No one had ever put so much weight into her name. Coming from his lips the single syllable seemed like sweet sad music, something lonely and haunting that she wanted to have, to be, and then he put his other hand on the side of her head, the palm against her cheek, fingers in her hair, and he kissed her lips.
For a moment she stood too stunned to react. A thousand thoughts flickered and danced across her mind, a collection of do’s and don’ts, worry and excitement and fear and the lingering adrenaline of what they had done, that pounding sense of living on the ragged edge of now. And with it the pain of that existence, the fear of it, and the thought that distraction was fine, was what she needed. Then the simplest thought in the world hit, an old and familiar one that said simply, a boy you care about is kissing you. Kiss back.
So she did.
It was awkward for a moment, that first-kiss sensation stronger than usual, but then their tongues touched, gently, tentative, his fingers moving in her hair, and it felt good, so good, to be in the moment, to not feel anything but this. She slid her arms to his side, his back, feeling his body beneath, and suddenly they were locked hard, their bodies thrust together, his belt buckle jamming into her stomach, his hand moving from her hair to her neck. Trailing down her back, fingers touching lightly. Reaching the small of her back and then hesitating, like he was asking permission.
She broke the kiss, a little dizzy. Paused. Asked herself what she was doing, if this was wise. Then remembered the version of herself she’d seen in the mirror that afternoon, the woman who wasn’t afraid of anything, the one who would take the world for all it could give her. How free that had felt. How much better than the standard, everyday Jennifer.
She slid her hand on top of his. Then, looking him in the eyes, slowly pushed his hand down to her ass.
He moaned, almost a whimper, and squeezed, fingers gripping her flesh, digging in, and then it was happening, the two of them tearing into each other, ravenous, electric. She had a faint flash of surprise as she realized that he was a good kisser, soft and firm at once. His beard stubble ground against her upper lip. He stepped into her and she moved with him like they were dancing, let him guide her back against the refrigerator, never breaking the kiss.
His hands found the straps of her dress and slid them down her shoulders. Her nipples hardened in the cold air as the fabric eased past her breasts, her stomach. Caught at the swell of her hips for a breathless moment, and then slipped to pool at her feet. It was intoxicating, the surprise and heat of it, standing naked in her kitchen with this friend, this stranger, pressing against her.
He broke the kiss slowly, letting her lip slide from his mouth, and stepped back. His eyes drank her, top to bottom to top. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.”
She raised her lips as he leaned in to kiss her, only he moved lower, his breath hot against the skin of her neck, his tongue darting and quick. He kissed the hollow of her throat, and then the space between her breasts. Ran his tongue down the flat of her belly, lower and lower, until he knelt in front of her on the tile floor. Like an act of worship, she thought, and then his tongue moved lower still, and she stopped thinking.
CHAPTER 15
“I’M TELLING YOU, the only language these people understand is force. I’m sorry if that’s not polite, but it’s true. Iran, Iraq, al-Qaeda, the Taliban, they’re all the same. They still kill people by stoning them. They behead journalists and post the video on the Internet. When the going gets tough, they hide in caves. They’re barbarians, and barbarians only understand one thing. The sword. Or these days, the airstrike.” That got a laugh, and the man played to it, pausing to finish his single malt. He had the gentle pudginess of the very wealthy, not a beer belly but a general swelling, like he was entitled to more space in the world. “We did it right in Afghanistan. Daisy cutter bombs first, questions later. See fifty men carrying AKs and riding camels, assume they’re the enemy. The media loves to make fun of Bush, to question his intelligence, but I’ve met the man, and I stand by him. His policy worked in Afghanistan, and it’s working in Iraq, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t let Iran know that if they want to tangle, we’re more than happy to oblige.”
“Darling.” The woman who slid her arm beneath his had a face that looked thirty and eyes that looked twice that. “You know it’s not polite to talk politics at a party.” She nodded at Victor, said, “Especially when you don’t know everyone’s point of view.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Victor said. “I find it very informative.” These are the elite? No wonder this country is such a mess. He smiled, said, “Given your position on Iran, and your clear knowledge of the region, you must have very strong feelings about Betin gan Makdous?”
“Umm, well, yes,” the man said, straightening. He coughed, glanced at the small audience staring at him. “Of course, I’m not an expert, but again, I think the situation defines itself. The only way democracy is going to survive is if we give it a safe haven. Liberals go on about schools and roads and hospitals, but if you give the people freedom, they can take care of the rest themselves. If that means showing the barbarians the pointy end of an M-16, well, so be it.”
“You feel that’s the proper way to deal with makdous?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and started to take a drink before noticing his glass was empty. “Show them who’s boss.”
“Really.” Victor shrugged. “Personally, I like to just wrap makdous in pita and eat it. But if you want to shoot your pickled eggplant first, go nuts.”
A woman tittered. The man’s face hardened, but before he could respond, Victor felt his cell phone vibrate. He glanced at the display, saw the number. “I’m sorry,” he said, “rude of me, but I need to take this call. Some of my clients are on the other side of the world.”
“Financial markets?” the man said between clenched teeth.
“More like import-export. Excuse me.” Victor gave a bright, blank smile, then turned away. Opened his cell, said, “Hold on.”
The party was in a magnificent Gold Coast penthouse, the east wall scored with windows framing Navy Pier and the cake-frosting traces of Lake Michigan. A string quartet played in the corner, and Mexicans in uniform wandered the crowd, passing trays. Across the room, French doors opened onto a small balcony, but even through the black-tie-bleached-blonde fund-raiser crowd, Victor could see that it was packed with smokers. A disgusting habit that somehow always got the best real estate.
He noticed a closed door on the far side of the room, strolled over, and stepped inside. The bedroom beyond was dark. He shut and locked the door, then walked over to the window and raised the blinds. A dozen stories below, cars raced up and down Lake Shore Drive, silent behind double-paned glass. He raised the phone. “Go ahead.”
“I think there’s a problem.” A pause, then, “Someone was killed in the alley behind Rossi’s. You know the restaurant I mean?”
“Of course. So?”
“He was killed by men who had just finished robbing the place.”
Victor closed his eyes. Goddamn it. He hated dealing with amateurs. Only pimps and porn stars would willingly adopt the nickname “Johnny Love,” and the man didn’t have the equipment to be a porn star. The business they’d done in the past had been strictly small-scale and very carefully regimented.
So why did you agree to meet with him? Why tell him to make this deal?
Why, for the love of Christ, advance him a portion of the purchase price?
The answer was simple. The deal had seemed worth the risk. Thing about risk was, it was only worthwhile when you won. “Interesting that it happened tonight.”