Divine Evil

glasses on the table and took the seat across from him, he opened his eyes again. He could see patience, understanding, and the offer of a shoulder to lean on. It was so easy to open the wound.
    “Christ, Slim, I wanted to kill him,” Cam said quietly. There was a look in his eyes, a dark and dangerous lookthat contrasted with the calm control of his voice. “He was drunk and mean and looking at me the same way he looked at me when I was ten and couldn't fight back. And I wanted to kill him more than I ever wanted anything. What kind of cop does that make me?”
    “A human one.” She hesitated, pressing her lips together. “Cam, I used to hear my parents talking about-well, about your situation at home. Why didn't anyone ever do anything?”
    “People don't like to interfere-especially in domestic problems. And my mother always backed him up. She still does. She'll post his bail as soon as it's set and take him home. Nothing he does will ever convince her that he's a worthless drunk. I used to wish he'd empty a bottle and kill himself.” He cursed under his breath, thinking of Clare's father, knowing from the expression on her face that she was thinking of him as well. “I'm sorry.”
    “No, it's all right. I guess we both have firsthand experience of how destructive alcoholism can be. But Dad-he never hurt anyone when he was drinking. Except himself.” She made the effort to shake off the mood. “You must be feeling pretty raw today. I can take a rain check on the ride.”
    “I am feeling raw.” He flexed his stiff hands. “And I could use some company-if you can stand it.”
    She smiled and stood. “Let me get a jacket.”
    When she returned, Cam reminded her to turn off the radio-then reminded her to close the garage door. With her thumbs hooked in her pockets, she studied the motorcycle parked beside her car. It was big and brawny, a spartan black and silver without any fancy work. A machine, she thought with approval as she circled it. Not a toy.
    “This is the real thing.” She ran a respectful hand over the engine. With her tongue in her cheek, she picked upthe helmet he'd set on the back as he unstrapped the spare. “Rafferty, you've mellowed.”
    As she laughed, he dropped the spare helmet over her head and fastened the strap. She slipped on the bike behind him, hooking her arms comfortably around his waist when he gunned the engine. Neither of them noticed the glint of the telescopic lens from the high window across the street when they swung out of the drive and cruised away.
    She kept her hands loose and her head back. Years before, she had spent a spring and summer in Paris harmlessly in love with another art student. He'd been sweet and dreamy and broke. Together they had rented a motorbike and spent a weekend puttering through the streets.
    Then she laughed at her own memory. This was nothing like that gentle interlude. Her young lover's body had been frail-nothing like the hard solid length she pressed against now.
    Cam leaned into a turn, and she felt her heart race. A good burst of feeling, like the steady vibration of the bike beneath her. She could smell fumes rising from the muffler, grass newly mown, the leather of Cam's jacket, and the deeper, more secretive scent of his skin.
    He liked the feel of her behind him, the unabashedly sexual sensation of her thighs spread and molded to his with the steady rhythm of the engine beneath them. Her hands rested lightly on his hips or crept more securely around his waist when he eased into a turn. On impulse he turned off the highway down a narrow, winding road. They swayed like dancers beneath an arch of trees. Shadow and light threw dizzy patterns on the asphalt. The air held the cool, fragrant breath of spring.
    They stopped at a roadside store and bought icy soft drinks and huge cold-cut subs. With the picnic secured inthe saddlebags, they drove farther into the woods to where a stream curved and widened.
    “This is great.” Clare took off the helmet and pulled a hand through her hair. Then she laughed and turned to Cam. “I don't even know where I am.”
    “We're only about ten miles north of town.”
    “But we've been riding for hours.”
    “I circled around.” He took the bags of food and passed her one. “You were too busy singing to notice.”
    “The only trouble with a motorcycle is there's no radio to blast.” She walked to the edge of the mossy bank where the stream was gurgling and tumbling over rocks. Overhead