness and pure, unadulterated lust.
His tongue finds its way past my lips and I swear it reaches the bottom of my toes. One of my hands is pinned between us, the palm flat against his chest, the backside of it pushing against my breast. I can feel the rapid thrum of his heart and the incredible heat of his skin radiating through his shirt.
When he finally lifts his lips from mine, it is all I can do not to whine and whimper, to beg him for more, to throw him down on the porch and rip his pants off him to see what treasures lay beneath. Because judging from the feel of the humps and bumps that are pressed up against my nether regions, it is quite a treasure to behold.
He releases me so suddenly I almost fall over. “I gotta go,” he says. And just like that, he is gone. I watch in stunned disbelief as he walks away.
“Well, well, well,” Desi says behind me as Hurley climbs into his car and starts it up. “Isn’t this interesting? A homicide detective with the hots for one of his suspects. A suspect who just happens to be barely married to his other suspect.”
“What the hell was that?” I ask her, watching Hurley’s taillights disappear down the drive. “I mean what the hell was that? Was it a test of some sort?” I lick my lips and can still taste him there. “Was he collecting evidence? What?”
Desi laughs. “Oh, man. You’ve got it bad. Mom isn’t going to be happy about this, you know. It’s bad enough you’re giving up a doctor, but for a cop? She’ll shit a brick.”
“And then find some obscure reference to brick-shitting in one of her textbooks,” I add with a laugh. “Some bizarre disorder like pica, but with it coming out instead of going in.”
“What’s pica?”
“It’s a craving that makes people eat weird stuff, like dirt or clay.”
“Then I’d say that detective is the one with the pica. ’Cause it sure looked to me like he wanted to eat you.”
“Mmm,” I murmur. “Kind of felt that way, too.”
Take that, Alison Miller!
Chapter 22
My attendance at the hospital celebration was not only a sartorial disaster, it was only minimally successful in terms of getting any useful information about Karen. But Marjorie’s comment to Mick—about how he should talk to Molinaro about some nursing problems he was having—gave me an idea. I realize that the wives, some of them anyway, might know a fair amount about the business end of their husbands’ work. There is one wife in particular who I think will fit this bill, one who wasn’t at last night’s reception.
Arthur Henley’s wife, Lauren, isn’t like many of the other doctors’ wives. Status and wealth seem to mean little to her. She attends most of the requisite social events and holds her own with the other wives, but she always seems apart from it all, never buying into the catty discussions or monetary pissing contests. She is tiny but strong, pretty, and well put together—one of those petite, graceful women I hate standing next to since it makes me look and feel like the abominable snowwoman.
David and I have shared dinners with the Henleys a number of times, both at their house and ours. As a result, I’ve come to know Lauren a little better than I do most of the other wives. What’s more, I like her. She has an eager curiosity about her husband’s work and a good knowledge of medical facts and terminology despite no formal training. She is clearly intelligent, generally confident, and occasionally, often amusingly, outspoken—at least in matters of general interest. Since she has an MBA, she is involved in the business end of her husband’s practice and tends to it by going into the office a couple of days each week. The rest of the time, she busies herself making a comfortable home for Arthur and their two school-aged daughters.
It all looks great on the surface, but unfortunately, Arthur and Lauren Henley don’t have the perfect marriage any more than David and I did. While Arthur isn’t exactly a philanderer, he does have a mistress named Ruth he has kept on the side for nearly five years that I know of. And there lays the heart of my dilemma.
I’ve met Ruth a couple of times, and damn if I don’t like her, too. She is an earthy, warm woman who is quick to laugh and seems totally at ease with herself. What’s more, her interest in those around her seems utterly genuine—if it’s merely an act, it’s a damned good one. And she seems content to play second fiddle to Lauren whenever necessary.
For a straying husband, Ruth is the perfect mistress; to a wife, she is an utter nightmare. For me, she is a never-ending ethical debate. As a wife, I feel compelled to place her in the enemy camp. After all, wives know that mistresses are conniving, manipulative, money-grubbing whores who will perform any sex act at any time and pretend to love it even if they find it as appealing as scraping five-day-old roadkill up from the highway during an August heat wave. Even wives who were once mistresses believe that, ignoring their inherent hypocrisy.
But Ruth doesn’t fit the typical mistress mold. Of course, I have no way of knowing what her and Arthur’s sex life is like, but the rest of Ruth is as warm and personable as a woman can be. Which leaves me feeling like a traitor whenever I am around Lauren.
Perhaps that’s why there is always a certain wall between Lauren and me; even though we get along well enough, we aren’t what I would call close. I know that if I’m to have any hope of getting personal information out of her, I’m going to have to strengthen the bond between us somehow. I need to find something that will tie us indelibly together as coconspirators.