The Alibi

He hitched his chin toward the connecting bathroom door. “If you need anything, just ask.”

“Thank you.”

She seemed reluctant to get off the bed while he was still in the room, so he smiled at her again and left her alone. Thankfully the cleaning lady had stocked the fridge with bottled drinks, including water. While there, he took an inventory of staples. A half dozen eggs. A pound of bacon. English muffins. Coffee. Cream? No. He hoped she drank her coffee black. Orange juice? Yes. A six-ounce can of concentrate in the freezer.

He rarely ate breakfast unless it was a business meeting. But in the country, where the weekend mornings were longer and lazier, he liked to indulge in a hearty late breakfast. He was an okay cook, especially something as basic as bacon and eggs. Maybe they would cook breakfast together, dividing the chores, bumping into one another as they went about them. Laughing. Kissing. Then they could carry their plates out onto the porch to eat. He smiled at the thought of tomorrow morning.

“This morning,” he corrected, checking the clock and realizing that it was well after midnight.

Yesterday had been a bitch. He had left Charleston upset and angry, frustrated on many levels. Nothing in his life had been right. Never in a million years would he have guessed that such a sour day would end with his making love to a woman he hadn’t known existed a few hours ago. Nor that it would be such a meaningful experience.

He continued marveling over the caprice of fate until he heard the water in the bathroom shut off. He forced himself to wait two minutes more, not wanting to reappear too quickly or at an inopportune time. Then he grabbed two bottles of water and made his way back to the bedroom.

“By the way,” he said as he pushed open the door with his bare foot, “I think it’s time we properly introduced—”

He stopped when she turned quickly from the dresser, the telephone receiver in her hand. She hung up immediately and blurted out, “I hope you don’t mind.”

Actually, he did mind. He minded one hell of a lot. Not that she had used his telephone without asking first. But that she had someone in her life who was important enough to call in the wee hours of the morning within minutes of making love to him. It stunned him how much he minded.

He’d dallied in the kitchen, fantasizing about having breakfast with her, counting the minutes until he could return with propriety. Now he

was standing here with a dumb expression on his face and a semi-erection poking against his undershorts. And all this while she was placing a phone call to somebody else. He set the bottles of water on the nightstand.

He felt stupid and ridiculous, alien feelings for Hammond Cross. Usually self-confident and on top of any given situation, he felt like a real dumb-ass, and he disliked the feeling intensely.

“Would you like some privacy?” he asked woodenly.

“No, it’s all right.” She replaced the receiver. “I couldn’t get through.”

“Sorry.”

“It wasn’t important.” She folded her arms across her waist, then nervously dropped them to her sides.

If it wasn’t important, then why in hell were you trying to place a call at this time of night? he wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“Is it okay if I wear this?”

“What?” he asked distractedly.

She ran her hand down the front of the old, faded T-shirt. He recognized it as a fraternity party shirt from college days; it caught her midthigh. “Oh. Sure. It’s fine.”

“I found it in the chest of drawers in the bathroom. I wasn’t snooping. I just—”

“Don’t mention it.” His curt tone spoke volumes.

Her hands formed fists at her sides, then she shook them loose. “Look, maybe it would be better if I left now. We both got a little carried away. Maybe the ride on the Ferris wheel went to our heads.” Her stab at humor fell flat. “Anyway, this was…” Her words trailed off as she glanced at the bed.

Her gaze lingered there probably longer than she intended it to. The jumbled linens were a poignant reminder of what had taken place on them, and how involving and satisfying it had been. Words whispered with unrestraint seemed to echo back to them now.

While in the bathroom, she had washed. Hammond could smell soap and water on her skin. But he hadn’t washed. He smelled like sex. He smelled like her.

So when she said hastily, “I’ll just change back into my clothes and be on my way,” and made to move past him, his arm shot out and caught her waist.

She came to a standstill, but she didn’t turn toward him. She stared straight ahead. “Whatever else you may think about me, I want you to know that… that this isn’t something I do casually or routinely.”

Softly he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

She looked at him then, turning only her head. “It matters to me. It matters to me that you know that.”