Michael decided against going back to the bank. Zimmerman would close up for him, and probably wonder what was going on.
He had spent most of the day with a beautiful woman who knew nothing of the amount of interest she had stirred up in the little town of Windy Point. By morning every man, woman and child for miles around would know there was a new face in town, and that he had patronized her like a bull in heat. While small towns had their good points, they, nevertheless, could make or break anyone with gossip.
Nothing happened in Windy Point that didn't receive its share of speculation, which would then be analyzed time and again, passed on to anyone willing to listen, discussed extensively, and followed by every conceivable opinion, until the first story told had digressed to an entirely different story. Everyone minded everyone else's business, and he would have to be careful not to let it touch Rochelle in view of her need for privacy.
He was purposely overzealous, he supposed, so tired of his stick-in-the-mud life that Rochelle was the best diversion since he left San Francisco. Flashes of a dangerous man pursuing Rochelle caused him to curse his lack of good sense for becoming involved with someone who was trouble waiting to happen. She could not run forever. The time would come when her past would catch up with her.
What then?
If Michael was smart, he thought, he would simply welcome her as a banking client, show her courtesy when their paths crossed, and go about his own affairs. The problem was his affairs were so run-of-the-mill he might die of boredom if he didn't take advantage of nearly any diversion that presented itself. Rochelle was the only positive distraction to hit Windy Point in years.
She was glamorous, beautiful, and carried herself like a gracious lady. When he looked at the soft creamy texture of her skin, he could not help but wonder at the joy in touching his lips to her flesh, warming her blood with his kisses, tasting her lips, tantalizing the woman in her until her response to him became instantaneous and complete. His manhood gave bold reply to his erotic ruminations reminding him he had not had a surge of passion such as this in so long he was beginning to doubt his own libido.
After he parked his car on his driveway, and went inside his house, he glanced about, wondering what he could occupy his time with until seven-thirty. He put on an old pair of jeans and a polo shirt, turning on the television, and spreading out comfortably upon the sofa. Just starting to relax and doze, his phone began ringing, startling him awake. Turning down the volume on the television, he picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, hoping it was not Caroline.
“Michael, what happened to you?” Caroline's voice came through loud and clear, and Michael gave a silent groan.
“What do you mean?” he asked evasively, knowing ahead of time what she would say.
“I mean you left the bank and didn't come back to lock up.
Zimmerman had to do it. I waited for you, thinking you would come back. Where did you go?”
“I had other business to attend to,” he lied, wanting to end the call quickly. “Caroline, you caught me right in the middle of something. I have to go.”
“Michael! Did you forget what day this is? This is our evening to have dinner together. What time will you pick me up?”
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, and really did forget with everything else happening. “I'm sorry, Caroline, but I won't be able to make it tonight.”
“This doesn't have something to do with that red headed woman who was in your bank today, does it?” She didn't just ask, she demanded to know.
Damn it, he thought, word had gotten around all ready. Caroline would pitch one of her temperamental fits if she learned he was taking Rochelle out to dinner. Still, maybe that was just the thing to get her angry enough to quit calling him, he thought. Nothing but good manners, thus far, had kept him from outright telling her to take a hike.
Michael answered Caroline's question, and he could hear the steam sizzling from her nostrils while she listened. “The lady you mentioned is a bank client. I showed her the same courtesy I might show to anyone else.”
It was a lie. While he might buy a client a cup of coffee, he never once tried to make himself indispensable the way he had with Rochelle.
“Does that courtesy include taking her for coffee, taking her to Mabel's shop, waiting while she made purchases, and then taking her to the local motel?” Her voice was as crisp as a raw cucumber, and obviously, she was boiling with anger and jealousy.
“Caroline, I'm not going to discuss this with you. All you want is to fight about it, and frankly, I am not in the mood. I also need to remind you that I am not answerable to you. I do what I choose.”
“Damn you, Michael! I have not given you all these months of my life just to have you turn to some other woman. You owe me more than that. Did you think my going to bed with you was a freebie? Did you think I enjoyed you pawing me all over? I was doing it to make you happy, and now what do I get in return?”
“Caroline…” he started to say, but she cut him off.
“I'm not going to stand by while you court your little red headed bitch. I'll scratch her damn eyes out if I have to!” She slammed down the receiver.
Michael put the phone down and propped his head in his hands.
What in the hell had he ever seen in Caroline? She was bitchy, temperamental and demanding. Now, she had just thrown the ultimate criticism in his face, their sex life. She spoke of it as though he forced her, even though she initiated every sexual encounter—even if he was receptive. Her statement, accusing him of pawing her, suddenly left him feeling cold and disgusted. He should have broken it off with her long ago. It was something that needed doing.
