Sacred Sins

risks. Maybe it was time.
    “You have scotch?” She turned back to see his smile.
    “Yeah.”
    “That'll do.”
    The air snapped cold the moment she stepped from the car. Winter wasn't going to wait for the calendar, she thought, then shuddered, thinking of another calendar, one with the Madonna and Child on the cover. The little twist of fear had her looking up and down the street. A block away a truck let out a blast of exhaust.
    “Come on.” Ben stood in a pool of light from a streetlamp; the light bounced from the planes of his face. “You're cold.”
    “Yes.” She shivered again when his arm went around her shoulders.
    He led her inside. There were about a dozen mail slots against one wall. The pale green carpet was clean but almost threadbare. There was no lobby, no security guard at a desk, only a dim set of stairs.

    “It's certainly a quiet building,” she said as they climbed to the second floor.
    “Everybody here pretty much minds their own business.”
    There was a faint scent of cooking in the hall when he stopped to unlock his door. The light overhead winked weakly.
    His apartment was tidier than she'd expected. It was more than just a general preconception of a man living alone, Tess realized. Ben seemed too relaxed and casual in other areas to bother clearing dust or old magazines. Then she decided she was wrong. The room might be clean, but it did reflect his style.
    The sofa was the dominant piece of furniture. Low and far from new, it was plumped with throw pillows. A Dagwood couch, Tess thought. One that simply begged you to relax and take a nap. There were posters rather than paintings. Toulouse-Lautrec's cancan dancers, a single woman's leg standing in a four inch heel, skimmed at the thigh with white lace. There was a Dieffenbachia thriving away in a plastic margarine bowl. And books. One wall was nearly filled with them. Delighted, she pulled out a worn hardbacked copy of East of Eden . As Ben's hands went to her shoulders, she opened the flyleaf.
    “To Ben.” She read the spiky, feminine handwriting. “Kiss, kiss. Bambi.” Putting her tongue in her cheek, she closed it. “Bambi?”
    “Used bookstore.” He removed her jacket. “Fascinating places. Never can tell what you'll pick up.”
    “Did you pick up the book or Bambi?”
    “Never mind.” He took the copy from her and stuck it back on the shelf.
    “Do you know, one gets an immediate mental image from certain names?”
    “Yeah. Scotch, straight up, right?”

    “Right.” A streak of gray whizzed by and landed on a red pillow. “A cat too?” Amused, Tess strolled over to stroke it. “What's his name?”
    “Her. She proved that by having kittens in the bathtub last year.” The cat rolled over so Tess could scratch her belly. “I call her D.C.”
    “As in Washington?”
    “As in Dumb Cat.”
    “It's a wonder she doesn't have a complex.” Running her hands over the rounded belly again, Tess wondered if she should warn him he'd be getting another litter of gifts in a month or so.
    “She runs into walls. On purpose.”
    “I could refer you to an excellent pet psychologist.”
    He laughed, but wasn't entirely sure she was joking. “I'd better get those drinks.”
    When he went into the kitchen, she rose to look at his view from the window. The streets weren't as quiet as her neighborhood. Traffic moved by at a steady clip, droning and grunting along. He wouldn't take himself far from the action, she thought, and remembered she hadn't paid any attention to what direction he'd taken. She could be anywhere in the city. She expected un-ease, and instead felt a sense of freedom.
    “I promised you music.”
    She turned and looked at him. The simple dun-colored sweater and faded jeans he wore suited him. She'd thought once that he understood himself very well. Now it would be foolish to deny that she wanted to understand him.
    “Yes, you did.”

    He handed her a glass and thought about how different she was, and how different she looked from any other woman he'd brought here. That quiet class of hers demanded that a man swallow his lust and take the whole person. Wondering if he was ready to, he set down his own glass and flipped through his records.
    When he set one on the turntable, Tess heard the brassy heat of jazz. “Leon Redbone,” she said.
    He shook his head as he turned toward her. “You keep surprising me.”
    “My grandfather's one of his biggest fans.” Sipping her drink, she walked over to pick