Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,21

six individuals. Of the individuals, two were older gentlemen, one clearly European, lost deep in his single malt, the other Asian. I discounted them as a reflection of my own lack of interest, not necessarily theirs.

Two guys at the end of the bar held my attention the longest. Both in blue suits. Clean-cut, short dark hair. Midwestern, I judged. On the younger side of middle-aged. The one to the right was larger, the dominant male, clearly at ease with himself and his surroundings. Sales would be my guess. The kind of man accustomed to life on the road, outgoing and energetic enough not to mind a new city every day, savvy enough to have developed a system for maximizing travel’s upside while minimizing its inconveniences.

I sipped my fruity martini, feeling the hard rim of the glass with my teeth, my tongue. Letting my gaze find his back, linger.

Fifteen minutes later he appeared tableside, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Alcohol? Anticipation? Did it matter?

I watched his gaze go to my left hand, note the ring that was a match for his own. Two consenting adults, same short-term needs, identical long-term constraints. His smile grew. He offered me a drink. I replied with an invitation to the vacant chair across from me.

He returned to the bar, ostensibly to order the drinks, while most likely informing his travel companion not to wait up. The traveling companion grinned, made his exit.

Then Salesman was back, introducing himself as Neil, admiring my sweater—nice color!—and we were off. Questions for me, questions for him. All easily answered, most of it probably lies. But kindly meant and prettily spoken. Just going through the motions, a third Cosmo for me, a fourth, fifth, sixth? whiskey for him. Then that delicate moment, as I watched him lick his lower lip, contemplate his next move.

I didn’t like to make it too easy for them. Didn’t resort to fawning giggles or suggestive touches. I had my own standards. The man had to come to me. He had to work for it.

Then finally, as worthy of a professional salesman, he made the ask. Would I like to retire someplace quieter? Maybe continue our conversation more privately?

In answer, I picked up my purse, rose to standing. His smile growing, as he realized it honestly was happening, the strange woman in the bar was really saying yes. And by God she was as good-looking standing up as sitting down and please oh please oh please let her be wearing a black thong beneath that tight-fitting skirt . . .

I followed him to his room, never having to give away that I didn’t have one of my own, because in this day and age rooms required photo ID and these were not the kinds of evenings I wanted connected back to me.

Once inside, it was all pretty straightforward. Nothing special, nothing kinky. I always marveled at this. All these men, straying beyond the bonds of marriage to engage in the same old sex acts. A set repertoire on their part? Or maybe they didn’t require variety as much as they thought. Even with a new partner, they instinctively sought out the routine they were most comfortable with.

My one request: Leave the lights on.

He liked that. Most of them did. Men are visual, after all.

I let him remove my tall leather boots. Unpeel my tight skirt to find the black lace thong. Then my fingers worked the clasp of his slacks, the buttons of his shirt. Clothes on the floor, two bodies on the bed, condom on the nightstand. I smelled his aftershave, probably applied right before he journeyed downstairs in search of conquest. I heard his guttural words of praise as his hands ran down my naked body.

I sighed, let myself go. The pressure of his fingers gripping my hips. The roughness of his whiskers against my nipples. The first, penetrating feel of him thrusting into my body. The sensations I could feel. A physical act I could register.

Then that suspended moment, his head arched back, teeth gritting, arms trembling . . .

I opened my eyes. I always did. I had to know, if even for an instant, that this person’s ecstasy had something to do with me.

I touched his cheek. I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair. And I permitted him to see, for this second when he was aware of nothing, just how much this fleeting moment of contact meant to someone like me.

A woman who controlled all, having spent her entire life