TURNING THE TELEVISION SOUND up again, Michael lay there watching the flickering scenes without registering any of it.
Caroline's phone call left his mind lying in a deep quagmire of dissatisfaction. Before his father's death, he knew where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. All that changed when he inherited the job of overseeing his father's bank. His brother wisely reached out for what he wanted. He invested his inheritance from his father in real estate, finally becoming a realtor.
He also opened a traveling agency, run by his wife. The last Michael heard of him, he was still looking into other investments.
Why hadn't he taken the same initiative?
Someone else could have managed the bank. He could have gone in pursuit of his dream in the field of architecture and construction. The six years he had actually spent gainfully employed in his occupation marked the best time of his life. Visualizing a building growing beneath his fingertips as he labored with intricate detail over the drawings gave him purpose. He made lots of money in those six years, and became earmarked to make lots more from the builders who favored his work over other architects. Being in demand for what he loved best fired his ambition like nothing else could.
Then his father and stepmother died—were murdered—and the ensuing circumstances uprooted his whole life, literally displacing him from everything once important to him. Going into his father's bank marked the ultimate betrayal to his dreams. He was certain it must be his sense of responsibility to family, which the old man drummed and instilled into his head causing him to forsake his architectural career. Of course, there was the fact that while he rotted in jail, selling out was his only option. Stuck in jail without bond, his loses rose daily, until selling was the only worthwhile alternative.
After his trial, it was too late to pick up the pieces of his life.
His last hope evolved from the only option available to him, to start at the bottom and work his way up again. His father's bank provided the means. He took it over on a temporary basis at the time, thinking to hire a replacement in the near future. With everything that happened thereafter, however, his dream of going back to his architectural pursuits faded into the background. Hopes and dreams merged into a kind of passive neglect.
He assuredly dug the grave and buried his life when he sold the beautiful office building in San Francisco, designed and built by him, it standing as a reflection of his dedication and ability. He sunk his life into that building, encompassing debt up to his ears. Then the jobs started pouring in, along with the money. All of his hard work and effort went down the tube after his arrest for the murder of his father and stepmother.
What money he had left was now in investments earning interest or shares. He was not broke by a long shot, but he might as well be, considering the absence of enjoyment in his life. He would gladly sink everything he owned into another career in architecture if he could tear himself from the bank.
Only one single thing held him back, the truth surrounding the deaths of his father and stepmother. Although a jury found him not guilty, his exoneration would never be complete until he knew who killed them.
MICHAEL MUST HAVE DOZED. When he opened his eyes, distracted by some loud noise on television, the clock blinked seven-fifteen, almost time to call Rochelle. He crawled off the sofa, heading for the bathroom where he showered, shaved, bushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He went to his room, pulled on Levi's, a shirt, and boots. He lifted the phone and called her.
Her voice, sounding drugged by recent sleep, was barely audible when she answered.
“Rochelle?” he said softly and waited for an answer.
“Yes?” she murmured through what sounded like a yawn.
“This is Michael. Shall I pick you up for dinner?” As sleepy as she sounded, he was sure she would say no.
“Yes, I'm famished.”
“Then I'll see you in a little while,” he said, and hung up the phone, a rare electrical charge of pleasure cascading through his torso and limbs, growing into honest excitement. He hadn't felt such a rush of anticipation since before his incarceration.
Taking only a few minutes to drive there, Michael rapped softly on the door, and then waited. Silence greeted him. He rapped again, this time louder, impatience growing. Finally, the door opened just a crack. The night chain was still in place.
“Michael, is that you?” she inquired, peeking through the opening, her voice still groggy with the last dredges of sleep.
“Yes, it's me, Rochelle.” The sound of her voice made him eager, anxious to see her.
She pushed the door closed and unhooked the chain. After opening the door, she lifted her fist to her eyes, rubbing them generously. She wore a long white satiny nightgown, purchased from Mabel's shop, and a loose robe. She presented an exact image of Michael's visually concocted perceptions of her in a long negligee.
Michael's gaze drank in a gorgeous figure, it barely concealed by the gown that flaunted warm dips and curves, while the robe gaped open. A low neckline exposed the upper mounds of swollen breasts with a noticeable cleavage between them, the skin creamy and soft. The light behind her put her in pale silhouette, and her full head of hair, edged with auburn highlights, was slightly ruffled and mussed to exhibit a tousled appearance that was both alluring and seductive. She exuded a kind of magnetism Michael found fatally irresistible.
“I fell back to sleep after you called,” she murmured, turning her back and going to sit on the edge of the bed, obviously struggling to come awake from emotional tiredness rather than sleepiness. The robe fell open on both sides, and the satiny smoothness of the gown shimmered against her tempting contours.
