Small Town

She’d seen this coming. When McGann had ordered the last round of drinks, Cooke had reminded them that they had to roll, that they were running late.

“I’ve enjoyed this,” she said.

“So have we,” Cooke said, “but his wife’ll kill me if I don’t get him home to her in a hurry. Mine’ll kill me anyway. Susan, tell me your last name again, I’ve got a mind like a sieve.”

“Pomerance.”

“And the name of your gallery?”

“The Susan Pomerance Gallery.”

“Duh,” Cooke said, and McGann asked what hours she was open. She told him, and added that she could certainly arrange a private appointment after hours if that would be more convenient. He said he wouldn’t want to put her to the trouble, sending a little message with his eyes, and she said it wouldn’t be any trouble, and sent the message right back to him.

And they were gone, and Jesus she was hot, and the bartender really did look awfully cute, but she didn’t intend to waste half the night waiting for him. She took a wee sip of her Cosmo, then turned to survey the room.

She looked, not for the first time, at the big man at the center table on the rear wall. She’d noticed him when he came in, noted with approval the athletic stride, the strong jawline, the don’t-care masculinity of his corduroy jacket and black jeans. But he was with a woman, and they were drinking champagne and talking a mile a minute, so she’d put him out of her mind.

Then the word filtered down the bar that he was John Creighton, John Blair Creighton, which made him the man who’d gone home with Marilyn Fairchild and strangled her. But that wasn’t the news, she learned. The news was that he’d just signed a book contract for over three million dollars.

She wouldn’t have recognized him, he’d had a beard in the photo that ran in the newspapers, but she could see now that it was the same face, the same strong presence.

She looked at him now, saw him moving his hands as he talked, and she could feel those hands on her body, taking hold of her, turning her, positioning her the way he wanted her. Taking her from behind, splitting her like a melon, his big hands gripping her shoulders, then moving to grip the sides of her head, then settling on her throat...

But he was with someone. Her eyes moved from him, and found those of a man a table away from Creighton. She’d seen him before and known he looked familiar, but now she was able to place him. And he was looking back at her.

She held his gaze, just for a moment, then turned for another sip of her drink.

Jim Galvin was saying something, but Fran Buckram had stopped paying attention when the two men at the bar left and the woman in the black dress remained behind. He watched her, trying to figure her out, and then she caught him, her eyes locking on his. It was such a damned cliché, eyes finding each other across a crowded room, but he felt something. Fifty-three years old (a youthful fifty-three, you could say, but when you used the word youthful it meant you had to) and he could feel it just the same, a stirring, a quiver of excitement.

He was on his feet without having consciously decided to get up. Jim had stopped in midsentence and was looking up expectantly, waiting for an explanation. Well, he’d have to wait.

He walked straight across the room to her, threading his way among tables, pulling himself up short to avoid bumping a waiter with a tray. She had turned away from him, she was facing forward, drinking her drink. He stood at her shoulder, close enough to breathe her perfume, and groped for an opening line.

“They’re not coming back,” she said, without raising her eyes from her glass. “Have a seat.”

“I’ve been sitting all night.”

She turned to him, smiled. “Me, too,” she said.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t really want another drink,” she said, and he felt rejected for an instant before she smiled again and extended her hand. “I’m Susan Pomerance.”

Her hand was warm and soft, her grip firm. “Fran Buckram.”

“I know. You were pointed out to me.”

“Oh?”

“Not tonight. Sometime last month, it must have been, in a French restaurant called—”

“L’Aiglon d’Or. You were with Maury Winters.”

“You know Maury? He’s a dear man.”

“Good lawyer, too.”

“And you remember me from just seeing me that night?”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Except for when you weren’t there to be seen.”

“I dropped my earring.”

“I remember.”

“It took me a while to find it. Of course it was dark there.”

“It must have been.”

“And there were diversions. You’re a very attractive man.”

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you, Fran. Do they ever call you Franny?”

“No.”

“I might. Would that upset you?”

“No.”

“Turn toward me more. And stand closer. Now put your hand under my dress. Go ahead, nobody can see. Yes, that’s right. What are you thinking?”

“That your barber’s a lucky man.”

“Oh, thank God. You’re witty. I’d fuck you even if you weren’t, but this way it’s so much nicer.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“First make me come.”

“I’ll make you come later.”