The Cove

was scared, nervous, but he didn't stop. His fingers went deeper, changing rhythm, even as his breath speeded up as he felt her relax, as he felt the excitement of what he was doing to her break through her embarrassment.

    He lifted his head and smiled at her dazed face. "It's all right, sweetheart. You need this. God knows I do, too."

    He began kissing her again, talking into her mouth, sex words that were crude and raw and exciting. When she came, he took her cries in his mouth, held her tightly against him, and wished like mad that he could come inside her. He hurt, he was pressing hard as a board against her thigh.

    But he couldn't.

    Dillon knocked lightly on the adjoining door.

    "Quinlan, Sally, you guys awake?"

    He looked down at the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was just staring at him as if she couldn't believe what had happened.

    "You okay?"

    She just stared at him, mute.

    "Hey, Quinlan, you up? Come on, you guys, we've got miles to go."

    "That's the guy who owns the Porsche," Quinlan said. "We've got to hang on to him." He kissed the tip of her nose and forced himself to leave her.

20

    "I LIKE YOUR apartment."

    He grinned at the back of her head. “Easy for you to say since it's got more character than that motel room-"

    She turned to face him, no longer dressed in the too-tight jeans, his coat that had hung halfway down her legs, and the blouse that had gaped open over her breasts.

    They'd stopped at the Macy's in Montgomery Plaza on the way back to Washington. Dillon had bowed out, heading for the computer software store in the mall. James and Sally had enjoyed themselves immensely, arguing over everything from the color of her nightgown to the style of her shoes. She left wearing dark-brown corduroy slacks that fit her very nicely, a cream pullover wool sweater over a brown turtleneck, and neat brown leather half boots.

    He was carrying his own coat-the one she'd taken- over his arm. He doubted the dry cleaners would be able to get out the grease stains from her motorcycle accident.

    "I've heard that men living alone usually live in a dump-you know, empty pizza cartons all over everywhere, including the bathroom, dead plants, and horrible furniture they got from their mother's attic."

    "I like to live well," he said, and realized it was true. He didn't like mess or secondhand furniture, and he loved plants and impressionist paintings. He was lucky to have Mrs. Mulgravy live next to him. She saw to everything when he was gone, particularly his precious African violets.

    "You do very well with plants." "I think the secret is that I play my sax to them. Most of them prefer blues."

    "I don't think I like the blues," she said, still looking at him intently.

    "Have you ever listened to Dexter Gordon? John Col-trane? Gordon's album Blue Notes wrings your withers." "I've heard of Gato Barbieri."

    "He's great too. I learned a lot from him and Phil Woods. There's hope yet for you, Sally. You'll get an earful tonight. You've got to give the wailing and the rhythm a chance."

    "That's your hobby, James?"

    He looked just a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, I play the saxophone at the Bonhomie Club on Friday and Saturday nights. Except when I'm not in town, like last night." "Are you playing tonight?" "Yes, but no, not now. You're here." "I'd love to hear you. Why can't we go?" He gave her a slow smile. "You'd really like to go?" "I'd really like to go."

    "Okay. The chances are nobody would even begin to recognize you, but let's get you a wig anyway, and big dark glasses." He knew that tomorrow he, Sally, and Dillon would leap into this mess feetfirst. He couldn't wait to meet Scott Brainerd. He couldn't wait to meet Dr. Beadermeyer. He hadn't told Sally yet. He wanted to give her today with no hassles from him, from anybody. He wanted to see her smile.

    "James, do you think I could call a couple of my friends?"

    "Who are they?"

    "Women who work on the Hill. I haven't spoken to them since more than six months ago. Well, I did call one of them just before I left Washington to go to The Cove. Her name is Jill Hughes. I asked her for a loan. She agreed, very quickly, and wanted to meet me. There was something about how she acted-I didn't go. I'd like to call Monica Freeman. She was my very best friend. She was out of town before. I want to see how she acts, what she has to say to me. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but I just want to know who's there for me."

    She didn't sound the least bit sorry for herself.