Michael closed the door. A nearly overpowering urge shook his usual reserve while his arms ached to hold her. Her warmth and softness beckoned him with alarming appeal, forcing him to muster control over his recalcitrant longings. He stood watching her, his eyes roving freely while hers blinked awake slowly. Leaning forward with her arms pressed across her knees, her breast were visible and ripe buds protruded like tasty fruits as her gown fell open. Michael kept silent, lest he disturb that heady pose that catapulted all his senses and sent his hormones expanding like heat molecules.
“I don't think I've ever been so tried and sleepy,” she declared, sitting up straight again, sobering Michael's rising pulses.
“Rochelle, perhaps you should splash a bit of water on your face,” he suggested, nursing a tinge of dread that she might change her mind and send him away. Those peaked breasts with tender pink rosebuds had assaulted his senses, and while he knew he could not exercise the hormonal urge building by quick degrees, he, nevertheless, wanted to be with her to relish his sudden new feeling of maleness.
They were not on the same wavelengths.
“I don't know why I feel so tired,” she said, raising her head to meet his blue eyes, allowing her gaze to pass down the length of him. She paused briefly at his pointed-toe boots, then her gaze climbed back up to his face again, a warm impersonal appreciation lighting her eyes.
“You look different.”
“Is that good or bad?” he asked in a friendly tone that struck a note of familiarity and humor.
“Neither,” she replied honestly. “It's just an observation.”
Michael twisted his head about, sending her an oblique glance.
“Well, like I said, people around here wear about anything that is comfortable.”
She expelled a breathy sigh, and yawned.
“You're probably tired from being in a strange environment and being separated from what is familiar. I suppose you can compare it to jet lag. You'll feel better in a day or two.”
“I hope so,” she said, rubbing her eyes again.
“I'll wet a washcloth for you,” Michael offered, moving toward the bathroom. What he really needed was cold water splashed on his own face, after observing a seductive angel with shimmering white satin cascading down her shapely figure.
When he returned with the wet cloth in his hand, Rochelle pushed herself to a standing position, looking like a lovely Goddess in the long gown and robe. He stopped short of her lovely visage and stood staring at her. She took a step toward him, reaching for the washcloth he held out to her. Her foot struck something on the carpet, her shoe, and she went flying toward him, head and shoulders first.
The washcloth fell from his hand. His arms flew out, encircling her after she collided with his chest. He held her comfortingly, pulling her against him, a sudden sensation of warmth filling his head and chest. Her body felt good, fit his arms perfectly. She was soft everywhere he touched, everywhere her body pressed against him. Sensuous warmth seemed to flow from her, invading all of him. Her scent was fresh and clean like fragrant soap, and he found his nose nestled in her hair, his lips touching the delicate skin of her throat. Her thighs pressed against his while her breast crushed softly against his chest. He felt his manhood responding to her closeness, and nothing in his mind could cause him to break the embrace, or control his over-active body responses.
Rochelle mentally assessed the powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders. His arms seemed to absorb her like a sponge. Her brain felt tingly and warm, similar to when she had drunk too much wine. She lay her head against his shoulder, it hard and firm against her cheek. His masculinity provided a compelling and powerful additive that catered to some unfulfilled need inside her.
For a couple of minutes, they remained locked in each other's embrace. Rochelle's arms encircled him, her palms and flayed fingers pressing against the reflexive muscles of his back. When she raised her head from his shoulder and looked at him, words seemed empty, even useless now. He pushed strands of hair from her cheek, returning her unswerving gaze. She felt the heated hardness of his manhood pressed against her, it jolting some deep, inner need that had never been satisfied, while at the same time drawing upon the reluctance previously inspired by Tobias's brutality.
The thought of Tobias jolted her and she stepped away from Michael, his hand still clinging to her arms with a seemingly disinclination to let go.
She looked at him beseechingly, a deep sadness underlying what she said next. “I'm not me right now, Michael,” she said softly, tilting her head forward bashfully. “I can't tell you how long it has been since someone held me in comforting arms. Please don't misunderstand my response.”
“Rochelle…” Michael said, moving toward her.
She lifted her hand, the palm touching his chest. “No, I'll just be a moment,” she said, stepping past him to take her jeans, shirt, and under-things from a hanger before going into the bathroom.
A small table with two chairs stood at the front of the room beneath a draped window. Michael took a chair, his body echoing deep, pleasant feelings and longings. His infatuation was strong and potent. This beautiful girl, who stepped into his life at just the time when he didn't think he could handle the day-to-day routine any longer, was tempting some powerful emotions in his boring life.